Woodstock Day One
Woodstock
Day One
Finding our seats took longer than we had expected. Livy’s hair became our signpost, even with a hat on her head. I spotted it from several yards back. It draped across her shoulders like a cape.
A tall baby-faced singer with a golden-brown Afro stood at the lip of the stage, singing an unfamiliar tune.
“Who’s that?” I asked Livy, settling down next to her.
“Bert Sommer. Isn’t he beautiful?” Her childlike smile and glazed eyes let me know she was in an altered state. But at least she seemed happier.
With a slight nod, I let her think I agreed, although I did not. He was somewhat cute, I supposed, but nothing at all compared to Leon.
“It was Bert’s beautiful Afro on the beautiful poster for Hair,” she said, drawing out her words. I understood what Livy meant about grass making people mellow. Other than her flowery adjectives, her voice had toned down several octaves. And she had finally stopped crying.
“You should work for a music magazine,” I told her. “You know more about the musicians than they know about themselves.”
“That would be beautiful,” she said, gazing at the sky.
Leon, who had settled down between her and Johnny, spent the next ten minutes talking about our butterfly extravaganza.
Even though he had to speak over the music, he went into great detail, recounting the way we had spun around in circles amid the swarm.
His voice lifted when he described the golden tones of the monarchs and how they had attached themselves to our shirts.
I smiled to myself when he said they may have totaled two million.
He didn’t tell them about his butterfly kiss—not that I would have expected him to—but it was all I could think about.
That, and how I could squeeze in between him and Livy.
By now, it was eight o’clock, and the temperature had dipped. I dug into our canvas bag and pulled out my jacket, silently thanking Mr. Foster for suggesting we bring them along. I slipped an arm into a sleeve. “Any word from Nick?”
The expression on Livy’s face changed from rosy to blue. Her shoulders fell. She buried her face in her hands. “No,” she muttered. “I can’t remember when I’ve been this upset.”
If only I could have taken the question back. “I know, Livy. I’m sorry. But try not to let it ruin the festival for you.”
“I can’t help it. My heart is broken.”
I wrapped my arms across her shoulders. “I’m sure it is. But look around you. We’re here together at this ultracool place after being apart three years. Try to put it out of your mind for now so we can have fun. Please? You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“I really wanted you to meet Nick,” she said, with tears flooding her eyes.
“I will meet him. He’ll be here soon. I’m sure he’s stuck in traffic.”
Livy’s demeanor bewildered me. I was surprised it was hitting her so hard.
She was the most resilient person I’d ever known.
And she rarely cried—about anything. I was the crier.
What’s more, she could have any boy on earth she wanted.
What in the world was so great about Nick?
As far as I was concerned, he was clearly untrustworthy.
“Just give me a little time. I’ll get better,” she said with a weak smile, then leaned over to retie her sandals. “You and Leon sure were gone a long time.”
I lowered my voice. “He’s cool. Don’t you think?”
“He’s beautiful. That’s what I think.” She peered over at him, then leaned back on her hands, crossing her legs. “I thought you didn’t want a boyfriend.”
With a finger to my lips, I gave her a warning gaze.
“He can’t hear me over the music,” she said, fiddling with her bracelets.
“I admit it,” I whispered in her ear. “I have a crush. It’s growing bigger by the minute. You’ll never believe what happened. We—”
“You were right, SuSu. You can’t trust guys. I don’t know why I ever thought I could.”
“That’s not true for all guys,” I was quick to say. “I think Leon might be different. Wait till you hear what happened when we were in the butterfly meadow.”
She put a hand over her heart and peered at me with an adoring smile. For a second, I thought she wanted to know more, that she might be happy for me. Instead, she switched subjects again. “This is one of my favorite songs in the world. Do you know it?”
The song was lovely. But it was hard to pay attention while thinking about how easily Livy switched from one mood to another. “It’s great,” I said. “I’ve never heard it.”
“It’s ‘America,’ by Simon & Garfunkel. On their Bookends album, the one with ‘Mrs. Robinson.’”
As Bert sang the last line, I leaned forward, yelling, “Play it again!” But, of course, he didn’t.
When he bowed, the audience gave him a standing ovation.
What must that feel like? To have two hundred thousand people standing up for you?
Watching Bert, with the blue-hour sky settling in behind him, I imagined it was me onstage.
I pictured myself holding Ron’s guitar against my middle, bowing over the strings, smiling at the audience.
I heard the roar of the crowd going wild. For me.
8:15 p.m.
A different announcer took the stage after Bert left.
“How is it out there?” he asked. “All right, same boring speech about the scaffolds. Hey, look. We’ve done it all, we’ve done the threat, we’ve done the push, we’ve done the Bill Graham rap number three.
The only thing more I can say is . . . fellows, those are scaffolds.
They are not cement buildings. Please come down off the scaffolds. ”
Two hundred thousand heads turned at the same time to look, once again, at the scaffolds.
This turning of heads had become a ritual. When we looked this time, the light towers had become jungle gyms. A billowy haze of thick smoke hovered over the bowl, but you could still see dangling feet twisted in between metal poles.
