I was born in 1957, the second of four children. My older sister and I grew up during the sixties.
If you were not alive in the sixties, or were not old enough to notice, it is almost impossible to explain. I once tried explaining the decade to a Pakistani friend who moved to the U.S. in the mid-1980s, but half the time he looks puzzled, the other half like he was certain I was making it all up.
I remember clearly the day JFK was killed, and the boring-to-a-six-year-old several days of mourning that followed, thinking how can the only thing on TV be a funeral? And why can't those horses pull the casket any faster?
I was a child in the sixties, which made my parents part of the tail end of "the greatest generation". Dad served in post-war Japan, and had the values of so many of that era. His powerful sense of duty led him to conclude that your government is always right, and if your country calls on you, you are obligated to serve. Strangely, I never knew who mom and dad voted for, because for some reason that was one of those pieces of personal information, like how much you made, that you never shared with anyone. I never, not once in his life, heard my dad say something bad about any politician. Did he really believe that once elected they became infallible. His explanation was merely that "they have a hard job".
As you might imagine, the decade of the sixties was difficult for dad. I don't think he ever succeeded in watching the evening news without turning red with anger, hearing about what the hippies and other anti-war protesters were doing. My brothers and I further infuriated him by pointing out that we were on the side of the protesters, and if the war was still going when we turned 18 then we were headed for Canada. Dad would rather have his sons killed in a pointless war, than be ashamed of us.
I was too young to have "experienced" the sixties. I think I more watched them from a safe, suburban front-row seat.
During the late sixties and early seventies, we would take an annual family vacation every August. Mom and dad were friends with a couple who owned a cabin on a lake in extreme northeast Pennsylvania. They would rent us their cabin for a week, or sometimes two weeks. So many people have family vacation horror stories, but our vacations were truly wonderful. The cabin was right on the lake (at the time underdeveloped with maybe a dozen cabins, now I hear it has near million dollar homes), with a dock, a beach, a canoe, a motor boat. We could swim, fish, and canoe all day. My siblings did not enjoy fishing, so I felt so lucky day after day to spend the afternoon in the boat fishing with my dad, having him all to myself.
The lake was in the Pocono mountains, and in there pre-global-warming days I can remember waking up every morning to an ice cold cabin, mom or dad making a fire in the wood stove. It often got into the lower 40s (F) overnight. The cabin was small, but very nice. Because of the location, there was no TV reception, and barely any radio (I had to go the entire time without hearing how the Yankees were doing). We were almost completely removed from civilization, but we didn't mind. Perhaps the clearest indicator that this was a perfect vacation site for our family was that my brothers, sister, and I did *not* spend the whole time fighting.
August of 1969 I was 12 years old. I believe it was our third year vacationing at the cabin. Before we left for vacation the big news of the world was the first moon landing. I can still remember watching those grainy TV pictures from the moon, and being totally amazed. So we stepped out of the real world, abuzz with the news from space, and into our own tiny, private world in rural Pennsylvania for two weeks.
Of course the two weeks went by way too quickly for everyone. We were tanned, relaxed and happy, but none of us wanting to return to reality (though I don't know how the Yankees could continue without my attention). We headed out in an overstuffed Oldsmobile. Mom, Dad, four kids, and a hyperactive dog. The Oldsmobile was big, but not fancy. It was far from new (and old Oldsmobile). No power windows, few cars even had seatbelts then, certainly no air conditioning. It was a somewhat muggy afternoon, for some reason I believe it was a Friday.
As it happens, to get to this little lake in the Poconos, we had to drive a short distance before crossing from Pennsylvania into New York, then cross some of rural southern New York before making our way to Monticello where we could get to an actual highway. I remember my siblings and I thought this 100 mile trip of around 2 hours took *forever*, a sign that we rarely went anywhere. Two years ago I had to drive my own son 100 miles each way for soccer practice, twice per week, and it seemed like nothing to him. But the world is much smaller now.
One leg of this trip, approximately 15 miles from Fosterdale to Monticello, was made on Route 17B. Route 17B was a straight "highway" (one lane each direction) through pretty much nowhere - just rural New York farm country. About midway between Fosterdale and Monticello is the "town" (there might have been an intersection) of Bethel.
For those not familiar with Woodstock history, the Woodstock music festival was *not* held in Woodstock, NY. Instead it was held in Bethel, about 50 miles from Woodstock. Apparently the plan was to have it in Woodstock, but the festival organizer had been less than forthcoming about the size and nature of this festival when they got the permit. I believe the initial claim was that it would be a jazz festival attended by less than 10,000 people. As the date of the festival arrived, the people of Woodstock learned the festival was instead going to be a "hippie" rock festival, and up to 50,000 would attend. They revoked the permit forcing the Woodstock organizers to scramble to find a new location. The people of Bethel were also told 50,000 hippies. I doubt anyone anticipated ten times that.
