The new movie Taking Woodstock tells the story of the classic rock festival through the eyes of Elliot Teichberg, the parent-pecked son of Catskill motel operators. The movie, directed by the great Ang Lee and based on a true story, is okay but a little dull at times and more than a little farfetched (Elliot keeps running into the same high school chum in the crowds of the weekend). Yet the film did make us curious to hear other true stories of the Woodstock weekend. Colleague Kathy Maher, a research editor, was happy to oblige with her memories. Film rights are available.

In the summer of 1969, my boyfriend, Jim, and I had finished our sophomore year at American University in Washington, D.C., and were each living at home. I was in Wildwood, New Jersey, working three jobs: librarian, waitress, and hostess/hanger-on in a folk club called the Lonesome Traveler. Jim was in Cos Cob, Connecticut, caddying at the local country club and doing odd jobs. Every other weekend, he’d take the bus to Wildwood and spend a few days with me. Then one weekend in August, I took the bus to New York City and a train to Greenwich to spend some time at his house.

Jim wanted to impress me and planned a big weekend, buying tickets for a rock concert on Friday and a Broadway show on Saturday night. I splurged and bought a new outfit. I was less of a hippie than a folkie, but with my wide-legged pants, gauzy yellow tunic, and waist-length straight hair, I looked the part.

We jumped in Jim’s car, a 1957 Mercedes that looked great but ran like a clunker: He had restored the outside (and the wood inside) to its former glory but ignored the engine. We picked up Jim’s best friend, who was on a blind date with a girl who had just left a convent. Since we were just going for the day, we took along a few bags of chips and a six-pack of soda. Big mistake.

Within a few miles of the site, it was clear that this thing was HUGE. I have pictures (taken from inside the Mercedes) of cars pulled over on the New York State Thruway. We managed to park on a side road and along with hundreds of others started walking and walking and walking, probably for three or four miles. We never saw a gate, and no one took our tickets: I still have them (see above).

We staked out a good spot on the field and settled in for the evening: From the first strains of Richie Havens around 5 p.m., we knew the concert would be special. Tens of thousands of people had showed up, and the crowd was electric. Havens was followed by Country Joe McDonald, John Sebastian, Arlo Guthrie, Joan Baez. Somewhere along the line it started to drizzle, then rain, and we huddled under a blanket. The girl who had left the convent vowed to go back in. It was miserable and we were out of chips, but we didn’t care. No one had food or water—not where we were sitting, anyway—but joints passed freely (I confess that I did not inhale). Most people hunkered down and waited for the rain to end. No one was impatient or angry.

As Joan Baez sang "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"—a haunting, mesmerizing sound—we decided to hike back to the car. On the way, we experienced both greed (a shop operator who charged $20 to use the toilet) and kindness (a farm wife who left a hose running so anyone who wanted water could drink). The car was totally blocked in, so we slept in it. The next morning Jim managed to work his way out of the jam, only to have the engine overheat! After an hour or two, we were moving, and Woodstock was behind us.

Why did we leave? Aside from the total collapse of the blind date, Jim had paid a whopping $8 each for tickets to a Broadway show that night, and he wasn’t about to waste the money. Ironically, we left Woodstock to see Hair. P.S. Woodstock was the start of a beautiful friendship: I married the guy!

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