The media is currently regurgitating all things Woodstock. Let me tell you about my experience at a different farm on the other coast...
I had no idea Woodstock was happening until maybe until a year or two after the fact. I turned 12 years old that summer, and my dad wanted to get me out of the house at every oppertunity. The first was when my dad registered me for a college class (he was the college's Registrar!). It was a typing class for secretarial students. So there I was, an 11-year-old boy amongst 20 other students who were all 18-20-year-old women. I could sense that they hated me because I could type as well as they could. I only got a "C" for the class, so I think the instructor hated me as well. A month later, my dad drove me 300 miles south from Port Angeles to my uncle Norman's hilltop farm outside Dallas, Oregon, which he had recently purchased. My uncle was a professional artist (painter, graphic arts), and was raised on a farm, so he knew what he was doing. One of his beautiful paintings is hanging in my living room; perhaps it'll be worth something someday. I spent the week on the farm with Norman (deceased), my aunt Donna (still living), and my 5-year-old cousin Aaron (a diplomat in the US State Department in DC) and 1-year-old cousin Marie (a nurse in Portland, OR). My uncle once got me out of bed to teach me how to butcher and clean a chicken since, as he said, "you never know when you'll be in stuck in a fallout shelter and need to know this". Norman no doubt learned his butchering skills from his father (my grandpa Sam), who had owned and operated a meat market in downtown Seattle in the '30s and '40s. Norman also sent me into the orchard to pick apples, for lack of any other job to give me. My aunt Donna (a nurse) was into health food before its time, but I didn't much like or even recognize any of the food served there, except for peanut butter and bread. Now, the only thing Donna remembers about me is that I knew how to play the "Can Can" on their piano, in all 12 keys. Aaron and I tried to keep the goat from escaping its fenced enclosure, with little success. Norman let me try to pluck a goose feather from a live goose (so that I could make a quill pen), much to his amusement.
At the end of the week, we drove to the county fair in Rickreall, where I managed to escape by myself for a while and purchase a badly needed soda pop.
My dad then drove me home, and seemed to understand my craving for a bit of junk food, for he stopped at a food mart along the freeway and let me buy anything that I wanted, and gorge on it for the remainder of the trip.
This happened during Woodstock '69, and is the only thing I think about anytime the subject of Woodstock is brought up.
Oh, I forgot to mention that at the beginning of the summer, I took a beginner's band class led by ... Ed! It was my introduction to the trumpet, and we produced all manner of horrid noises.