By The Time We Got to Woodstock…

…it was dead and gone. Last Sunday, a raw, blustery, but sunny day in early March, we got off the Thruway and drove past the junk, the wreckage and the marginal commercial sprawl, following the signs to the village of Woodstock.

It’s all over now Baby Blue. Like the tattered, washed-out tie-dyes of the counterculture itself, Woodstock hangs on by its fingernails trying to scrape the occasional buck or two from its moment in history, nearly forty-years gone. There are the sadly ramshackle shops filled with the now almost meaningless trivia of the sixties; Hendrix posters, Rastafarian flags, dancing bear shirts and guarded allusions to getting high. The Tibetan import stores, aroma therapy signs, dirty-windowed coffee shops and new age crappy-doodle emporiums looked even shabbier framed by the sparse traffic, melting ice and gritty sidewalks. A couple of days later at Stratton, two overweight guys with white-ish hair, wearing Deadhead shirts got in line behind us. It took me a minute or two to remember, that at the time of his death, Jerry Garcia was a fat guy with white hair. After our cursory, bundled-up stroll through Woodstock, I had told my wife that now, at least, if the subject ever comes up, we’ll be able to say, “yeah, we were at Woodstock.”

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