Unexpected Gifts (6 page)

The next week, Stephen took me to my first anti-war protest rally, giving me the complete lowdown on Nixon's recent behavior at the White House, how our president had watched a football game on TV while a massive protest was happening outside his gates. No doubt
EVO's
Finest was itching to tell me more but there we were, already at downtown Broadway, with thousands of demonstrators chanting loudly.

I checked out the buttons around us:
Make Love Not War, Hippy Power, God is on a Trip, You Can Fight & Die but Can't Drink At 18
, and
Student Power.
The Hare Krishna people were out in full force, as well as the Anti-Rally die-hearts holding placards of
God Knows What's Right
and shouting, “Love it or leave it! Love it or leave it!”

Some national guard were also present, their rifles locked and loaded but when a Flower Child came up to one of them and placed a flower down the barrel of the guard's gun, the crowd broke into a roar of approval and even the guard, in spite of himself, cracked a smile. The most impressive speaker was Abbie Hoffman. What a firebrand! You could just feel the energy rev up several notches as soon as the American flag-shirted Yippy rolled out his first pitch. “Revolution is not something fixed in ideology,” he boomed, “nor is it something fashioned to a particular decade. It is a perpetual process embedded in the human spirit and folks,
remember…”
He paused for effect. “…the only way to support a revolution is to make your own!”

The crowd went wild—clapping, cheering, whistling well into the dimming afternoon and darkening night, when everyone grew strangely quiet and all the lit candles, handed out by the organizers, flickered and glowed.

“Lily! Lily, come on!” Stephen whispered, taking my hand and leading me into a building, up in the elevator, and out on top of the roof. “Look down,” he ordered.

It took my breath away. A thousand or more lights twinkled, like Christmas tree lights strung out in rows on a floor, about to be placed on a tree. Suddenly, I remembered our family's holiday tree decorating parties, when friends would come over and how Sam particularly loved being there with us. Sam. What was he was doing at that very moment? God only knew.

I was lost in Dreamland when Alicia pounded on my door.

“Hey!” she bounced in. “I've just come from the most amazing place!

Was everything always shrouded in the superlative with her? “Where?” I yawned.

“It's called the League for Spiritual Discovery.”

“Okay. So what's so amazing?” My second yawn lasted longer than the first.

“Their leader is the great Timothy Leary, the one who said, “Tune in, turn on, drop out!” She plopped down on my bed, her legs in a Yoga-style pretzel. “He has a place up in Millbrook, New York and we're gonna go there this weekend!”

“We are?”

“Yeah, Babe! You told me you've got the weekend off. It's all set. I'm borrowing my cousin's car.” Exiting, her “Pick you up Friday morning!” floated behind her.

Eighty miles north of New York, Route 44 led us by gently sloping hills packed with dense forests, wide open fields offering lazy cows a steady munch of grass, and a bucolic lake with water lapping against its shoreline. Alicia blathered on about the blast we were both about to experience, not shutting up until she cut the engine and we both stared up at the sixty-four room Victorian mansion. Numerous people were outside on the front lawn, laughing, twirling, and acting strange. Alicia thought they were way cool, I was reserving judgment. We could hear shrieks of laughter flowing from the house, and proceeding up the front steps, we were met by a Harvard student on a serious LSD trip.

“The essence of all beauty is in your eyes,” he leaned in towards Alicia, ignoring me. She grinned and gave me a poke in the ribs.

“See what I mean? We're gonna have a great time!”

I said nothing.

Inside, everywhere you looked were copies of Leary's
The Politics of Ecstasy
and Harvard students stoned out of their minds. A few were trying to scribble down things in little spiral notebooks, but the majority of them were either dancing or writhing on the floor, letting us know they were salamanders. Soon, a group of high schoolers charged in, immediately racing upstairs where, we were later informed, Leary's son Jackie and his friends were downing LSD tabs. Alicia murmured how thrilling it all was. Appalled, I rubbed my stomach protectively.

