Atlantic City Rock Festival
Test driving my newly-purchased-with-babysitting-money, first-car, 1963 Ford Falcon station wagon, my friend Jenny and I, both 17, had driven from Cleveland, Ohio to the Atlantic City Rock Festival in July, 1969. I had never before seen either a mountain or an ocean.
Atlantic City exceeded all my expectations; calm, high, fun-loving people being absorbed into their environment. I discovered the juiciest, most flavorful peaches and I learned to drink water (instead of milk, juice, pop).
Meanwhile, Woodstock was very heavily marketed that weekend: The prevalent Atlantic City theme was, "if you enjoyed this, go to the Woodstock Rock Festival".

Woodstock
I was determined! After returning home, I rounded up a different friend, 17, and my brother, 16, to accompany me. We sent away for our three-day tickets.

We were so excited that we left Cleveland on Monday in order to arrive on Tuesday. We were able to park the car within the farm somewhere. We set up our campsite adjacent to the car.

We had no tents or sleeping bags, maybe we made bedrolls. I think we built a few campfires and tried cooking on them. None of us had primitive-camped or even traveled outside of Ohio before that month. However, we arrived early enough to be comfortable in our new environment by the time the masses of people hit.

The construction seemed to be never-ending (and it never did end) with its persistent hammering.
I feel guilty saying this now, but ... Meanwhile, we were picking up hints through some sort of a network (those of us who had been there for a few days already) that we might be able to get in without tickets if we followed this one fenceline. We knew there was no way the fence would be finished by noon on Friday.
Sure enough! We each sold our tickets at the gates and then entered the festival in roundabout ways. Whether or not we made any profits, I don't remember.

Although my brother and I had gone different directions in the crowds, we each bought some acid and dropped it. Neither of us had ever taken it before. I had no expectations.

There were so, so many people. The vast meadow was tightly packed with thousands and thousands of people sitting and milling around wearing clean, brightly-colored, summer clothes for a hot, bright, summer day. Mostly sitting on grass or blankets, some were standing and traversing the crowds when Ritchie Havens began. The milling movement through the crowds reminded me of images of blood flowing through capillaries like I had studied in biology class.
I sat down with some strangers on their blankets and was absorbed by the music.
Occasionally, I forgot how to swallow. Although I am not an anxious person, this concerned me, so I thought it out carefully. If I could swallow as a newborn, I could swallow now. I just had to put liquid to my mouth and it would go down automatically.
It worked. I calmly asked my neighbors for drinks of their water. The water went in my mouth and down my throat the way it was supposed to, no problem. I knew I was OK and I just needed to continue merging with the music. I didn't move from that spot until the trip was long over.

Saturday afternoon, the PA system announced that the acid was bad. Anyone who took the acid should come to the medical tent. I went. I told them about my taking it the day before. They asked me how I was now. I was fine. End of discussion.

We had been sleeping in the car and on the ground before Friday. Now the bands played in the background all night long, I tried sleeping on the roof of my car Friday night, "under the stars". It didn't work, I was awakened by the music and a heavy drizzle and went into the car. I think I slept inside my car the next few nights.

I wanted to go skinny-dipping like so many others around me. Amusingly, I was too embarrassed that my brother might wander my direction and see me.

I walked through the woods often. There were some arts and crafts booths, but I never bought anything. It was in the woods that I ran into a neighbor. We drove him more than halfway back to Cleveland.

All of those brightly colored summer clothes were muddy brown by Sunday. Everyone was rolling, playing, and sliding in the mud. But the music continued.

We had been using the Port-a-Potties. Either Saturday or Sunday, they were full and gross, only inches from the seats! After that, I went to the bathroom in the cornfields.

Once it was announced that this was a disaster area, I knew that I had to eat as much as I could. Who knew when I might eat again? I ate oatmeal(?) from a soup kitchen at Hog Farm. National Guard helicopters were dropping food (hard-boiled eggs? sandwiches? I don't remember for sure.). I ate.

With heavy rains falling, some guy and I found a large, dry, red tarp that had been abandoned when the heavy showers started. Almost everyone had evacuated this particular hill, where he and I laughed and huddled together listening to the music. Peaking out of our makeshift tent, we discovered that we were surrounded by large quantities of disgusting trash.
But on closer examination, this abandoned trash included a lot of still packaged foodstuffs. Continually sitting, we slid our tent all around and up and down the slimy, muddy-brown hill, amoeba-style, enveloping whatever unopened or partially opened foodstuffs we could get. I remember a bag of oranges, specifically. While everyone else starved, we probably gained weight that weekend.

The fog-like misty clouds of pot smoke reached up to about my chest, at least. They were most visible on Saturday before the hard rains.
NYCPD staffed the festival. The police were stuck and as much a part of the crowds as the rest of us. On a couple of occasions, I saw officers offering a match or lighter to someone needing to light a joint. They were always helpful, supportive, and pleasant to me.

Leaving, we picked up some hitchhikers headed to LaGuardia Airport. Seven of us cramped my car as we headed to NYC. We heard rumors that people were being busted for the pot residue on their clothes and cars. And my car was obviously coated in the now infamous, brown, slimy mud.
Three different NYC cops stopped us. With each stop, we became more paranoid that our luck was running out. Each cop was kinder and more helpful than the next. They wanted to know everything we could tell them about Woodstock. One told us how to shower for cheap (or free, I don't remember) at the YMCA. One allowed us to continue sleeping illegally in, under, and around the car on the Coney Island bridge.

I knew about checking gasoline, oil, and radiator fluid. I had never heard of transmission fluid. My transmission died in the Pennsylvania mountains. We monopolized a small town's Howard Johnson's lobby until my friend's parents came to pick us up at about 4 am Wednesday morning.
After we got home, we learned that my mother had called the New York State governor. She insisted that he rescue her two children from this disaster area. Thankfully, that didn't happen.
Oh well.