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I
Came to
Woodstock
to Die in 1969 - An Angel Saved My Life.
I knew
it would happen. It's 3:00 AM in the morning and I can't sleep. I'm
thinking about the trip I made to
Bethel
NY
in August 2008, to revisit the site of the original Woodstock Festival.
I had arrived here once before in 1969, now 39 years later I embraced
the woman then a girl who had once saved my life. I had arrived upon the
shores of
White
Lake
way back then, on an old junker motorcycle, a suicide machine as
battered and beat up as my own mind and body. The fact that either the
bike or myself made the hundred-mile trip the first time was quite
remarkable in itself.
I was a
broken young man. One who set out to save the world only to become
overcome by the waves of evil and despair, which pervaded the reality I
found myself in, in 1960's
America
. I was deaf to the
phrase "I love you" from those that mattered most, I was dumb
to the ways of the world as I emerged from an autistic mind set, and blinded
to any possibility of overcoming the deep feelings of angst
and alienation which weighed down heavily upon me. It was upon that very
bike, stoned and unable to see clearly, I hurled myself at incredible
speeds towards telephone poles on the foggy winding road that ran
through my mind and where I traveled in the real world. Seeing how close
I could come without touching them.
knowing that a centimeter closer and it could be all over.
I was a
seminarian who had faltered, ill equipped to battle the existential
windmills of grief placed before me. I had carried the hopes and
aspirations of my monsignor, my parish, and the small
Village of Irvington
NY
upon my shoulders: and I was losing the battle. Unable to fathom the
chaos before me (civil unrest, assassinations, war) I literally drugged
and drank myself into oblivion, falling backwards into locked church
doors-ways in the middle of the night.
So I
returned in August to
White
Lake
with Maria. She was just just seventeen and I was twenty the first time
around. We were back to visit the Museum at Bethel Woods, built on the
very spot we spent three days in the mud together 39 years prior. We
first went directly to the stage area where the monument was placed.
After moments of quiet reflection we met with Duke Devlin and had our
pictures taken. Duke is a curator of the museum and like us an original
survivor. Later we toured the museum. The museum was impressive and
housed many memories of the past. After viewing the museum I left
ahead of Maria and turned to take her picture as she stood in front of
the edifice.
As I
look at this picture I was brought to tears. There in front of me
stood a woman, now a grandmother. Behind her looms the
Bethel
Woods
Museum
, on the very spot we spent three days in the mud together. I catch her
on the phone. She is checking in on the grandkids - our grandkids! The
irony is quite profound.
Stuck in
traffic on my bike off 17b in August of 1969 a young
seventeen girl opened the door and exited the car in front of me. As she
walked shoeless toward me, her waist-long hair blowing gently in the
breeze, little did I know my life would be changed forever? She asked if
I would take her down the side of the road on my bike, to wait for the
traffic to clear. I agreed and rode toward the festival site with a
shoeless Maria. We waited for hours, the car never made it. After
several attempts to locate the car, we embraced each other, and rode
together into the concert. The rest is history.
Christopher
Cole
- August
10, 2008
Author
of “The
Closer’s Song”
Used
with permission.
Edited
for this website.
Copyright
2008
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