It was heading towards nightfall before the Great Guru came downstairs. He was certainly striking, with his white, high collared tunic embroidered in red, white pants, and brown sandals. His graying hair added an elder statesman quality and as he gazed at Alicia, it was as if he had seen Venus de Milo. He sank down next to us at the table.

“Ladies, here you will be able to return to an environment of natural beauty,” he said, his eyes rolling slightly.

Alicia was fascinated, but I needed to know why. “How will we be doing that?”

“Why, by turning on with Morning Glory!” he still was concentrating on Alicia.

“What's Morning Glory?” I probed.

“LSD, baby!
LSD!”

“Yeah!” Alicia exploded with delight.

He reached into his pants' pocket and withdrawing some tiny pills, tossed several down his throat and handed the rest over to Alicia. She cupped them in her palm, before flinging them down as I flashed on the Jefferson Airplane's White Rabbit lyrics about popping pills.

Socrates at his best, Leary aimed question after question at Alicia—about her life, her family, her goals, then right before my eyes, I saw her metamorphosis. Her slim hands became portals of movement, sweeping motions that emphasized each answer. Her pupils were widening by the second, and at one point, after she had thrust her fingers through her fine hair, it stood up in delicate wisps like a little tow-headed girl, awakening from a nap.

Leary, no longer the scientist, was now a mere mortal man readying for a good lay. “Let's go up to the Meditation Room, shall we?” he said, his voice thickening.

Alicia managed to nod.

I stood up. “There's no way you're disappearing with her alone. I'm going with you guys.” Leary launched a huge grin. “So, you wanna come as well? Cool, very, very cool.”

I ignored his innuendo and thinking of Dante's
Inferno
, followed them upstairs. Just inside the door jamb of his Lair, I scoped out the room. In its center lay a double mattress, the sheets rumpled and well-used. Lava lamps, bean bag chairs, paisley cloth-covered windows and a gigantic poster reading
“POW-WOW/A Gathering of the Tribes/For a Human/BE-IN”
completed the scene. Burning incense wafted so heavily through the air, I had trouble breathing as I watched Alicia practically fall onto the mattress and a glazed Leary approaching me.

I didn't realize that some men were like six-handed octopuses but I sure found out as I fought him off. Laughing, he turned back to Alicia and stood staring down at his lovely, unconscious prey. Figuring I was safe, I wasn't even remotely prepared for his next move. Racing over to me, he popped a tab into my half-opened mouth. I automatically gulped, fully ingesting the pill as he let out a deep, boisterous roar. My expression must have frightened him because he immediately snapped to his senses.

“Hey, girl, I'm sorry, I really am,” he muttered, his face contrite.

Panicking, I jumped up and yelled, “Where's the can?” Then followed his pointing finger.

Grateful just to find a toilet, I leaned over it, and sticking my finger way down my throat, vomited. No more LSD, my growing embryo still intact. Then, hightailing it down the stairs, out the front door, and into our car, I opted for the chilled night air in a secure car to a warm, chaotic house. I switched on the car radio and closed my eyes. Country Joe and the Fish's
Fixin' To Die Rag
started airing, the very song Sam claimed they all sang as they were landing in Nam, and suddenly, there were several blinks before the salty tears headed down into the corners of my mouth. What a mess. How could I bring a child into this insane world? What right did I have to do that?

Thursday, August 14
^th
arrived and with it, Woodstock and serious decisions about whether or not to keep my baby. Stephen, Alicia, and I ended up being the only three from our building able to go and with the summer air humid enough to wear, we started out a day earlier than the actual concert, as Stephen put it, to be ahead of the game and live the whole experience.

Assigned by
EVO
to do a major scoop, he was ultra organized. In his car he had stuffed a faded camping tent, a cooler stocked with granola snacks and water, several blankets, flashlights, pillows, two gallon jugs of cheap red wine, and with our three tickets safely tucked into his pocket, enough pot to last a week.

Driving up the Catskill Highway towards Max Yasgur's farm in Bethel, the new delegated concert area instead of Woodstock, Alicia and I had been relegated to the back seat and we made the most of it, chatting away like old school chums until Alicia became direct.

