It was a summer weekend in August, 1969. I didn’t care that the Chambers Brothers would be horseback riding at my parent’s horse ranch in Montauk, New York. (They had just played at “The Alley,” my Dad’s disco, where me and my sister did their light show!) All I cared about was that I was going to Woodstock.

I can’t remember now what I told my parents when I left early in the morning. Since I was 19, I probably told the truth. My little red Dodge Dart was packed for the long trip across New York freeways. I was to meet my boyfriend, Bosco, somewhere in Woodstock and we would go together to the festival site. A sheer stroke of fate led me to him in the nude hippy commune where he was living for the summer. Some kid I met outside of town said, “You’re looking for Bosco? Sure, I know where he is.” (Bosco was a Puerto Rican wild man — very handsome, very spiritual, and, it seemed, well-known in the town of Woodstock.)

Bosco was happy to see me. We were so in love back then. We got ourselves geared up and make the short car trip over to the festival site. We wanted to arrive before the crowds when everything was still peaceful and uncluttered. We found a grassy hilltop overlooking the stage, parked the car and unloaded the camping stuff; this was to be our spot for three days.

I remember the music: Richie Havens, Santana, and Jimi Hendrix stand out in my mind. I remember the rains, heavy and unrelenting. I remember folks wandering around looking for food, the many announcements about lost people, lost insulin. I remember the helicopters that dropped in supplies and medication for diabetics. Since I was a registered-nurse-to-be, I was able to volunteer at the medical tent, and I literally carried stoned, sick victims many yards to medical aid.

I remember how everyone seemed to love each other and no one was afraid. We swam nude with strangers and I met one of my first old boyfriends by the river (shocked to see him uncircumcised!).

Life was good at Woodstock. We ate, got stoned, and partied. For me, music was almost secondary. There was so much happening around it. Days went into nights and we all stayed up together, later and later by the campfires. I met a lot of new (and some old) hippy folks. I felt real pride that we hippies could pull this off in such a spirit of community. And with love.

There will never be another Woodstock. Funny, though, I was at the US Festival in California in the 1980s and I swear, Santana played the same set.