Woodstock Day Two
Woodstock
Day Two
“There’s nothing you can say, except the fabulous lady,” the announcer said. “Let’s welcome Joan Baez.”
When the person I wanted to hear most on Friday finally made it to the Woodstock stage—amid yet another round of drizzle—I had nothing left.
Drowsiness, the kind that was impossible to battle, overtook my body.
I couldn’t fight it. I’d been up since four in the morning.
I’d walked ten miles, even more since arriving.
My bones ached. My eyelids drooped. And my head hurt.
I was soaking wet, cold, and ravenous. All I could do was blink, in a comatose state, at the great Joan Baez.
Everybody in the audience stood up and cheered when she walked out. Desperately trying to rouse myself, I clapped like she was Paul McCartney. I cheered. I hollered for her. “Yay, Joan!” I yelled. Yet fatigue wrapped around me like a heavy blanket.
A few stanzas into her first song, “Oh Happy Day”—my favorite gospel tune—Joan abruptly stopped singing. “Sit down,” she commanded, in a nice tone.
As soon as I felt the quilt cradle my butt, it called me to recline. But I refused to give in.
During Joan’s next two songs, I literally held my eyes open with the tips of my fingers pressed into my cheeks and eyebrows. Short of jogging around the farm in the chilly night air, or finding an elusive carafe of hot coffee, my luck was running out.
I rallied a little when she told the audience about her husband, who had indeed been imprisoned for draft resistance.
“David is fine,” she said. “And we’re fine too.
” She patted her pregnant belly, then explained how he had been shipped from county jail to federal prison, which, she said, “is a big summer camp after you’ve been in county jail long enough. ”
The thought of Ron and which choice I’d have rather he made ran across my weary, near delirious mind.
Would he have been better off standing up for what he believed in federal prison or fighting a senseless, heinous war because the government—and our dad—required him to do so?
The odds of Joan’s husband dying in a federal prison camp were almost nil. Obviously, that was his point.
Joan’s next song had a much slower tempo. It was precisely the lullaby I needed to send me off to slumberland.
3:45 a.m.
A half hour later I awoke with my head on a hairy thigh. With a quick jolt I bolted straight up, humiliated. The hairy thigh was Leon’s.
“Morning,” he whispered.
I raked a hand through my tangled hair, mustered a weak “Hi.”
Yasgur’s dairy farm had grown deathly quiet, except for an occasional whistle. And Joan’s astonishing a cappella voice.
“Is this her last song?” I asked.
He scrubbed a hand across his chin. “Might be.”
“‘I looked over yonder, and what did I see? Coming to carry me home? Saw a band of angels coming for me, coming for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot.’” Joan hit notes I could only dream of.
As she serenaded the crowd with my second-favorite gospel tune, I leaned into Livy. “Wonder if Joan Baez ever sang in a choir?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Her grandfather was a Methodist minister.”
That night—I would be willing to guess—Joan sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” with a five-octave range. I imagined bottles breaking all over the pasture when she reached her highest note.
She played one more protest song, “We Shall Overcome,” an anthem to the civil rights movement. She dedicated it to her husband and invited everyone to sing along.
When it was over, Joan waved and told the audience good night. She exited the stage, never to return. As the Woodstock Nation jumped to their feet, cheering for our Friday-night headliner, my heart stung. I had missed most of it.
John Morris appeared back at the microphone sometime after four in the morning.
“That brings us fairly close to dawn. The word I get is that maybe the best thing for everybody to do, unless you have a tent or someplace specific to go, is carve yourself out a piece of territory. Say good night to your neighbor, and say thank you to yourself for making this the most peaceful, most pleasant day anybody’s ever had in this kind of music.
We’ll give you a little bit of recorded music in a little bit. ”
Since Livy and I had no tent or anywhere specific to go, and no dry blankets to keep us warm, we had no other choice but to carve out our own piece of territory right there in the bowl, in the drizzle. And pray the massive amount of body heat might keep us from freezing to death.
As for the good news, Leon and Johnny had no place to go either.
“Guess we’ll crash here. Night, neighbors,” Leon said, settling down on his back, knees up.
I settled down, too, on top of my wet blanket, happy that I was already next to him. Livy scooted in close to me, and Johnny lay down on her other side.
The four of us talked a little while, mostly about the music and which bands we were most excited about hearing over the weekend.
Shortly thereafter, Livy fell asleep. How she could do it in the cold rain blew my mind.
It couldn’t have been higher than sixty-five degrees.
And since I was soaked to the bone, it felt like forty.
It seemed like I’d never get warm again as I stared up at the night sky.
I tried to keep it to myself, but shallow breaths gave me away.
Leon rolled over on his side. “You okay?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. I’d missed most of Joan Baez. My blanket was soaked. I was soaked, cold, and hungry. As jubilant as I was to be at Woodstock—lying a foot away from Leon Wright—my body still screamed in agony.
“Softest bed I’ve ever slept on,” he said. A faint chuckle followed.
I forced a grin while my teeth chattered.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again.
“I’m fi-fine.”
Without another word, I felt him slip his arm underneath my waist, pulling us together.
He pressed his full body into the back of mine, then wrapped his arm around my middle, resting his hand just underneath my breastbone.
One move of his finger and he would have known the curve of my breast. “This better?” he asked.
I’m wrapped up in your arms, I wanted to say. What could be better than this? “Much better” was all I said.
He dipped down to my ear. The stubble from his chin grazed my cheek. “It’s not that cold, you know.”
“Maybe not for you. You’re a Ya-Yankee.”
His loud Leon laugh woke Livy. She peered at us. But thankfully never said anything.
As exhausted as I’d been earlier, sleep should have come easy, but Leon’s nearness made it impossible.
All I could think about was turning around.
Kissing him. Loving him. But I knew boys were supposed to make the first move.
Then I remembered his knuckle massage, the way a brother teased a sister.
As much as I wanted to kiss him, there was a big chance he thought of me as only a friend.
Silence fell between us. After a few minutes passed, I said, “I’m much better now.”
He didn’t answer. Soon enough, I heard his breathing slow. In and out, air whistled through his nose. I shifted, hoping he’d respond. Hoping he’d kiss me.
He didn’t.
So I lay there in reflection. Am I really here?
Or is this a dream I’ll wake up from at any minute?
Did I really break free of Dad’s heavy hand and drive 1,100 miles to a dairy farm in the middle of nowhere to hear some of the best bands in the world?
Is the cutest boy I’ve ever met tucked behind me, with his arm wrapped around my middle?
All these wonderful things had happened because I’d made the decision to take control of my own life. It was the best decision I had ever made.
It’s hard to know when I finally gave in to sleep. The last thing I remembered was saying a prayer of thanks to God for sending Leon to me. Even if he was meant to only be my friend.