by W. Arthur
In America in 1969, it was tough being a boy. But it was especially tough being a bad boy who didn't go to college - and, let's face it, seeking higher education wasn't exactly a component of the bad boy persona. If you were a bad boy in 1969, most likely you would be drafted into the Army and shipped off to Southeast Asia where you either became a bad ass or died.
I shared that fear with millions of other young men who watched the news and tracked the daily death tolls in Vietnam. However, I also knew, as a nineteen-year-old, I was extremely fortunate to be enrolled in college and thus protected my precious 2-S deferment with every fiber of my being.
And, like most others in my cohort in that ambiguous time period, I lacked a firm sense of who I was or what I wanted to do with my life. As the son of a World War Two vet and prosperous owner of a family hardware store, I was well aware my father had certain expectations of me, especially since he was funding my tuition and room and board at the University of Nebraska.
On the other hand, as a university student, the more radical members of my generation also had certain expectations as they actively protested the war and advocated for 'peace and love.'
Finally, as a young male, my body had certain expectations (or needs, if you will) that involved hooking up with members of the opposite sex. And I was supposed to meet those expectations while the image of my very conservative - and recently deceased - mother dangled in front of me, telling me that 'good boys remain pure'. Before she passed away, my mother would frequently remind me of that while I was over her lap on the receiving end of a furious hairbrush spanking.
So, how was I supposed to meet all of these conflicting expectations and successfully navigate the emotions these expectations provoked? I couldn't unload on my father, who was now working a hundred hours a week in a futile attempt to bury his grief at losing his wife. I couldn't count on my mother's discipline to keep me on the straight and narrow. I couldn't turn to my older brother, because Frank was now serving in the Air Force. And I couldn't talk with my younger sister, who was dealing with her own issues as a motherless female high school senior.
Of course, I had friends at college, all of whom gave me advice based on their own experience and worldview: go into education and become a teacher; join the Peace Corps; join the hippie movement and move to San Francisco; smoke more weed; just don't give a damn. The advice was endless and mostly useless.
To the chagrin of my father, I did let my hair grow longer after Mother died (she would've blistered my bottom but good if she ever saw my hair over my collar) and began wearing a tight string of love beads around my neck. Hey, a young man just wants to fit in and attract the attention of young women. I achieved the former but not so much the latter. As I quickly discovered, love and sexual liberation had its own language in which I was not yet fluent.
I grew increasingly frustrated with my lack of the kind of experience you're supposed to get when you go away to college. I had already missed the so-called summer of love in 1967. I worked and grieved during the summer of 1968. I was determined not to miss out on any opportunities the summer of 1969 might offer.
Thus, when my roommate, Dave, told me about an upcoming rock festival in faraway New York in a town called Woodstock, I thought this might just be that opportunity. I immediately imagined three or four days cavorting outside in the sun, sleeping under the stars with thousands of young women to choose from, and everyone high on life and whatever drugs were available.
Yes, I wanted to go even though I wasn't entirely sure where New York was and had, in fact, never been further east than Des Moines. Add to this, I lacked any form of transportation and had little money. But when you're young, you're more likely to dismiss these small and trivial details. I was determined to go.
Dave and I discussed it and came up with solutions to every issue. We consulted maps and learned the best routes to the concert venue. Dave managed to obtain a 1956 Chevrolet that, while perhaps not in mint condition, seemed at least serviceable. I offered to work in the hardware store full time until the first week of August in order to make some extra money for the trip. My father gleefully agreed. Dave and I were in business.
For nearly two months, I toiled away in that hardware store, working ten hours a day for slightly better than minimum wage, which my father believed was fair for a kid my age. I saved as much as I could. So, by the first of August, I had accumulated a stash of about a hundred dollars, more than enough, I thought, to get us to Woodstock and back in Dave's car.
We estimated it would take us two or three days to get to the concert venue, so we planned our departure for the morning of Tuesday, August 12, just to give ourselves a cushion in case of some unforeseen difficulty. I told my father that we were traveling to Terre Haute, Indiana, to participate in a mission for Dave's church. He nodded his approval and didn't ask any questions. I don't know what line Dave fed his parents, since I don't think he ever went to church either.
With a pack of cigarettes between us, a full tank of gas, and a six-pack of RC Cola, we began our odyssey. As we crossed the bridge from Omaha to Council Bluffs, we blasted the radio-which only played AM. We were two young bad boys, free and clear, in search of adventure.
