Woodstock: They were there

It was the year of “Abbey Road” and President Nixon. Of Neil Armstrong and Charles Manson. Of “Sesame Street” and the Battle of Hamburger Hill.

It was 1969.

And over three days in August 40 years ago, half a million people came together in Bethel, N.Y., for a festival described as an “amazing and beautiful accident.”

They called it Woodstock.

“It was about this promise,” said Robert Dornsife, an associate professor of English at Creighton University. “Politically and culturally. Not everybody likes the politics that were prevalent at Woodstock, but to the extent that people saw promise there, the event gave power to it.”

In a bid for peace and love during a tumultuous time in our history, Woodstock brought some of the greatest musicians of the time together with young people from all over the country, including a few who would call Nebraska home.

We asked some of the folks who saw that history being made — or had a very near miss with it — to share their stories.

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Terry Mandolfo
62 | West Palm Beach, Fla. (originally of Carter Lake)

I had just gotten out of the Navy and was letting my hair grow, with being a hippie as my new goal. Someone suggested we all pool our money and head to New York for this really big concert (where) everybody who was anybody was going to be. Rumors of a sellout prompted us to forward our money with a trusted friend to get us some tickets. I paid $25 for three tickets. As I approached the gate, the crowd swelled and the fence and gate were pushed over, and from that moment everybody entered for free. Richie Havens started the whole thing off: amazing, good vibes, lots of smoke, lots of V-fingered peace signs, lots of really cute hippie wannabes. It was amazing. The music was endless, and everything was exciting and entertaining. ... Then it rained and everything was muddy. Nobody ever complained, we just huddled together and enjoyed the concert. By the time Hendrix closed the event we were all so exhausted. My life had been changed: peace, love and happiness was now a new way of living — and my need for loud music still prevails. Thanks to Woodstock.

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Aretta Freed
59 | Omaha

I was 19 years old and recently had a baby, a little boy. My husband was in the Air Force, stationed in San Antonio, Texas, and we were taking our first road trip with the baby in a 1949 Ford. We both grew up in upstate New York and were taking the baby home to show off to the grandparents. Because we were in the service, we didn't have a lot of money, (so) we were traveling on the cheap. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, we lost our road map, and by a stroke of the most horrible luck, on Aug. 16, we ended up on the road to Yasgur's farm. The road was nearly impassable because of the cars parked on the side of the road, people walking all over, and in places, we had to leave the road to get around cars that were abandoned in the middle of the road! It took us about four hours to get past the traffic. I will never forget the experience as long as I live, and it was years later that I connected our unintentional detour with the Woodstock festival. I tell everyone that I was “almost there!”

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Tom Burton
66 | Omaha

It was early on Saturday morning, Aug. 16, 1969, and we were about to give up on our Texaco New York state road map to find a way into the “Woodstock Music and Art Fair.” Forty-five minutes later we abandoned our car (and) started walking south with the crowd. We were three young Air Force officers stationed at Stewart Air Force Base in Newburgh, N.Y. There wasn't much we could do about our shorter military hair, but we hoped we could somehow fit in with all those hippies. At midafternoon came a true epiphany, Carlos Santana, in one of his first big national exposures. It was dark by the time Creedence Clearwater and the Grateful Dead came on. Late in the evening Janis Joplin performed. After midnight, following her performance, we decided to head back to the car. Sure hated to leave the next morning, but we had to be back on duty Monday morning. All those friendly freaks would just have to enjoy Jimi Hendrix without us. The one feeling I still carry with me is the sense of community we felt as part of a huge crowd in the middle of difficult circumstances. People politely moved around the area, shared food and water, helped each other and made do with whatever resources we had. ... My part in a little piece of history left a permanent impression of what people can do working together, and it stays with me forever.

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Ross Cuiffo
52 | Omaha

I was a boy of 12, from Flushing, Queens, and my family had rented a bungalow in a bungalow colony along Route 17B, White Lake, N.Y. We had heard that there was going to be a big concert just up the street from us, on one of the farms — little did we know it would turn out to be the historic, signature generational event that it would become. The road was shut down for three days, filled with barely moving cars, and thousands of people of all sorts. I remember handing out water to many of these, as they sure seemed to need it. It was also the first time I had ever seen naked people, out in public, swimming in the lake. I couldn't believe it. My older brother did attend the concert for a couple of days. (He) was also a part of the cleanup crew, and made it into the Woodstock movie, near the end, when Jimi Hendrix is shown playing the national anthem. I understand there is now a museum and fancy concert venue on the site. I only wish I had been just a couple of years older, to actually listen to the music and experience the event even more than I did.

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