Well, we went to the movies Sunday afternoon. We'd seen the preview, erm, trailer, for "Taking Woodstock," and thought it looked interesting. I sort of hoped it would shed some light on something I'd heard about for forty years and never really understood.
We sat there watching this re-enactment of thousands of people of our approximate vintage experiencing this cultural phenomenon. I kept waiting to understand. But that didn't happen.
I couldn't stop thinking of exactly where we were when Woodstock took place. My husband -- whose college education had unceremoniously been interrupted by the draft board -- and I were living in substandard enlisted housing on a military base in Florida, waiting for orders that more than likely would send him off to Vietnam to quite possibly give his life and our future together for his country. While these clowns -- thousands of them -- were doing drugs, rolling in mud, dancing naked, and, in general, acting like idiots.
I didn't understand it then. And I don't understand it now.
A Facebook "friend" writes, "My ex was there and still considers it one of the high points of his life."