My Psychedelic Dream

I have loved Sandy since we were teenagers. We hung around the same crowds. She always was involved with one of us but never me. I was the plus one, her buddy and sometimes confidant. I heard about all her crushes and breakups but never had the nerve to tell her that I had feelings for her. She liked me but never showed any sign of romantic interest. We went to the same high school and same college and stayed in touch. I even took her to concerts and movies as a ‘buddy’ when I didn’t have a date. Still, there was no spark, no hint of interest. We’d share laughs and the latest gossip about our friends but inevitably talk about her latest romantic interest. It hurt but I just couldn’t tell her how I felt. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.

Eventually, I went to grad school at Columbia University, and we lost touch. I had a few short-lived romances, but no one could compare to Sandy. Her auburn hair, soft brown eyes, effervescent laugh and keen intelligence were imprinted in my brain. My mother who had met Sandy only twice described her as an upper. For a woman who categorized everyone as an upper or downer, that was the supreme compliment. She couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get together with Sandy. What was I to tell her?

 “Sandy’s not interested in your loser son in a romantic way. We’re great friends and it’s going to stay that way. I’ll probably be in her wedding party but not as the groom.”

She’d never understand so I never bothered. I just nodded and smiled and buried myself in my studies. It didn’t stop me from looking for Sandy surrogates. Of course, they had to love rock and roll. It was the one passion Sandy, and I shared above all. It was always easy to convince Sandy to accompany me to concerts that featured the bands of the sixties especially the English ones. The British invasion was in full swing by the time we finished high school. We both had all the Beatles and Rolling Stones albums. I was also a huge Who fan, and she loved the American band Santana.

***

It was nineteen Sixty-nine, the ‘Summer of Love’. I had just finished my second year of grad school and was working as a counsellor at a summer camp in upper New York state. The summer was ending and some of the counsellors were going to carpool to this once in a lifetime concert at a nearby farm. When they told me that the Who and Santana were just two of the bands that were going to perform, I was hooked. I had grown a beard and had shoulder length hair and fancied myself a hippy even though in truth, I was a strait-laced nerd. It was going to be a cool concert, and I thought I’d fit in perfectly. Recently, I started smoking the occasional ‘weed’. My fellow counsellors insisted that we could not experience this momentous concert without being stoned. I was not sure what they meant but agreed.

We arrived at the road leading to Yasgur’s farm that Friday evening. I had been sitting in the back of an old pickup truck with several fellow counsellors, singing Beatles songs along the way. We had to park two miles from the concert and hike in. There were hundreds of parked cars, campers and tents along the way. I carried a backpack with food, a change of clothes and a sleeping bag. It was a muggy eighty-three degrees, and I wore shorts and no shirt. As we walked up the road, we saw an ocean of people ahead. They were all shapes and sizes and in various forms of dress and undress. Guitar and bongo players sat by the side of the road entertaining the wayfarers. Women in flowing gowns swirled around like whirling dervishes. They had to be Deadheads. Similar dancers were present at every Grateful Dead concert I had ever attended. Joan, one of the counselors, and an avid Deadhead performed her own version of the dance as we walked along. It was hard not to dance or shuffle to the beats of the random guitar or drum music played by these unknown musicians. Friday was the folk music day. As we came within a half mile of the stage, I could hear a familiar Tim Hardin song. I forgot that he wrote If I Were A Carpenter, one of my favorite songs. Hearing the melody even from a distance somehow transported me to a ‘higher ground’. Even without drugs, I was experiencing the high shared by the half million other attendees. The drugs would come later.

I finally found a vacant patch of ground, put down my backpack and laid out my sleeping bag, This patch would be my home for the next two days. Somehow, I trusted that no one would move or take any of my ‘stuff’. We were all family. The rest of the counselors dispersed after arranging a meeting time at the truck for Sunday night. Only Joan, our token Deadhead, found a patch of grass nearby. Before settling down on her sleeping bag, she gave me a tinfoil packet containing two tablets.

“Take a half a tablet in the morning and one in the evening. It will make this experience even better and expand your mind.”

“Thanks, but…”

“No buts. Rob, it’s time to tune in. Lose your inhibitions. You’re a good guy but too stiff. If you’re going to become the cool guy, I know you can be, it’s now and here. Listen to Dr. Joan.”

Joan had some credibility. Besides, being a Deadhead she was a very smart premed student. I never could reconcile how she could be the two things at once. Maybe that was my problem. I had to learn to let go. The sweet odor of ‘weed’ permeated the air. I figured all I had to do was take some deep breaths and I’d get there. I filed the packet away in my backpack and thanked Joan. As I sat on my sleeping bag, Arlo Guthrie started singing Coming to Los Angeles. I looked around me. People were swaying to the music and singing along. Many spectators were topless like me including many of the women. A few of them were totally naked. Most were in their twenties and almost everyone had long hair. Flower and peace signs were ubiquitous, often painted on faces and torsos. There was an atmosphere of generosity and love. I felt completely safe and welcome. I had never felt anything like it. The woman next to me offered me brownies and twenty minutes later, I was high as a kite. It was one-thirty am, and I was singing Amazing Grace along with Arlo. I don’t remember much more of that early morning except that I had my arms around the shoulders of two guys as we sang, We Shall Overcome along with Joan Baez.

