The Courage to Surrender. John Hayes W.
a programming pool to actually work and get paid for it. I enjoyed the work but, doing it all day, five days a week for the foreseeable future, took a period of adjustment.
From the first pay check, I projected we would have to live week-to-week. Aside from living on my $7,200 annual salary, I was trying to save what we could until our baby was born.
We didn’t have a TV or a stereo when we first settled into our new life, so we read every word of the daily newspaper then moved to the novels to keep from going crazy. We took leisurely walks in area parks, fed the geese, and felt the peace all around us. I was learning the difference between need and want.
One night in June, Sam, who remained my closest friend from home, called.
“Hi,” he said, “have you heard about the Woodstock Music and Art Festival?”
“No, what’s it all about?” I asked.
“If I can get tickets would you and Rachael want to go? I just read about it in the newspaper, so I don’t know much,” he said, “but it’s in August somewhere in the Catskill Mountains. How bad can it be? It’ll be a pisser.”
“Any idea how much it costs?” I asked.
He called a couple days later saying he got the tickets for $8 apiece.
Sam was a professional artist who also taught high school art, so he was interested in the arts and crafts displays, especially those on Sunday, Aug. 17.
Although there were bands I’d have rather seen at other times during the festival, I looked forward to Sunday’s venue which included the Jefferson Airplane.
I rationalized spending the $16 for Woodstock as our only extravagance for the summer. Cheap beer was all I could afford and drinking only on weekends made me feel like a martyr. I felt I deserved the concert tickets as a reward for my drinking sacrifices.
I needed beer to relax and sedate myself, as I adjusted to being married with a baby on the way.
~ ~ ~
Sam lived in New York, just over the Connecticut border. It made sense for us to stop on the way so he and his wife could join us on our trip to Woodstock.
Since our tickets were for Sunday, we decided to leave on Saturday and drove to spend the night with a fraternity brother and his family. The plan was to leave his place early Sunday morning, and drive the few miles to Bethel, so we could have a full day at the festival, and leave by evening.
As we drove closer to the Catskill Mountain area we began to hear radio stations announce short updates about the Woodstock festival, which piqued our curiosity.
“Shit, did you hear what they just said on the radio? I think they mentioned Woodstock,” I blurted.
The closer we got to the New York State Thruway and Route 17, the more detailed the descriptions. “Turn up the radio,” Sam said, “they are definitely talking about Woodstock. Sounds like thousands of people are already there if they’re closing roads in the area.”
“Not likely they’d shut down the New York State Thruway, it isn’t very close to Bethel.” he said.
We had no idea the reports had underestimated the number of people, and the logistical problems caused by abandoned cars, trucks, and vans on the roads to Bethel.
When we arrived, his frat brother hollered to us before we got our suitcases through the door. “Check this out, he yelled. The concert is crazy with people and the Thruway is closed! A news reporter said it is one of the nation’s worst traffic jams!”
Before nightfall, the major networks were breaking into regular programming for special reports about Woodstock. My friends and I drank beer, smoked some pot and got charged up with the atmosphere that awaited us the next morning.
The TV reports started on Thursday, August 14th, as people at the Monticello Race Track noticed traffic backed up, unaware the destination was Bethel, N.Y., about eight miles away.
By 11 in the morning, more than 24 hours before the festival was to begin, traffic was at a standstill all the way down Route 17B to Route 17 – a distance of about 11 miles. By this time, the festival was out of control and had been declared as free of charge, so our tickets were worthless.
The scene appeared as though many people were getting separated from each other and it seemed unlikely anyone could be found searching through the sea of heads and bodies, as smoke from dope and fires drifted into clouds that obscured large groups of people.
TV shots of the people showed most were stoned or tripping, as they wandered (or floated) aimlessly into a friendly gathering space to stay with strangers.
On Sunday morning, we reluctantly abandoned the idea of just the guys hiking into the concert, leaving the three pregnant wives in the safety of the house.
Disappointed, we left early that morning to drive home before we got caught in the exodus of people we assumed would be leaving the festival.
~ ~ ~
Occasionally, I drove home to see my folks on weekends and chow down free meals. That summer we didn’t see Rachael’s parents. She was obviously carrying a baby, and we hadn’t told them anything about her pregnancy.
It was 3 a.m. on a Saturday morning when Rachael nudged me in bed to say it was time to go to the hospital. Her water broke even though it was three weeks before the due date.
Our daughter was born the following afternoon leaving us totally unprepared. I drove to a department store to buy blankets, diapers, formula, bottles and whatever else I thought we’d need.
We were a happy couple, and our daughter just added to our joy. We daydreamed from the hospital about playing together and laughing.
I spent all the money I had to get Rachael and our daughter out of the hospital. Pregnancy was considered a pre-existing condition, so the insurance coverage didn’t cover any bills. Begrudgingly, I was forced to borrow $250 from Dad to get both of them out of the Intercity Hospital, since the $1,000 charges were more than I’d saved.
We were financially destitute before we got home. It didn’t take long to see that three could not live as cheap as two, and any unforeseen expenses drove my already austere budget onto the rocks. We got deeper into debt every month because my daughter’s needs came first, after which I paid mandatory expenses to stay alive and, finally, I maintained our old car to keep us mobile.
Living under the pressure of not having enough money to live, and working hard to get what we needed kept me stressed out. Our arguments over which critical needs would get our money often escalated into marital fights. We made up relatively quickly, as it was tough to stay angry with the three of us tucked into our tiny living quarters.
I drank the cheapest beer available, and smoked other people’s pot whenever I could. I allocated a little money to score pot or hash, and justified getting high as my reward for work and relief from worry.
By the holidays that year, I had felt the euphoria of getting high enough that my mind declared the experience as my comfort zone. I had created a place in my head that allowed me to be mellow, stop obsessing over things I couldn’t control, and enjoy life for the moment. My demons began to surface when there was a pot drought. I pressed people to score for me because I felt empty, nervous and full of anxiety when I couldn’t get high.
As I tried to cope with the pressure of working full time and supporting a family, I felt financially hopeless. I hadn’t experienced real adversity, so I struggled to resolve day-to-day problems and worried about long-term insecurity.
Gradually grass took over my life. I didn’t want to be around people who didn’t smoke, so I isolated myself from everyone except Rachael, my daughter, Sam and the neighboring college kids.
~ ~ ~
Within a couple weeks I turned 21, and soon realized Uncle Sam hadn’t forgotten me. My “2S” student deferment was replaced with a “1A” classification that made me available for military