Getting ourselves back to the garden

This has been not only a hot and humid summer of commemoration but also one of reflection, introspection and inventory of character and values, if not of the collective then certainly of the self. Once more I find myself seeking refuge from the oppressive heat while trying to retrieve as many of certain fleeting memories of my youth as possible. Another anniversary demands I recall a time when I still had so much to look forward to all the while being completely oblivious to far away events making their name soon to become iconic monikers for a generation demanding change and a kinder World. The event in this memory’s focus was originally billed as “an Aquarian Exposition: 3 Days of Peace and Music.” Fifty years ago this week the original Woodstock would establish the metric for all subsequent types of festivals.

Ever since learning some of the basic history of how Woodstock came to be, I have held a special admiration for Max Yasgur on whose Bethel, New York 600-acre dairy farm the event took place. Yasgur was a Republican and supporter of the Vietnam War whose belief in freedom of expression was much stronger than his fear of ostracism by his malcontent neighbor peers. Mr. Yasgur’s decision gained him a measure of immortality, well, at least in American pop culture.

The festival itself provided a platform for several known and lesser or unknown artists, most of whom went on to have storied and stellar careers in the recording industry. Several still occupy their lion’s share of my car stereo’s play list.

To be honest, I do not remember from any of my travels to places I have been ever meeting anyone who identified themselves as one of the 400,000+ attendees of the original Woodstock. I have met a small handful of people my age and older who claimed to have acquaintances who attended. One point on which they all concurred, according to the first person accounts provided to them, the original Woodstock was not as grand and glorious as the event promoters and 1970 movie account of it indicate. The thunderstorm, rain and all the mud made for some tenuous hours and all the problems associated with large crowds of young people made it all very interesting. In hindsight though Woodstock is now remembered more for what its essence represented to its target demographic rather than any of its logistics or even its line up of performers.

As we take that aforementioned inventory and examine who we are and what we have become as products of cultural influences like Woodstock among others, we must be mindful that such a salient timeline benchmark is now more about what it represents to American social evolution than about its enduring entertainment value. Don’t worry, those of us who became fans of some of those performers after this one show will never quit them, but I digress. The song written by Joni Mitchell and made famous by Cosby, Still, Nash & Young illustrated the most yearned for dream for peace loving souls residing in a militarized and war-weary World:

In 2019, the survivors of Woodstock, like most of the rest of us, find themselves much closer to their end than the beginning. As we all look back on the rich tapestry of the body of work collectively known as “our life,” we all would like to think we have done all we could do to serve a greater good. Leaving the place better than we found it is a desirable legacy in spite of all of our personal successes and failures, be they actual or perceived. That ever elusive sentiment articulated so artfully in writing by Joni Mitchell and sung so harmoniously by CSNY is still with us as we all seek to get back to it. It is easy to make the case for taking pride in a character shaped by Woodstock. We should hold our heads up and own it shamelessly. We may be caught in the Devil’s bargain but we are what we are. Indeed, we are stardust, we are golden, we are billion year old carbon.