By this time, I was feeling the pull to head to New England. My folks had moved there while I was out of the country and I had never visited their new home. I was now ready to venture for the first time to coastal Massachusetts. They had moved to Martha’s Vineyard. Before that, I was not aware of inhabitable islands anywhere off the Northeast coast. My only previous excursion through New England happened in the summer of 1969. Susan and I had taken a trip to Quebec to celebrate friend’s marriage and also our coming first wedding anniversary. We spent the better part of a week in Montreal, Quebec City and were returning home through the countryside. We made our way down through the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It was the second Sunday in August. News was coming over the radio about a giant music festival bogged down in the Pocono Mountains in New York State. We were unaware that any concert had been scheduled to take place this weekend.
The announcements suggested no one else try to make their way to this concert. Two days of rain only dampened the crowds, but did not want to make them leave. Apparently traffic was snarled by additional folks wanting to take part in “three days of fun and music, and nothing but fun and music,” as Max Yasgur announced to the throngs camping on his farm in Woodstock, New York. Despite the appeal to stay away, I felt an urge to head right over. Susan, perhaps a bit more grounded could not wait to return to our apartment in Douglaston, Queens, New York City. I had to settle for listening to the music recorded there. But I did not miss the launch of the cultural revolution that Woodstock symbolized. Returning home, I was greeted by a letter that announced, “Greetings, you have been selected to report for military duty.”-- a draft notice. Now a little more than five years later, I was planning on returning to my parent’s new home for a sort of homecoming. In the meantime, I had to find a suitable cord to bind my only belongings, a silk lined bedroll, before heading north.