They Paved Paradise

Last night I snuck out, hours after everyone went to sleep, I did this all summer. It was my job to wake up my friends, and we would cruise the streets of good old WI, until the sun began to break the horizon. The back door to the Captree Day Camp indoor pool was open that night (ok, maybe it wasn’t), but we decided to have some fun. The cops came, one guy got caught, and my Mom was sitting on my bed—when I snuck back in through the window.

“You’re grounded—two weeks.”

“I hate you.”

“Make that the rest of the summer. Think about it, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

The door vibrated when I kicked it closed. She was still babbling when she left, but with a click of my magic everything controller my three flat screen TV’s are on, rock and roll music is blasting—and I can’t hear her. I decide to text my girlfriend Violet.

Yeah right. It’s nineteen-sixty-nine, and the only reason my black and white TV gets the Met’s game, is because I have a wire spliced to the antenna running out my window, and up the chimney.

My mom grew up on the mean streets of New York, her family was connected (if you get my drift), and there wasn’t anything she hadn’t done by the time she was fifteen. She was seventeen when she married my dad, days before he shipped out, for the USMC boot camp at Parris Island. She was determined to raise me honorably, and grounded me every time I steered down the wrong path.

Later the next day, there is a knock on my door; it must be the wicked witch.

“What?”

“I bought you a six-pack of your favorite…Colt 45.”

“Thanks, I still hate you. I left my pay envelop on the counter.”

“Can I come in?”

“No!”

The door to my bedroom opened.

“Boo!”

There stood my Mom, her hair, dyed platinum blond, and looking all Marilyn Monroe—damn she looked beautiful.

“Listen, when I was your age, I was married and had two jobs.”

“Yeah well, I’ll be seventeen next month and when I’m eighteen—I’m out of here. No more women telling me, what I can and can’t do.”

My mother left my room laughing. “Violet is here… you going to tell her… or do you want me to?”

“I’ll tell her.”

Violet is fifteen going on twenty-four, her parents grew up on the tough streets too, but Violet gets away with murder. She’s hot and my mother is afraid she will steer me wrong. God forbid that we’re having sex.

“Kathy told me you can’t go,” Violet said.

I told you she was all grown up, she calls my Mom, Kathy. She also happens to be my Mom’s shortstop.

“Yeah well, my Dad says I have to work next Friday and Saturday morning anyway.”

I lied—my Dad said I could go, but I’m not going to tell her.

“Well I’m going; I’m not missing this for nothing. My friends and I are going to head there Wednesday, and stake out our spot. It will probably go down as the greatest event in our lifetime.”

Violet gave me a passionate kiss, and left—it was the last time I ever saw her.

Friday night after the Met game, I decided to watch the news that followed. The field reporter is talking about Arlo Guthrie. And they flash to him on stage.

He says, “I don't know, like, how many of you can dig how many people there are, man. Like, I was rapping to the fuzz, right? Can you dig it? Man, there's supposed to be a million and half people here by tonight. Can you dig that? New York State Throughway is closed, man.”

With that, my mother walks into my bedroom; she’s a big Met fan too.

“If you still want to go after work tomorrow, you can go.”

I told you she was mean. “Thanks Mom, you’re the best.”

Forget about the Throughway being closed, we were three miles from the Throgs Neck Bridge, and not moving anywhere. I got out of the VW Beetle. “Have fun guys, I’m going home.” I crossed the divider and stuck out my thumb, with my bandana around my head and a Hendrix T-shirt on, it took about an hour before someone picked me up.

Forty years later—

I’m on Route 55, approaching 17B, and I see the sign for White lake. Like magic, I transform to that sixteen-year old kid again. I’m almost there. I make a left on 17B, about a quarter of a mile on the right is Hector’s Last Chance Saloon. I pull in to catch my breath and get some ice. Remnants of the greatest event of my lifetime are positioned on both sides of the parking lot. The stand that Wavy Gravy and the Hog Farm fed hundreds of thousands of Hippies now stands at Hectors. The famous painted bus and every sign from the magical event they could find—hung proud for all to see. Several Hippies were building a thirty-foot diameter fire pit, a fire already blazing in the middle. At least twenty mobile campers were parked along the road, and hundreds of tents set in the field. The event was four days away, but that didn’t stop these people from reliving their past.

I walked out of the bar with a bag of ice and got into my Van. A couple of sixty plus-year old Hippies were smoking a joint by the pit.

“Hey son,” an older Hippie said. “Where you going… you just got here?” He walked over and introduced himself. “I’m Jerry Hector, come on and take a walk with me.”

We toured his little piece of paradise. He pointed to a statue of Jimi Hendix made of sand. “You know who that is right.”

“Sure do,” I said. “Jimi died on my twentieth birthday. Hey listen Hector, I have to get my tickets, but I’ll be back in four days—promise.”

Later that day I walked the great fields, where a half-a-million people enjoyed three days of fun and music. I returned every day for the next four days, and hung with Hector and the children of God, the lucky ones who make the trek every year. I met Michael Lang the original producer, Grace Slick, Country Joe, Mountain. In fact, Mountain married the love of his life that night, right on the stage where he performed forty years earlier.

It wasn’t the same, but it was close enough. Woodstock is a state of mind, just ask Michael Lang.

I make the trek to Yasgurs and Hectors every year, Woodstock weekend, somewhere near August 15th. Politics and everything else takes a back seat—for three days. Make that four—I never miss Hippie Thanksgiving the Thursday before. It’s a time for peace, love and music.

Nothing lasts forever, someone is always looking to make a buck. A monument stands at the site.

Most of the garden is gone… but not forgotten.

They paved paradise—and made it a parking lot.

And even castles made of sand—fall in the sea—eventually.