Driving the train

My mother doesn’t fly.  Never has, never will. She’s afraid of heights at every level. Airplanes, bridges, ladders–doesn’t make a difference to her–they’re all the same and she can’t do ’em.

That doesn’t mean she hasn’t gotten around (well, she’s 92 now, so her getting around days are kind of removed) but she’s managed to travel all over North America.

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By the time we got to Woodstock….

pink yellow and green abstract painting
Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Pexels.com

Four days and 49 years ago, a festival dropped in on upstate New York.

Depending on who tells the story, somewhere between 400 thousand and half a million people turned up to watch three days of music, get a little high (a little?!) and wallow in the mud in a summer that had seen, just a few weeks earlier, Chappaquiddick and then a man walk on the moon for the very first time. (Later that year—a year in which Richard Nixon was serving his first term as president, the New York Mets would win the World Series.  That’s the sort of crazy year it was…)

But what’s a hundred thousand when you’re all there for the same reason?

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