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Filmmaker Barbara Bedick captures the ambiance at Woodstock just before Max Yasgur gave his day that was. Cleaner version at: See film maker, Barbara Bedick's blog at , for a memoir-ish food blog with musings on life, this and that, and including recipes. Link to Cooking the Kitchen on my profile. 8/19/17 from filmmaker Barbara Bedick: Since yesterday, August 18th was an anniversary of the end date of the Woodstock festival, I thought I would add something, having found an old poem, written during that summer. Here follows some background, and then a poem by my then, 20 year old self. July 1969, the summer of love, and when the US astronauts walked on the moon for the first time on July 20th, and it was telecast on tv. I watched in a bar that was full of people drinking beer, and celebrating the moment. I lived in a rented room in a house of a family. The father was an artist, mom worked in Kingston, and two children, a boy and a girl. I was treated like a member of their family. But I also had privacy and my own entrance/exit out of the house, as my room was sort of an addition to the house. Every morning I bicycled to The Art Student’s League, and studied painting/drawing with Arnold Blanche. Later that summer, Aug. 16-18 was the Woodstock Festival at Max Yasgur’s farm, close to our summer bungalow in the Catskills, outside of Monticello, New York. I returned to our house in the Catskills, from Woodstock, just in time to go to the festival. I returned wearing a headband around my head and down my back, and a bracelet of bells around my feet. The world was changing. The poem below are impressions of my month in Woodstock, where I studied painting. Tales of Woodstock A rainy misty day. The song of Groovy, and how we skipped through the streets. The space around us was filmed in a fine mist. The air was warm, and we were like children. Piling into a car, watching the countryside rush past. Girl in white dress, patchouli wafting in the air. Harmonicas were played, and the harmonies existed. Bluesy songs, sung from the heart and soul. The flower children sat atop the car. Not only on top, but all over it. There was food, and everyone shared. Besides that, there was love between them, and the feeling of being one. The flower children thrived on life, and yes, “wore flowers in their hair.” People slept in cars at night, but lived at Becky’s during the day. For there was music at Becky’s. Music is emotion, something to groove on. Climb into the sound, and the music will speak to you. Song of how we tromped through the streets together, arm on shoulder, arm on waist. How we would pool our money together, 36 cents rich, with a penny to spare. Sometimes hustling money. Other times playacting for food. Laughing through the hallowed alley, then the lot for cars which was painted with white lines, o v e r the log, careful not to step in mud or glass, down the street and past the dogs to the cafe, where friends would gather. Weighing the importance of Indian Pudding. To leave we would walk up the hill, and it did not “bring us down.” It was a song of how we played like children, walking arm on shoulder, arm on waist, through the streets of town, like the sun with laughter. Mountains surrounded the town, like a strong, strange army, forming a complete circle in the distance. The gentle guru, old, white haired man, would tell the tale that once under the shadows and spells they cast, the mountains would bring you back. You would have to return someday. Glimpsed while speeding down the hill on your bicycle, in the cold morning, the mountains seemed blue, and a rich green. Colors to be used in your watercolors, later that morning. At times the mountains would be covered in mist, or buried under billowy clouds. Other times the view of their majesty was completely clear.