We made it as far as Iowa City before Dave's old car broke down, stranding us in Iowa. Dave had to spend most of his stash on the tow, leaving him with just enough money to get back home. However, he did urge me to press on. "One of us needs to make it," he said with a pained smile.
I quickly ran through my options. I didn't want to leave my friend behind, but I also didn't want to pass up this opportunity for adventure. I had a sleeping bag, a backpack with a few changes of clothing, and a hundred dollars cash. What more does a young man on the road need? I was ready to rock and roll.
I probably could have taken a Greyhound to New York; I'd taken short trips on the bus before and determined it wasn't a bad way to travel. But buying a ticket would have also cut into my stash, which I was reluctant to do. So, I did what so many young people did in those days, I decided to hitchhike across country.
I wasn't particularly nervous about it. I had hitchhiked many times from Lincoln to Omaha without any incident. In 1969, people seemed less fearful and more friendly, more trusting, more willing to help out a struggling college student. I picked up my gear, said a reluctant goodbye to Dave, and headed for the freeway.
After only about thirty minutes of standing in the hot sun with a cardboard sign that said New York, I got my first ride from an older couple driving a Rambler. The car was small, but I was able to fit myself and my gear into the backseat. They were headed for Bloomington, Indiana, and offered to take me as far as Indianapolis. I thanked them and we were off on the first leg of my journey.
Dr. and Mrs. Abernathy made a nice couple. He was a professor at the University of Indiana and had been attending a conference at the University of Iowa. When I identified myself as a sophomore at Nebraska, naturally they asked questions. I told them I was on my way to a small town in New York for training as a missionary. I don't know if they believed me, but they didn't challenge my story.
As I settled into the backseat, I had a vision of my mother summoning me into the bedroom for a 'discussion'. I knew exactly what that meant. My mother's discussions were largely one-sided and nearly always ended with you over her lap with your pants down and your bottom fully exposed to her big wooden hairbrush. And of all the offenses you could commit, lying was the worst.
I had, unfortunately, been summoned more than once, as were my two siblings, even my perfect older brother. I'm not entirely sure, but I have a strong feeling my father had also had his turn on the receiving end. Mother was a hard-nosed disciplinarian who firmly believed in taking care of her family and keeping us on the straight and narrow.
Just to clarify, my mother, Mary Cochran Adams, proudly proclaimed she was born and raised on a large farm. Her father, my maternal grandfather who died before I was born, supposedly made and ran moonshine during both Prohibition and the Great Depression in order to support the family.
His wife, my maternal grandmother, became the family disciplinarian because, as my mother explained it, my grandfather apparently drank as much as he sold. My mother saw firsthand how frequent applications of corporal punishment kept her and her three siblings in line during those challenging times.
My mother learned the lesson well, as she never hesitated to spank me when she thought I deserved it... which became at least once a month after I entered high school. I don't know how often she spanked Frank or my sister. But, at times, it seemed as though she was always spanking someone.
After an hour or so, the Abernathys chatted mostly about themselves while I studied the scenery, which was largely acres and acres of farmland lush with corn, not unlike Nebraska (they don't call us the Cornhuskers for nothing).
We made a stop in Champaign, Illinois, so Dr. Abernathy could consult with a colleague at the University of Illinois. They bought me lunch at a fast-food restaurant and parked me on a bench in front of the library. The campus was relatively quiet, as one might expect during the summer. But the students I did see looked a lot like the ones I was used to seeing on my own campus. A few girls in shorts and tank tops actually smiled at me, then walked on, leaving me to conjure a few fantasies.
It was dusk by the time we reached Indianapolis. They let me off in front of the YMCA downtown. They said I could get a small room for the night and a free meal from the church in the next block. They also suggested I strongly consider taking the train or a bus the rest of the way to New York. I thanked them and watched them drive off toward the interstate. So far, so good.
I also thought about their suggestion as I checked into the YMCA, yet another new experience. The tiny, one-bunk room cost three dollars, leaving me with ninety-seven. I also discovered I could get breakfast for a dime. Costs were adding up, and I still had to get to Woodstock, buy a ticket to the event, eat, and get transportation back to Omaha. I resolved to continue hitchhiking.
Following breakfast-powdered eggs, white bread, hash browns, and Tang, I took a quick shower in the communal bathroom, gathered my gear, and headed for the Indiana War Memorial.
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