So here we were, a clueless, middle-class family returning from a relaxing vacation, and believing ourselves to be less than two hours from home. As we started approaching this section of Route 17B, we started to see tents pitched in several fields along the road. In my mind I can still here my mom exclaim "it must be a boy scout jamboree". Within minutes we knew she was wrong - we didn't what we were in the middle of, but it was clear it was no boy scout jamboree. Route 17B was no longer an empty 2-lane highway through the countryside. It was a gridlocked parking lot. The line of cars on the road were not moving at all. In the ditches alongside the road cars were triple-parked. (I hesitate to use the word "parked" because many looked like they been dropped there from the sky. They were on their sides, nose-first in ravines, wedged together at every angle. I'm convinced some of those cars must still be mired there today). In every space of empty road not containing a wedged-in car there were hippies. They all seemed to be walking in the direction we wished we were going.
Despite the humid evening, we had to keep the windows rolled almost all the way up, to keep the dog from jumping out of the car and chasing people. The dog was going crazy, scrambling across our laps in the back seat, trying to decide who best to bark at.
Looking back at it, I'm amazed my parent didn't at least roll down the window and ask what was going on. But dad, ever consistent and anti-hippie, was not even going to ask for information. Traffic continue to "move" at what seemed like a foot every ten minutes. Despite the slow pace, festival goers were hopping onto the backs of cars so they wouldn't have to walk. All the cars on the road bounced up and down with the ever-changing load of hippies. Dad looked like he was about to have a stroke.
An hour into the ordeal, we had maybe covered a mile or two, when things got worse - The Oldsmobile overheated. Steam was rising from beneath the hood, and the engine quit. We had no coolant, no water, there was literally nowhere to pull over. Dad, brilliantly, stupidly, or resourcefully, decides he will have to push to car until we can find some water. He gets out behind the car, mom gets behind the wheel. Whenever a car-length or two opened up in front of us, dad would start pushing us along while mom steered. Invariably dad would just get the car going a reasonable pace when a crowd of walkers would step into the open space in front of us. This led to the hilarious scene of dad pushing, and mom steering while screaming out the cracked-open window "Get out of the way! We have no motor!" We received several comments along the lines of "Wow, that's a cool car man!"
This led to what I sure was a moment of dilemma in dad's life - but I never asked him about it. Yes, he hated the hippies and all they stood for, but here they were, total strangers passing the word, and all pitching in to help dad push his family along in their motorless car (while being barked at by a now insane dog).
After three hours, and I don't know how few miles, somehow dad learned of a lake just off the road (did he befriend some hippies?) We left the car in place - right in the middle of the street of barely moving traffic, while dad made several trips to the lake with some sort of jug. He refused help from me, his oldest son, insisting we stay in the car. Dad never told us what he saw at this lake, but he what extremely annoyed. The radiator filled, and the engine cool after the motorless drive, it started right up.
The lake must have been at the most dense point, because traffic finally began to move, and the hippie crowds were walking towards us rather than with us.
In all, we covered those 15 miles along Route 17B in over 4 hours. We got home, still having no idea what we had experienced, and did not learn about the Woodstock Music Festival until we read the newspa...
Originally posted by RookRAKWar and Peace is a quicker read.
I was born in 1957, the second of four children. My older sister and I grew up during the sixties.
If you were not alive in the sixties, or were not old enough to notice, it is almost impossible to explain. I once tried explaining the decade to a Pakistani friend who moved to the U.S. in the mid-1980s, but half the time he looks puzzled, the other half l ...[text shortened]... about the Woodstock Music Festival until we read the newspa...
Originally posted by Red NightRN, that's a true plonker moment. You get the 😠😠Wanker Whoopie Cushion😠😠for that.
War and Peace is a quicker read.
Great story, Rook! After talking about it last night, I wasn't sure if you'd remember to write about it today. Thanks for doing that!
Yes, I remember those days of no seat belts, no car radios (at least not in my father's cars!) and that sense of duty. We even made little scrap books of the moon landing, which are now long gone. I have a sense of being oblivious to (about?) Woodstock at the time. My mother was in Tennessee at her grandmother's funeral, which turned out to be a critical moment in the lives of the rest of us. I definitely remember where I was when I heard Kennedy died, though, and always knowing I was a week older than Caroline. (I used to think if I'd just waited a week to be born, I could be her!)
Thanks for taking the time to share this!
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Originally posted by RookRAKGood story. It sounds like something you would here on "The Vinyl Cafe", a radio show on the CBC. CBC is the Canadian version of your NPR.
I was born in 1957, the second of four children. My older sister and I grew up during the sixties.
If you were not alive in the sixties, or were not old enough to notice, it is almost impossible to explain. I once tried explaining the decade to a Pakistani friend who moved to the U.S. in the mid-1980s, but half the time he looks puzzled, the other half l ...[text shortened]... about the Woodstock Music Festival until we read the newspa...
Originally posted by cashthetrashWe all want to change the world.
It really is a long story and I probably wouldn't have read it had there not been a few mild complaints or comments on that fact. But I kind of liked it. It kind of reminds me in my youth and a changing world. There is some humor in it.
PS. Anyone want a revolution?