On the Road to Woodstock Somewhere in Maryland
On the Road to Woodstock
Somewhere in Maryland
Our “epic escapade,” as we had dubbed it, was a nineteen-hour car ride, eleven hundred miles from Memphis, Tennessee, to Bethel, New York.
Originally the festival was to be held in Wallkill, New York, but they moved it at the last minute.
Thank God Livy had heard the news. Otherwise we would have driven another hour.
The coolest part of “Pally,” as Livy called her, was the sound system. For her birthday, Livy’s dad had hired RadioShack to install an eight-track player under the dash with an AM/FM deluxe radio and a rear speaker. At my feet lay a box of eight-tracks we’d been playing nonstop.
“Looks like we’ve got . . . four and a half more hours,” I said, studying our route. As soon as I spotted the city of Hershey, Pennsylvania, I pressed a hand to my heart. “Let’s tour the chocolate factory. I’ve always wanted to do it.”
Livy’s face said no, but she still said, “Maybe. We’ll see when we get closer. My boyfriend does not want us to be late.”
Nick, her new Harvard boyfriend, had made plans to meet us at the front gate of Woodstock at one o’clock. It was eight in the morning now, and we were somewhere in Maryland with a groovy song called “Put a Little Love in Your Heart” blasting from the radio. Livy knew every word. I didn’t know one.
“Do you ever sing anymore?” she asked.
With a long low sigh, I dug into the bag of Seessel’s cookies we’d brought from home. “To myself.”
Her face fell. I could tell she felt bad for me. “Do you play guitar?”
“Nope.”
“Piano?”
“Sometimes. Only classical music.”
Genuine sorrow seeped across her face. “That’s so sad.”
Shrugging it off, I popped a turtle cookie into my mouth. The way the chocolate melted on my tongue gave me momentary pleasure. Seessel’s cookies were the best in town. On the way out of Memphis, we had bought a three-dozen variety for the trip.
I’d moved on, but Livy had not. “I really hope this weekend frees you to sing again. You have the prettiest voice of anyone I know.”
“You’re blitzed.”
“No, I’m not. It’s true.” The adoration in her eyes made it seem like she meant it.
For that one moment, I considered confiding in her about my wildest dream, the one I’d buried underneath a rock three years ago.
I even let my mind drift to truly making it as a singer one day.
But it didn’t take long to come to my senses.
If I kept my dream buried and never talked about it, I didn’t risk my heart shattering into a million new pieces. It was much safer under the rock.
“When you get back to college this fall, you should sing at an open mic night at a coffee shop. Lots of people get their start at coffee shops.”
I whipped around, stupefied. She had to be a mind reader. “There are no coffee shops with open mic nights around Union University.”
“Sure there are. They’re all over Cambridge.”
I stretched across the middle seat, making sure she saw the serious look on my face. “Hear me when I say this. The college I go to is very conservative. Less than a thousand students. There are no coffee shops on campus, much less doves like you.”
“There’s got to be a few kids at Union who think like we do.”
I threw my head back in a burst of laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“Union kids have curfews. We have to be back in our dorm rooms by eleven o’clock sharp.”
“In college? I’d quit.”
“We have a dress code too.”
Livy’s mouth dropped open. “No way.”
“Below-the-knee skirts and dresses only. The dorm mothers measure them.”
“I’d whip the dorm mother with my skirt if she tried to measure mine,” Livy said.
“Oh no you wouldn’t. Speaking of school, how am I getting home?” The only plan we’d discussed was me taking a bus back to Memphis and hiding at my friend Penny’s house until college started.
“I told you. The bus.” Livy lit another cig and turned the music back on, leaving it at a level where we could talk without yelling. “Or maybe you’ll want to hang out in Bethel a few days. Just play it by ear.”
“You know I’m not a play-it-by-ear kind of person.”
“Stop worrying. My boyfriend and I will make sure you get back to Memphis, or Union U, or wherever you want to go. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Why didn’t your parents want Ronny to go to Union?” Livy asked, in an abrupt change of subject. Ronny was what everyone had called my brother when he was young.