“Richard Casey or David Bradley from Framingham, Mass, please call the Bradley home or the Casey home,” the announcer continued. “With these messages, we’ll try to do them in between the bands. Please make sure they’re worth it. Make sure that they mean something.”
Livy leaned forward like she was talking directly to the dude. “I’ll tell you what’s worth it. Finding my boyfriend. Why don’t you announce his name again?”
By then we had figured out the stage announcements were the festival’s only means of communication and the sole way she would ever find Nick.
As improbable as it was to ponder, Livy and I had switched places.
Here I was, sitting with a boy whom I had a massive crush on, while Livy sat alone.
Part of me felt guilty. Like I should be the one in her shoes.
Like I shouldn’t have a crush at Woodstock because her boyfriend was missing, and she was the one who had invited me.
The other part of me knew that was absurd, but I couldn’t help thinking it.
Livy had a way of putting herself in the center of everything.
After hearing the announcer read note after note from people trying to find their lost friends or lost medication or lost car keys, she turned to me. “Let’s go page my boyfriend again. Will you please come with me this time?”
I’d have rather taken off my own shirt and flashed the crowd—that’s how bad I wanted to stay put. Leon was talking with tie-dyed-skirt girl, Anne Marie, which made an awful thought cross my mind. Suppose those two started crushing on each other while I was gone?
But I didn’t see how I could refuse Livy. Not only did I feel bad for her, but she’d asked me nicely. I had to go.
Before I could reach for my purse, she grabbed my arm. “There’s Joan Baez!” She pointed toward a short-haired girl with bare feet, tucked inside one of the stage wings. She looked pregnant.
“I think she’s pregnant!” I said.
Livy, of course, knew the scoop. “She is pregnant. And her husband’s in jail for resisting the draft.”
“That stinks. For how long?”
“I don’t know. But good for him. If more of our boys did that, Nixon would be forced to think twice about what he’s doing. More of our boys would be alive!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Forget I said that. Ronny’s fine. I swear to God!”
My muscles stiffened as I swallowed renewed anger. Livy was not herself. Even still, I could hardly keep my patience. “I feel bad for Joan Baez,” I said. “She has to raise her baby alone.”
“You should feel worse for her husband. He’s the one in jail.” She uncrossed her legs and glanced at her watch. “It’s been four hours since last time. Let’s page my boyfriend again. Please.”
By now we had learned the other announcer’s name was John Morris.
His exasperated voice rang out into the night sky.
“I am informed that somebody somewhere is giving out some flat blue acid. It is poison,” he said.
“It’s deadly serious, man. I’ve just been informed that we have four or five people who are a little sick from it .
. . no, fifteen. Be cool. And whoever you are, man, I’d love to find ya. ”
“Are you kidding me? That is horrible,” I said.
“Are you coming?” Livy asked, unfazed by the warning.
“Yeeees. I’m coming. Let’s get this over with,” I muttered under my breath.
As we turned to leave, Leon and Anne Marie glanced at me. I waved, and they waved back. But neither asked where I was going. It made me want to leave even less.
Like before, we squeezed down to the main stage.
It took longer to get there because thousands more people had packed into the bowl.
Livy handed another note that she’d already scribbled out on one of Johnny’s rolling papers to the same girl, Joyce.
“Would you mind having my boyfriend paged again?” she asked. “Please.”
Joyce read the inscription. “No luck, huh?”
Livy shook her head.
“You’ll find him. Don’t lose heart.”
“I’ve already lost heart.”
Joyce must have taken pity on Livy. And me. We’d been at the information booth only ten minutes when we heard the page. “Nick McCarthy, Livy is still looking for you. Please meet her at the information booth now.”
Livy sucked on a cig, lamenting Nick’s absence, while I pretended to listen.
But all I could think about was Leon. While she rehashed every reason why she was disappointed, and now furious, at her boyfriend, I ruminated on every second at the butterfly tea party, Leon’s butterfly kiss, and the moment I thought he might kiss me for real, if not for those horrid party crashers.
That led to obsessing over him and tie-dyed-skirt girl until I felt sick. I didn’t hear another word Livy said.
An entire hour passed before she was willing to give up and head back to our spot.
While we squeezed between hundreds of people on the way back, a guy named Tim Hardin sang “If I Were a Carpenter.” Livy and I stopped where we were to listen. The song was achingly beautiful.
She placed a hand on my shoulder and spoke into my ear. “Can you believe you’re here?”
“No, I really can’t. I just hope Dad doesn’t find out. If he has me paged, I’ll die. I’ll be the first person in the world to croak of embarrassment.”
“That’s not gonna happen,” she said, like I was crazy to think it.
“Never underestimate my father, Livy Foster.”
My Beatles disaster roared back. I couldn’t quell the memory to save my soul.
It may have been three years ago—and I may not have croaked from embarrassment then—but the horror of it all never faded from my mind.
Millions of teenagers had fallen for the mop-headed boy with long dark eyelashes and the face of an angel, but I was the only one with a father mean enough to make me denounce him in front of the whole world.