Chapter Thirty-Seven
Eleanor had never minded a crowd. In fact, she used to say the bigger the crowd, the better she sang.
The roar of applause had been her fuel back in the day, and these past few weeks, it had started to feel that way again.
She’d fed off the energy like the rabbits fed ravenously off the vegetable garden she’d once tried to grow.
But this was something else entirely.
Woodstock wasn’t just a crowd but a sea of humanity. A pulsing, sweating, swaying continent of barefoot youth, all moving in rhythm under the golden August sun, arms raised to the gods of music and mud.
They were packed in tighter than sardines, sprawled across the rolling green of Max Yasgur’s farm.
Half a million people, they said. Half a million!
And if anyone had asked Eleanor even a month ago if she’d be here—at nearly seventy years old, dragging around an uncanny canine and letting her hair flow free—she’d have laughed them right back into their bell-bottoms.
But here she was.
And even though the music was electric, the energy intoxicating, and the vibes mostly good…Eleanor was also hungry.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Her stomach growled like a bass line as she perched beneath a makeshift canopy near the main stage.
The smells in the air—herbal, body odor, hot dogs, wet denim, damp earth—swirled together into something heady and unforgettable.
Woodstock perfume, she thought wryly. Bottle it up and sell it for a dollar.
Shep had proudly brought her a bowl of lentil soup from the Hog Farm Free Kitchen earlier. He and the rest of the band had been giddy about the “brown rice and vegetables” movement like it was some kind of culinary revolution.
Eleanor had taken one look and thought, If I wanted to eat like a monk, I’d have joined a commune twenty years ago.
She took a polite bite. Earthy. Mushy. Kind of like wet cardboard with a hint of cumin. What she wouldn’t give for one of Henry’s steaks grilled medium rare and big fat baked potato topped with butter and sour cream.
She’d smiled and thanked Shep, because he was trying and because he was adorable in a rocker sort of way.
But now, hours later, with her stomach twisting and Roxy napping in the crook of her arm, all she wanted was a nice, juicy hunk of farm-raised beef.
Maybe a wedge salad topped with blue cheese crumbles and extra crispy bacon.
Something with crunch and meat and an honest-to-God metal fork.
That was the downside of all this freedom. Chasing the music, soaking up the spotlight, and running away from everything that tied you down was liberating. But at the end of the day, a girl still wanted a good home-cooked meal.
Three more days.
Just three more days, and she’d be back in Ossining, back in her house with the creaky floors and the doilies she used to hate but had somehow grown fond of.
Back to her pink refrigerator. Back to a mattress that didn’t leave her spine shaped like a question mark.
Back to real food—something not cooked over a camp stove or ladled from a communal pot by a stoned teenager in bell-bottoms and no shirt.
And yet…her stomach twisted at the thought.
Home wasn’t just a place. Home was a reality. A responsibility. A structure. A routine. And routines, Eleanor had come to realize, were just cages dressed up in pearls and wallpaper. Routines were things she wasn’t sure she could keep up with, not after this summer and not with her diagnosis.
Home meant facing the music.
How long would Leanne let her live alone? What if something happened…
The thought of slipping out of her mind, no longer being in control of her life, of possibly forgetting what that life was, of maybe not knowing how to buckle her shoe, or even knowing what a shoe was sent a shiver of fear and dread so hard down her spine that she gasped and hugged her guitar closer.
Eleanor hadn’t given herself time to process what the doctor had said. On purpose. But quiet spells like this, where she leaned into her fears, let them come to the forefront of her mind, threatened to ruin her day, week, and the rest of this concert.
So, instead of joining Shep and the others for their autograph session, she wandered. Drifted past a tie-dye stand, a booth selling incense and handmade candles, and a teenager balancing a tambourine on his head.
Roxy yipped from her bag, tail wagging as if to say, “Finally, some fun.”
The dog had been a surprisingly great companion—patient, quiet, and oddly intuitive—but even Roxy was getting fidgety.
They hadn’t stayed in one place long enough to let the dust settle.
Open mic nights, dive bars, grassy fields under the stars.
The road had become a rhythm Eleanor loved. But now the tempo was changing.