Her tone hushed. “Lily, really there's nothing to it, Babe. Okay, maybe some pain with the scraping they do and weakness afterwards, but then you're home free—no little brats to worry about!”

“What are you guys jawing about?” Stephen called out over his shoulder.

“Nothing, nothing,” we both shot back in unison and stared out the window at the increasingly beautiful landscape. Before we realized it, we had slowed down to a crawl while up ahead were abandoned cars parked all along the side of the road. Locals were waving signs that read, “Welcome to Bethel,” as Stephen switched off the ignition.

“Everybody out! We'll have to walk from here…” He exited the vehicle and started unloading all our gear, handing a lot of it over to us, being a true believer in the equality of the sexes. Thank God we didn't have to go too far. A day later and who knows how long our trek would last I remember thinking, as we trudged along and ended up as human fodder for tiny gnats soaring into our noses and infiltrating our eyes.

Yasgur's property included a very large hill overlooking a massive platform in the last stages of construction. Huge cranes, sound equipment, carpenters and electricians covered the far away platform like distant ants, with several sound towers erected throughout the field.

Stephen set up our tent in record time, and clapping his hands, announced brightly, “Hey, I'm gonna go down to the stage to interview some of the workers and show coordinators. You two can either come with me or spread out some blankets and enjoy the evening sky.”

We opted for the latter and lying side-by-side, gazed up at the shifting colors, discussing bathroom possibilities, how they had never asked for our tickets, and what, if any, decision had I made. Hormone challenged, I was fading fast and by the time Stephen returned, I must have been out cold. All I can remember was waking up the next morning, Friday, six inches away from his face, bombarded by a powerful reefer smell, and an unidentifiable babble from outside.

In the half-light of our tent, I managed to avoid stepping on his hands and Alicia's legs as I pulled the right flap up. Two paces outside, I gasped. A tsunami of humans had amassed during the night, filling every conceivable inch of the meadow with thousands of gesturing, chatting, eating, drinking, pot-smoking, acid taking, peace signing, long-haired, short-haired people, all in differing stages of attire.

My bladder bursting, I was about to wend my way down the hill when Alicia appeared, rubbing her eyes. Our slow descent into unexplored territory included blanket after blanket of smiling faces and my nearly walking on someone's head.

“Watch yourself, bitch!” rang out, and turning around, we saw a small crowd had already surrounded a lone, snarling guy.

“No more war, man! No more war!” they chanted merrily.

On his blanket, the man's face reddened as he allowed a hippie girl to hug him and hand him a warm beer. With his apologetic hand wave to me, the group cheered.

Forging ahead, we passed concession stands galore. Turkey dogs, sprout and tofu pita sandwiches, lemonade, granola bars, organic peanuts, celery stalks, and snack bags of organic chips. Flush-faced vendors, already trickling sweat by eight fifteen a.m., were scrambling to fill every order given from long lines of hungry guests. The bathroom wait was also horrendous and I began to panic. There was no way I was going to make it in time. I pulled on Alicia's sleeve. “I can't do this,” I whispered. She nodded and took my hand.

“Let's find some woods somewhere,” she said. As we raced off to a nearby dense forest, the loud-speakers switched on.

“Welcome to Woodstock! Are you ready to
rock n' roll?”
a man's voice coaxed.

Cheers ripped through the air like a thunderbolt crack. Squatting behind a tree, I did my business while Joan Baez performed the opening honors.
“We Shall Overcome”
induced tears in Alicia but I was far too busy looking for non poisonous ivy leaves to use as toilet paper and rinsing off my hands with my only water bottle to feel emotional.

By the time we returned, Grace Slick and the Jefferson Airplane had already walked on stage with
It's a Brand New Day
, followed by the sudden sound of helicopters overhead and Country Joe and the Fish's
Fixin' to Die Rag.
The crowd went crazy—
one, two, three, four, five
—they shouted, and with each throbbing beat, I could feel my heart pulse up into my throat. Poor Sam. Poor, poor Sam, I thought, my tears coating my cheeks.