They all lay around on the quilts and blankets , the grandma-squared afghans, the soiled sheets, as the music from the stage blared so loudly that even their ragtag group, situated as they were miles from the performance, could hear it as if it were right next to them.
The weather notwithstanding, the slurry mud suffocating their comfort or not, these Woodstock people knew how to rig a good sound system!
For Matthew and his tattooed band, a good sound system and being high were the central tenets of their existence: that and as
much stoned sex as possible.
Cheyenne, his current redhead, stretched sensually against him, her hennaed hands passing the plate of soft chewy brownies around and now, Matthew thought, if they only had some ice cream to go with them, all would be perfect. As it was, his group of devoted urchins was like a kingdom to him and he felt as privileged as a king, even if the closest they could camp near the stage was planets away….their trip to Woodstock had
been delayed because a flu bug spreading through the group required that they stop the bus lots of times along the road so people could vomit and do other bodily stuff best left at the roadside. Eventually the bug left the bus, but they arrived at the Festival later – much later- than they had planned.
There was a general irritation in the group, with short tempers busting out like small fires as they searched for a place to rest their camp. That being said:
Yasgur’s Farm seemed a Paradise to their road-weary bodies, and as they finally spread their camp, Matthew was not alone in feeling wealthy as a monarch with all the riches of the music world laying before them….Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Who, Santana….Heaven on this Earth indeed.
“So, everybody chill…let’s make some food!” ,Matthew preached, and his flock listened as they always did…soon, a stew was bubbling and someone was making those brownies. Most importantly, fully loaded pipes were making the rounds and the mood got lighter and lighter, and sublime music from that far-away stage was floating over their heads.
Suddenly, some rude, nasty bikers were pulling up beside their hard-won campsite and Matthew could sense there might be trouble ahead, so he called a quick group meeting.
“It’s only kindness that makes sense anymore….so, cool it, Matilda put extra meat substitute and rice in the stew and let’s invite the brutes to dine!”….which is exactly what they did. The motorcycles quieted down, and, as it happened, that gang had some pretty great wine, which they had made themselves, (and as it turns out, some partially melted vanilla ice cream), so the two camps settled down for a night of muddy wallowing sex and delicious healthy food.
Together, brought together by Kindness: the only thing that made sense those days….these days….or ever.