Eleanor had felt it when they’d crossed the border into New York yesterday. A heaviness in her chest. Like someone had draped a wet wool blanket over her shoulders.
The weight of expectation.
Of reality.
Of a life she’d never quite chosen but had waded through for decades.
And just like that, it was pressing down again. The floral wallpaper. The casseroles. The “How was your trip?” phone calls she didn’t want to answer.
Eleanor wove through the spirited crowd, her eyes scanning the mess of humanity that had gathered like a vibrant tide at the world’s edge.
Tie-dye T-shirts and army jackets. Buttons that said “Make Love, Not War.” Necklaces strung with beads and shells.
Protest signs tucked under armpits or held aloft between sets.
The spirit of Woodstock wasn’t just about the music—it was about rebellion, healing, and defiant joy.
Would Leanne and Nora be here like they’d been in Atlanta? She’d felt bad rushing off but didn’t want them to drag her home just yet. Let her finish this summer out on her own terms.
She paused in front of a henna artist’s table, her eye catching on a stack of hand-drawn designs curling across yellowed pages like ivy. Intricate mandalas, sunbursts, and—what was that?—a treble clef nestled in a tangle of vines.
“Thinking about getting some henna?” The artist brushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She looked to be maybe twenty, barefoot, her hands already stained with designs of her own.
“Yes.” Eleanor smiled, tapping the sketch of the music symbol.
Wouldn’t Leanne have a fit if she saw her with a tattooed hand, even if it wasn’t permanent?
She could already hear the scandalized gasp and see the hand flutter to her pearls that she wore like a collar, keeping her strapped firmly in her housewife world.
Although, she hadn’t looked like that when Eleanor saw her.
No, her daughter looked as if she’d had her own revolution this summer, and the idea made her smile.
“I think I’d like this one. Right on the top of my hand. ”
“Great choice,” the girl said, reaching for the applicator. “Music’s a universal spell.”
Eleanor offered her hand, palm down. The paste was cool against her sun-warmed skin, a soft tickle as the girl began painting the curling design in deliberate strokes.
The henna artist hummed some nameless melody, sweet and low, and asked casual questions about Eleanor’s experience so far. Where she was from. What bands she’d seen. If she was with anyone.
And for once, no one recognized her.
How oddly refreshing.
No “Mama Lightning!” No requests for autographs or photos or “Tell us what it was like on tour with Shep Moon!” Just her and a stranger, and the gentle art of being human together.
“You’ll want to let it dry before you touch anything,” the girl said, inspecting her work. “It’ll flake off in a few hours and leave the stain behind. Looks good.”
Eleanor stared at her hand. The symbol glistened in the sunlight, a declaration inked in temporary permanence. “Music’s always been my truest part,” Eleanor said softly. “This…is lovely. Thank you.”
“Peace and love, Grandma,” the girl said with a wink.
Eleanor laughed and she stood, stretching her stiff joints. “Love, my dear,” she said, her voice warm, “is the only revolution that ever worked.”
And with that, she slipped back into the tide of the crowd, her henna-painted hand lifted gently to her heart.
With each step toward the tent, Eleanor’s thoughts grew hazy, a strange fog closing in. One second, she was walking confidently, the rhythm of the music pulsing beneath her feet in an unspoken map of the grounds. The next, she wasn’t sure where she was.
The crowd had thickened, bodies connected in a prism of sweat and color.
Bare shoulders brushed against her skin, arms lifted to the sky, blocking her view.
She couldn’t see the tent anymore. Couldn’t see the band.
Could barely hear herself think over the roar of the crowd and the drone of an electric guitar.
Her breath hitched.
She turned in a slow circle, disoriented, Roxy trembling inside her shoulder bag. The pup’s plucky head popped out, eyes scanning, perhaps hoping to spot a familiar face.
“Mrs. Bell?”
Eleanor didn’t register it at first. She was Mrs. Strickland, formerly Miss Bell. But being called Mrs. anything sounded too formal, too far removed from the woman she’d become.
“Mrs. Eleanor Bell?”
Eleanor Bell… That was her name. Once. She turned.
