Woodstock Day Two
Woodstock
Day Two
Just beyond the woods, down a winding path with a hand-painted sign reading Ho Chi Minh Trail, we stumbled upon the Hog Farm.
Strung up between the trees like a pinata, a pink winged papier-maché pig dressed like Uncle Sam welcomed us in.
How befitting. Having frolicked in the mud, we looked like sloppy pigs ourselves.
Once inside, I noticed a camping area with a bountiful number of tents and tepees and hay bale huts.
An open-air kitchen had been set up on the opposite side, where a line of hippie girls sliced vegetables and cantaloupe.
More girls dumped veggies into giant pots.
The aroma smelled amazing. And made my stomach lurch.
I’d have just about killed somebody for a McDonald’s cheeseburger, fries, and a real Coke.
In the center of the camping area, graffiti-laden psychedelic school buses, painted in all colors of the rainbow, encircled a wooden stage.
A hundred hippies or so stretched out on the damp ground, relaxing and listening to live music.
Little children ran about—some clothed, others naked—and several dogs darted to and fro.
Girls my age, dressed in halter tops and flowy skirts, danced around freely, like butterflies floating from flower to flower, enjoying the tranquility of commune life.
I’d never heard of a commune before coming to Woodstock. And now I was in the middle of one.
On the stage, a four-piece band with a lead singer whose voice reminded me of John Lennon sang an unfamiliar tune.
Leon and I sat down among the other listeners, settling in on the back row.
There was no mud, just grass—a welcome chance to sit in a clean place and rest for a while.
A couple named Linda and Wes passed us a joint.
We each took a couple of tokes and sent it back.
Look at me, I thought, freely smoking marijuana out in the open, when I was scared of it a day ago.
As the band exited the platform, the man we’d seen directing traffic yesterday—the one wearing the white jumpsuit—ambled over to the center microphone.
Leon leaned close to my face, whispering, “That’s the commune leader, the one I saw on the news.”
I turned toward him, felt our cheeks grazing. “He was the one blowing the kazoo when we came in yesterday,” I said. With Leon’s face brushing mine, more butterflies waltzed inside my stomach.
“I think he’s an actor or a clown. Something like that.”
“Let’s give a big thank-you to Dylan McDonald and the Avians,” the commune leader bellowed, with both hands holding on to the microphone stand.
People clapped and cheered. But when his chin hit the mic by mistake, making an awful screeching noise, everyone covered their ears.
He apologized for his error by giving us a silly, clown-like face, then glanced at his watch. “We have time for one more.” He peered into the audience, shading his eyes.
From where we were sitting, I saw a few people turn to one another, as if they were considering his request. But no one actually volunteered.
“Aww, come on. It would be groovy if somebody sang us another song. You don’t even have to be good! Just lead us in ‘Kumbaya’ or something. Don’t be shy. We’re all family here.”
Leon took the Best Cola from my hand, sipped it, and then placed it down on the grass in front of him. “What about you?” he said, raising his brows.
Purely for effect, I turned my head slowly, looked him square in the face.
“Have you lost your mind? I’ve never sung in front—” Before I could finish my sentence, his hand shot up in the air.
From outside my body, I watched him pointing down over my head.
By the time I gained the wherewithal to yank his hand away, it had already caught the attention of the commune leader.
“Groovy! Come on up here, milady.” He beckoned me with both hands and a wide grin. The man truly did remind me of a clown, jovial and lighthearted. His missing front teeth didn’t stop him from smiling at all.
But I wasn’t budging.
As I sat there like a stunned mouse, paralyzed, unable to speak, he called on me again. “Don’t be timid. What’s your name?” His voice sounded hoarse, and the weekend wasn’t half over.
“Suzannah,” I mumbled. It was hardly loud enough for the people in the next row to hear, much less him, many yards away. “I’m gonna kill you,” I said to Leon, ventriloquist-style.
“I can’t hear you,” the leader singsonged, sounding just like Gertie.
Leon cupped his hands on either side of his mouth, belting, “Suzie.”
In an instant, almost everyone turned around to look at me.
Hundreds of smiling eyes pierced through me.
One guy in front turned and said, “Go ahead, Suzie. Nothing to be afraid of.” The girl to my left wrapped an arm around my shoulders.
“Give it a try. We’re all family here.” The tenderness on her face, and in her voice, comforted me somewhat, but I was still glued to the ground.
