The year was 1969, and my MIL (mother in law) faced quite the conundrum. Should she go to this music festival where all sorts of popular bands and musicans would be playing? Her friends were. But where would she sleep if she went? It was this line of logic that made her decide to stay home while her friends went and checked out what would later become famous to some and infamous to others. It's Woodstock--a music festival that switched venues a time or two until landing outside of this cute, artsy New England town.
Forty years later the town is still generating income from the music and hippie culture that camped out and jammed there for three days. The small town is a very odd mix of artsy-fartsy high end art, overpriced antiques, tea & coffee shops, and hippie stories. It's all jumbled there together as if a teenager in an identity crisis, but that's what makes it unique.
There had to be incense burning in just about every store. By the end of the rainy day we would go in stores, take a breath, and turn around and leave. Stink, stank, stunk!
The hippie store where we got our picture made was rather interesting. They had a whole wall of bongs, and I'm sure they were selling pot out the back door or under the counter. There was a crony woman out front harping at people to put their cameras and cell phones away, and when we stepped inside we saw why.
It was a fun day, and I brought back a T-shirt for my music-loving sister and some "Woodstock Tea" for my aunt--it looks like a grain, and at the price I'm sure there wasn't anything else suspect
inside. But if Aunt you-know-who starts acting funny, now you know why.
I thought the slave sign was funny
and innocent enough, but very regional--can you imagine the riots and ruckus if this was posted ANYwhere in the South?! Sharpton would be there in a minute.
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