A young man stood there, maybe in his early twenties, holding a notebook in one hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear like a cigarette.
His dark hair curled slightly from the heat, and he was dressed in that half-casual, half-collegiate way that reporters often wore when they were trying to blend in. But there was no mistaking his intent.
“Can I help you?” Eleanor kept her voice guarded but polite.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but I interviewed you a few weeks back. I’m Joe.” He was a little breathless, and his wide-eyed expression was the same one she’d used when she gazed at Jimi Hendrix onstage. “Your family’s been looking for you. They’re, uh…well, they’re really concerned.”
Eleanor’s stomach clenched. She resisted the urge to bolt. She didn’t know where she was. And she didn’t know who he was. Didn’t recognize him at all. Barely remembered every reporter who’d drilled her with questions this summer. But she knew she didn’t want to be found, even if lost.
Instead, she lowered a hand to Roxy’s head, stroking her soft skin. A calming habit she’d developed on the road. The little dog gave a reassuring yip and lick to her palm.
“There’s nothing to be concerned about.” While Eleanor whispered the words to Roxy, they were more of a reassurance to herself.
“I believe you,” the young man replied, jarring her that he was still there. “But still…they’ve been out here for weeks. I think—well—I think they’re in awe of you.”
“Awe?” Eleanor lifted an eyebrow. “You sure you’ve got the right family? My daughter was born buttoned-up. If she’s feeling awe, it must be at the absurdity of it all.”
“I’m guessing she’s not the same woman you left in New York,” the reporter said, tilting his head slightly.
That gave Eleanor pause. There was always the possibility for change for anyone, even Leanne. Hadn’t she witnessed it firsthand, Leanne in bell-bottoms and sandals?
He smiled just a little. “I can take you to say hello. If you’d like.”
Eleanor didn’t move. Not yet. Her eyes scanned the crowd again—colors, drums, voices, guitars.
She’d been so sure that coming out here meant reclaiming a piece of herself. But maybe it wasn’t about reclaiming. Maybe it was about sharing.
Her hand flexed over Roxy’s head, needing the grounding of her dog’s presence.
“How do you know Leanne?” Eleanor asked, squinting at the young man. “Are you from Ossining?”
“San Francisco, actually,” he said, voice gentle. “I’m a friend of your granddaughter’s. Nora. We met on the road. And you and I had an interview a while back.”
Eleanor raised a brow, weighing his words. He’d mentioned that a few minutes ago, but she failed to place him. “Is that so?”
He nodded, earnest as a puppy. “Nora and Mrs. Miller have been looking for you. For weeks. Crisscrossing the country all summer. All the way from California to here.”
Eleanor exhaled slowly, pressing her lips into a thin line. The weight of those words, that journey, sank in, but she wasn’t ready to hold them. Not yet. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird trying to escape a cage.
“Well,” she said, smoothing Roxy’s ears, “you tell them I’m okay. And that I’m not ready to talk. Not just yet. I think I need to go lie down.”
“Do you want me to walk you back to your tent?”
She turned her head to glance around the sea of bodies—half a million people spilling across a muddy hillside, shirtless and barefoot, flowers in their hair, music drifting on the breeze like incense.
There were no signs. No directions. Just endless canvas tents, all blending together like melting Popsicles.
She suddenly remembered that she had no idea where her tent was. Or if there even was one anymore. The concerts were starting to blur together. California, Denver, Atlanta, Seattle, now here. Her memory was a swirling kaleidoscope, missing pieces falling through the cracks.
But pride was a nasty little companion.
“I can find it,” she said, chin lifting with stubborn dignity. “On my own.”
Joe tilted his head. “It’s really no trouble.”
There was something in his gaze, steadfast and kind but also unwavering. Eleanor got the impression he was the type who didn’t back down when someone needed help. The sort of young man who would’ve made a good soldier—not that she would have wanted him shipped off to war.
Eleanor gave a resigned sigh. “Fine. But don’t you dare tell my daughter I was lost.”
Joe held up both hands in mock surrender. “On my honor.”
Roxy yipped softly in her bag. Clearly the dog didn’t believe him either.
Eleanor smiled despite herself.