“Union didn’t have an ROTC program. UT did.”
“I’m surprised your dad didn’t make him go to West Point. Didn’t he go there?”
“Dad, my grandfather, my great-grandfather. All the way back to the Civil War. It’s our family legacy.”
Livy sneered. “I’m glad it’s not mine.”
I ignored her comment. Despite what Dad had done to Ron, I was proud of our heritage. “Ron couldn’t have gotten into West Point,” I said. “Don’t you remember how much he hated school? All he wanted to do was play guitar. Not do homework.”
In the Withers family, military service was a rite of passage from adolescence to adulthood. Dad’s words reverberated through my brain: War has a way of turning a boy into a man.
Mama’s pleading with him to change his mind echoed even louder.
She’d never wanted her son to go to Vietnam—her only son, who abhorred guns and loved peace.
Even though serving his country was the most honorable duty of all, she recognized Ron was not a soldier.
On the deer-hunting trips to Arkansas Dad had insisted he go on, Ron would avoid killing the deer by “accidentally” missing his target.
Then he’d hide his tears when Dad hit his.
With my own tears threatening to fall, I leaned my head back. “Dad blamed it on Ron’s poor grades, but the real reason he made him enlist was that girl.”
Livy hit the steering wheel in anger. “Why didn’t Ron just leave? How could your dad make him go to Vietnam?”
“Dad said he’d disown him if he didn’t go. You know my dad. Could you have told him no?”
“I guess not. He scares me.”
“My point exactly. Besides, where was Ron gonna go?”
“Canada.”
I looked at Livy with a sarcastic stare. “Right. And humiliate our father? A decorated army colonel?”
“Plenty of fathers are wrangling 4-Fs for their sons. My friend’s dad helped him falsify his medical records.”
“Not ours! I’m convinced Dad wanted to make an example out of Ron. He didn’t want anyone thinking his son would get favoritism.”
My first thought every morning as soon as I opened my eyes was whether I’d see my brother again.
If he died, I’d be an only child. I’d have no one with whom to commiserate about growing up with all the ridiculous rules in our house.
“I swear, Livy. Sometimes I can’t sleep worrying about my mother and what will happen to her if Ron dies.
I’m not sure she could live through it.” News of American soldiers dying on the front lines dominated the headlines.
Especially after the Tet Offensive. The tears I’d been holding back crept down my cheeks.
With flared nostrils, Livy shook her head in disgust.
“Other nights I stay up for hours worrying about how scared he must be over there,” I said, swiping my tears away.
Livy checked her mirror and mashed the accelerator to pass someone at ninety miles an hour.
Once we were safely back into the right lane, she yelled, “Of course he’s scared.
This war is frightening! Horrific! Senseless!
” She punched the steering wheel with each word.
“Washington bastards. I blame them for the massacre in My Lai.” She glanced at me. “Ronny wasn’t there, was he?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to. What I do know is that he’s not a killer.” I wrung my hands, kneading my palms with my thumbs. “He could at least write. We never hear from him anymore.”
Livy readjusted her sunglasses. “That’s weird. When was the last time you got a letter?”
Staring out the window, I answered, “Last November. Things at our house have been at a fever pitch since Mama met Ron in Hawaii. Dad has become impossible.” I turned to face her.
“I guess I can’t blame Ron for not writing.
Dad insists on being the first one to read all his letters.
He won’t even let Mama check the mailbox. Can you believe that?”
“Psycho.”
“Thank goodness we worked out a plan before he left. He sends my letters to Penny’s house or my PO box at Union.
I have them all right here.” I patted my purse.
“I don’t know how he’s made it through. Boys in his platoon have died.
Others have had their limbs blown off. Vietnam is a living, breathing nightmare. ”
“It’s worse than a nightmare. It’s an abomination.” Livy hesitated a few seconds, then asked, “Will you read me one of his letters?”
Dammit to hell. I should have anticipated that. I didn’t want to read her one of Ron’s letters. They were all I had left of him. A private moment. Just between the two of us.