stardust, golden, back to the garden
Today many of the other counselors took to The City for their day off, to see a ball game and a bit of Manhattan. I set out walking down the road armed with a camera and a plastic bag with fruit, a book, and my running clothes. My trainers I sling over my shoulder to tread the miles barefoot. Inchworms dangle, dancing, at eye-level from high branches, searching for their landing pads. A deerfly swims laps around my head.
On city runs in Cleveland we joked of measuring our distance in Kentucky Fried Chickens instead of miles. Here and now either POSTED signs or smooshed asphalt frogs would be appropriate.
Dogs bark as I pass a farmhouse. The owner at the door yells, "Come on guys, leave her alone!" I laugh and remind myself to pull out the rest of these dread-knots so I can get a haircut.
Coming up the last large hill I spy white tent tops. Voices and gentle music grow louder. Across the street from the Woodstock grounds and monument: the Bethel Summer Farmers' Market -- my destination.
A chairmaker and some pottery in the first open-walled tent. The next, a few tables bearing local produce, a man promoting his book, and the highlight for me, a guitar/mandolin duo tucked between a woman selling bagels in woven baskets and a man with an assortment of maple syrup products, pancake mix and ground beef.
I sat at a picnic table in the middle of the tent, facing the old tie-dyed, sunglassed musicians, plopping my bag and shoes on the grass next to me. Enjoyed a $1.50 pound of delicious plums and relaxed.
My cue came when the pair began "Goin' Down the Road Feelin' Bad." I walked past the Woodstock grounds until I found a suitable hiding place. Turning my head to direct my ears down the road, I changed quickly, slipping on shorts and shoes. Grabbed my watch, dumped my gear in the weeds, and started running. The main road I came to reminded me of Tuam Road out of Galway, where I did a few long runs in Ireland. The farms here were a bit newer, the cows fatter, and every car a 4-wheel drive, but the trucks blew the same giant gusts of exhaust on me as they thundered by.
Took a short detour down the road to Max Yasgur's old house, and another climbing stone steps up to an overgrown vantage point. I turned back early, though, tired perhaps from the morning's long walk and the anticipation of the return trip. Collected my things and retired to read Steinbeck on the end of a rock wall in the shade for an hour, before returning by alternate route back to camp in time for shower and dinner; necessary after the 16-mile day.
comments
Jeff, thank you very much for sharing your delightful day's travels with us. I never got to see woodstock, but now I have. Better late than never. I felt like I was right there with you. Excellent post.
-- Kate S. (August 5, 2003 6:20 PM)
Thanks, Kate. It was really a good trip -- simple and cheap wins out 9 times out of 10.
The toughest part was that from the time I took off my shoes and set off down the road, I was largely focused on how I was going to document the event. I like writing down notes and taking pictures, but sometimes I wonder how much trying to "save the moment" actually takes away from enjoying the moment.
Just something I'm grappling with.
-- jeff (August 5, 2003 10:30 PM)