A tiny part of me wanted to try, but deep down I was terrified.
Not only did I have zero experience singing in front of a real audience, but I looked like Pig-Pen. Hardly the look for a singing debut.
The temperature couldn’t have been more than seventy degrees, yet at the thought of getting up in front of that many people—on a real stage—beads of sweat had already formed in between my breasts. And under my arms. Feeling pressured, I called out from my seat, “I don’t have a guitar.”
“What’s that?” the leader asked, with a hand cupped to his ear. “Speak a little louder, milady. You’re on the back row.”
“She didn’t bring a guitar,” someone yelled, a few rows ahead.
He waved away my excuse like he was swatting a fly. “Eh, that’s easy.” He glanced at a band member from the last act who stood at the side of the stage. “Ian, can Suzie borrow your guitar, man?”
I watched Ian remove the strap from his neck and hold his guitar high in the air. But I still wouldn’t budge.
When the commune leader led everyone to chant my name, the reality of the situation finally sank in. As much as I wanted to resist, there was no way out. And of all people, Leon was to blame.
“Su-zie. Su-zie. Su-zie,” I heard the Hog Farmers chanting. They wouldn’t stop.
With no other choice, except chickening out like a pantywaist, I peered at Leon. “I’m gonna kill you. I am honestly going to kill you.”
Covering his head with the crook of his arm, he winced. “My mom will be sad.”
I had to consciously resist the urge to run as fast as my legs could carry me.
As if he sensed my thoughts, Leon stood up and extended his hand. My legs were jelly bowls, and my heart a sledgehammer, but I still took his hand and rose to face him. He gripped my shoulders. “I know you’re scared shitless. But you can do this, Suzie. I believe in you.”
His words melted onto my heart like a salve. No one but Ron had ever said anything like that to me.
“Singing is your destiny,” he said.
Call it the marijuana. Call it the brotherly love of Woodstock, or flat call it Leon and his words of encouragement, but something inside me split open.
Courage bubbled up. My feet took on a life of their own as I scooted past Leon, floating in a daze out to the edge of my row.
Sensing every person’s eyes moving along with me, I strode confidently toward the stage.
With my head held high, I stepped onto the platform.
The commune leader smiled. “Welcome, milady, Hugh Romney. Glad to meet ya. Would you rather sit or stand?”
I didn’t know, but something told me I’d be more comfortable sitting, as if I was on my bed at home. “I think I’d rather sit,” I said.
While watching Hugh fetch a wooden stool at the back of the stage, my heart raced as fast as a cheetah. He placed the stool down in front of me with a thud, then patted the seat. “She’s all yours.”
“Just so you know, I’ve never done this before.”
“That’s why we have this stage.” He lowered the mic stand to my level. “To give everybody their first time. Nothing to be afraid of. We’re your family, hon.” Hugh slipped an arm around my waist and gave me an encouraging squeeze.
Ian plugged his guitar into a small black box at my feet, then handed it to me.
It was a beautiful Martin, with mother-of-pearl encircling the sound hole and rimming the edges.
A Martin. Like Ron’s. It had to be an omen.
What’s more, it looked like the one Joan Baez had played the night before.
With pulse pounding, I took it from him, slipping my arm through the strap.
I settled down onto the stool and placed the guitar waist against my thigh.
I peered out into the audience. Hundreds of nameless faces stared back. Suddenly I lost all confidence. What were they expecting? Another Melanie? “I’m not sure what to play,” I told Hugh.
He gave me a toothless smile, then leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Do something easy. Like I said, sing ‘Kumbaya.’ Do you know it?”
Of course I knew it. By heart. From Young Life camp. Though I wasn’t sure I wanted to play it at Woodstock. It would be cooler to sing one of Peter, Paul and Mary’s other songs like “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” or “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” I knew those by heart too.
At least I used to.
This was my shot, my chance to reignite my dream. I should be daring. That was what this epic escapade was all about. I’d done all kinds of gritty things in the last week. I’d stood up to Dad. I’d run away. I’d smoked marijuana. Twice!
Deep in my soul, I knew exactly what I wanted to play. But not only did I need a pound more nerve to do it—I needed a capo. If Ian didn’t have one, I’d know it wasn’t meant to be. “Do you have a capo by chance?” I asked him.
I’ll be darned. Ian reached inside his pocket and held up a capo, then gladly handed it over.