Next morning I woke up in my sleeping bag soaking wet as it poured rain. I took my poncho out of my sleeping bag, asked a neighbor to watch my ‘stuff’ and went in search of a cup of coffee. I slipped and slid through the mud as I stepped over several bodies. Some were in the throes of lovemaking. I tried to be discreet but failed miserably. Eventually, I found a coffee truck and stood in line in the pouring rain. The coffee helped warm my core and gave me a jolt of energy. It would become hot and muggy later in the day but was a cool fifty-four degrees when I crawled out of my sleeping bag. A band I didn’t recognize called Quill was just starting their set. I decided to tour the farm and ‘experience’ the crowd before returning to my patch of grass.

I was soon engaged in a playful mud fight initiated by a young Janis Joplin look-alike. Since Janis was scheduled to perform, I wondered if it was actually her. The ‘fight’ was short-lived but spread through the crowd. I noticed some little kids participating, probably with their parents. It was good ‘clean?’ fun. Somehow it captured the spirit of the whole event. As Crosby Stills, Nash and Young would sing later during their cover of a Joni Mitchell song, we were all children of God. I could not get over how playful, loving and uninhibited everyone seemed. We were stardust, we were golden, and we were trying to get back to the garden as Joni’s song went.

The rain never stopped but none of us seemed to mind except for the musicians. I heard later that many of them complained of electric shocks from their guitars. No surprise. By the time I returned to my patch of land, Santana were playing Evil Ways. I immediately thought of Sandy. It was her favorite song. She would have been in heaven. I stood and danced in the mud, trying not to fall. It seemed like everyone was on their feet and remained so during the rest of the set.

Santana was followed by John Sebastian, the Keef Hartley Band, The Incredible String Band, Canned Heat, Mountain and finally the Grateful Dead. Jerry Garcia and the boys embodied the Hippie movement. Deadheads knew every word of every song and sang along. The whirling dervishes were soon in full swing. To my surprise, many of them were naked although they had painted their bodies with symbols of peace and love. I found the women both erotic and beautiful. Some of them even gestured for me to join them. There were many hugs and kisses along the way. I was living my adolescent dream. Free love was available to anyone who wanted it. Somehow it wasn’t enough. There was something missing.

 The Dead were followed by Creedance Clearwater Revival, one of my favorites. It was late and I ate some of the food I had packed in a waterproof bag. Surprisingly, with all the excitement I had forgotten to eat anything but a candy bar the whole day. The rain stopped for several hours. I had wrapped my sleeping bag in a waterproof poncho, so it was almost dry. I slept naked.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of the Who. For some reason I decided it was time to lose all my inhibitions and try Joan’s magic pills. I unwrapped the tinfoil packet and removed one tablet. Forgetting that she had instructed me to take only half, I swallowed it whole. The Who were halfway through their set before I felt its effects. Pete Townsend was suspended in midair for what seemed like minutes during his famous scissor kicks. I could see the words floating in the air as Roger Daltry sang them. Every woman I had ever known was either passing by or joining me for a dance. It was a psychedelic dream but seemed real to me.

I was lost in the music until felt a tap on my back and heard my name being called. I turned to find Sandy standing naked before me. Her body was covered with painted flowers. Was she part of my psychedelic dream or real?

“Is it really you?” I asked.

“I saw you during the mud fight but couldn’t believe it was you. When the Who started playing, I had to check if it was really you. And here you are!”

In my uninhibited state, I couldn’t resist expressing what I had felt all those years.

“Sandy, I love you and always have.”

“I love you too Rob.”

“No, I really mean it. Not just in a friend way.”

“I do too.”

As the Jefferson Airplane started their second song, Somebody to Love, Sandy kissed me. Soon we were lying on my sleeping bag making passionate love. It was better than I had ever imagined and seemed to last forever. As The Airplane’s set was almost over during a long version of White Rabbit, we lay next to each other basking in the afterglow. My world had shifted.

“That was incredible. Where are you sleeping? Can you move over here?” I asked.

“I’m sorry Rob but we are leaving for home early. I’ll miss the rest of the concert but call me. Do you have a pen?”

I was disappointed but fumbled through my backpack and found a magic marker. Sandy wrote her number on the back of my hand, kissed me and left. I sat through the rest of the day’s concert in a trance. I barely remember hearing Joe Cocker, but Janis Joplin got my attention. I was almost certain she was the girl who participated in my mud fight. Later Sly and the Family Stone woke me out of my post Sandy funk with their music. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young made me sad and dreamy. The drug was wearing off. As I packed up to leave and meet the rest of the counsellors at the truck, I wondered if Sandy had been a dream.

On the way back to camp, we all shared stories of our experiences.  Joan asked me if I had tried the tablets.

“Yeah, and I had the most spectacular dream. I was making love to the woman I have always loved. Unfortunately, in real life she only saw me as a friend.”

“Maybe the dream was a premonition.”

“If only!”

“By the way, what is that number written on the back of your hand?”