Woodstock 50th Anniversary Celebration Bethel, New York #2
The sound of our heels clicking against the concrete floor echoes off the walls as Adelaide and I make our way down the long hall. She slips her hand inside mine. She’s so proud of me, I think as the two of us follow the stage manager.
He holds open the stage door while Adelaide and I move into the darkness.
“Watch your step,” he says, shining his penlight on the floor to guide our path.
We weave through road cases and monitors, stepping over fat cables snaked across the floor.
As soon as we reach the left wing of the stage, Adelaide tucks inside. She knows right where to stand.
“Break a leg, Grammy,” she whispers as I follow the penlight toward the front.
My band members are already at their instruments.
I wave to them before picking up my guitar.
Two spotlights cast a blue haze on the lip of the stage.
As soon as I step inside the beam, I hear the roar of the audience.
Chills race across my flesh. After all these years the applause still takes me by surprise, as does the voice of the announcer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Miss. Suzannah. Withers.”
I’m sorry Chip Monck couldn’t be here. From what I understand, he lives in Australia now and couldn’t make it. Stepping up to the microphone, I gaze into the audience. “Hello, Woodstock! Man, I am happy to be here!”
A guy in the audience shouts, “We’re happy too, Suzannah!”
I give him a wave. “Thank you! Most of you probably don’t know, but I played my first gig right here at Yasgur’s dairy farm on the Hog Farm’s free stage. It was the first time I’d ever sung in front of a live audience, and I almost wet my pants.”
Loud whistles and cheers follow.
“But I gotta say. I wouldn’t be here tonight if it weren’t for the love and encouragement I received from a man I met right here, fifty years ago.
” I smile to myself at the remembrance of Leon, our Woodstock weekend, and the blissful year we spent together before I left for California.
The cross he gave me dangles from my neck.
“This first song I’m gonna play tonight is very special to me. I got the inspiration for it right here, at this magical place we know as Woodstock. It’s called ‘If Not for You.’”
The audience goes berserk. Their cheers echo inside of me while I think back to the day I received my record deal.
Six long years after I wrote the song in the fall of 1969, it climbed to number six on the Billboard chart.
I look back at Bernie, my electric guitar player.
Once he gives me the nod, I glance down at my white acoustic Martin guitar and pluck the tender opening.
So much time spent looking for myself
Trying to find out who I am
All that led me here to you
In this moment where we stand
Until now—I’ve been searching for my truth
Could it be—I have found it here in you?
chorus
With so many still longing for
The wonder of it all
In your eyes I found living proof
In this world so incomplete
And at times—so much to lose
I would have had my doubts
I would have given up
But for you
If not for you
Who would have thought, who could imagine
The time it would not take
To find my miracle, in the shape of you
Just in time, just for my sake
Until now—I’ve been searching for my truth
Can it be—I have found myself in you?
chorus
With so many still longing for
The wonder of it all
In your eyes I found living proof
When a heart is so broken
Seems there’s nothing you can do
But fall apart, lose your way
I should have given up; I would have lost my faith
But for you
If not for you
If not for you, baby
Oh, if not for you
After strumming the last resounding major chord, I peer out into the audience.
From one end of the amphitheater to the other, the crowd has risen to their feet.
I feel the same sublime joy I felt after singing Beatles songs on the Hog Farm stage fifty years ago.
Who would have thought I, Suzannah Jean Withers, would someday have a standing ovation from fifteen thousand people?
Fifty years ago, that was little more than a far-fetched dream.
But a beautiful boy encouraged me to try.
As happy as it makes me to see all the faces in my crowd, there is only one that matters.
And he is in the front row, beaming up at me.
His teeth may not be as white as they once were, his full head of dishwater-blond hair is practically gone, but to me he is every bit as beautiful as he was the day I banged his knee with Livy’s car door.
Every bit as tender, every bit as protective, and even more trustworthy than he was that fateful rainy weekend in 1969.
Some have called it luck. Others fate. We like to call it divine intervention.
After his graduation, Mr. Wright moved with me to California to earn his master of divinity degree and was ordained an Episcopal priest in 1974. He credits me with helping him to discover his true calling. I credit him for helping me to claim mine.
With a palm to my lips, I blow my husband a kiss.