Woodstock

The recent 40th anniversary of Woodstock brought back memories.

I bought our tickets in advance. On Thursday evening, I dropped the kids off with my mother for the weekend; and on Friday morning, my wife and I left from our apartment in Lincoln MA.

We were in central MA on Route 117 in our trusty Volkswagen Beetle when some kids ambushed the car with green apples. I stopped the car, but the boys ran into the orchard. I knew it was pointless to chase them.

One apple had shattered the windshield, making a golf ball-sized hole and leaving it so concave that the windshield wipers wouldn't make contact. We continued on, determined to get to the festival.

It started to rain. I couldn't see the road. Rain poured in the hole in the windshield. The radio said that the NY Thruway was already closed.

We turned back.

I’ve often wondered if my life would have been in any way different but for that one green apple.