I like to write about Woodstock because, though I am not quite 17, I had the idea to go with a friend from my parents. But, as it got closer, it seemed so far away(it was), and then the thought of no one showing up, some groups didn’t go feeling it was going to be nothing, we decided not to go.
So my friend and I were not part of the 400-500 thousand, which showed up in August of 1969 and listened to about 30 performers. Thinking about the size of the crowd, looking back, I’m glad I didn’t go.
I write something reasonably long and put it on social media: this time, a short version because, after all these years, I just found out something new. For years, I told people that my friend Mike and I had permission from our parents to do so. I wasn’t quite 17, and Mile would Mike was a few months younger than me.
A few weeks ago, Mike’s wife, Bonnie, told me she’d be surprised if his parents would have agreed. I knew his parents well because the two of us were together all the time. Mike’s parents were great people.
On the other hand, Bonnie would know them better than I ever did. We still could have pulled it off. Mike and I could have covered a few days gone during the summer through the usual teenage maneuvers. I can’t ask Mike. He’s gone now, way too young.
It has me wondering if Bonnie is right, and she may be, what the heck were my parents thinking?