Write About Time - Home Again

Wednesday was a good day turned bittersweet when Ian and I spent the day in Woodstock, NY, my hometown from 1991 – 1998. I hadn’t been there since August (it’s about an hour’s drive away, and schedules and obligations keep me from going there often) so I was glad for the chance for a day-trip get-away on a nice early-Spring day.

I’ve always felt a special affinity for Woodstock, even before my ex and I moved there. To me, it’s the perfect combination of culture and nature - an artist’s colony since the early 1900s and a center for music, film, theatre, and art, in the midst of the Catskill Mountains. The town gave its name to the famed 1969 Woodstock Festival, although it actually was held 40 miles away in Bethel. And Saugerties, Woodstock’s neighboring town, hosted the 25th anniversary festival.

Though my ex and I both commuted to work in Poughkeepsie, Woodstock always felt like home to me. My ex and I bought a contemporary-style house across from the Millstream, and had a 1970s VW bus, named “Stella Blue,” from the Grateful Dead song. We had three cats – Rasta, my black long-haired kitty soulmate; Frazzle, our high-strung calico; and Munequita (Mooney), our rescued gray tabby.

Looking back, I was most content on my days off alone. I would spend warm days writing at the picnic table on the front deck, with the rushing Millstream in the background. I’d walk down wooded backroads, and do errands and shopping in town, sometimes by myself and sometimes with visiting friends or family. In the winter, I’d curl up with a blanket, the cats, and a book or my writing – music provided the soundscape for snow falling on the skylights and outside the windows. Even though we weren’t as socially connected to the community as those who worked there full-time or were longtime residents, I felt like a Woodstocker. And I felt that I had plenty of time to become part of the community; I’d found my home.

So I was devastated at losing my home and my town when my ex left – I couldn’t afford to live there on my own, so we sold the house and I moved back to Poughkeepsie, near my family and job. I don’t miss him, but I miss my house and I miss Woodstock. And I feel like I left an essential part of myself there.

I’ve gone back several times each year, for day-trips with Ian and friends – to see bands, plays, and art shows. When Rasta died, Ian and I scattered his ashes in the Millstream across from my house. The town has changed little by little over time, with favorite shops and business gone and new ones in their places. But the feeling of Woodstock stays the same.

On Wednesday, Ian wanted to go to the Center for Photography at Woodstock, to submit an entry of images for their Photography Now exhibition, opening in June. So we stopped there first, and looked at the current exhibit of photos, and then decided to get pizza for lunch. Unfortunately, Woodstock Pizza, a longtime hub of the Village Green, has closed, so we went to Catskill Mountain Pizza, in the old Cumberland Farms building, on Mill Hill Road. It had great pizza, and a funky-hippie atmosphere, with old posters on the walls and a Grateful Dead live concert as background music. Different place, different time, different partner, yet it almost felt so much like 15 years ago.

The pull of nostalgia carried me through town, as I reminded Ian of the many changes. The Flying Watermelon, a cool T-shirt and Woodstock memorabilia shop on the Green, is now a real estate office. A CVS now occupies the space that had once been Grand Union, the only grocery store in the village – we remembered the furor it caused several years ago. I’m so glad that Not Fade Away, the tie-dye shop that’s a hallmark of Woodstock, still seems to be thriving. But it’s now in the building that used to be the Joyous Lake, a popular nightclub for many years. If I still lived there, the mutation of the town would have seemed gradual and not as jarring to me.

But the more things change, the more they stay the same. Skateboarders and a graying, long-haired guitarist were enjoying the warm weather on the Green. People were walking dogs everywhere. And when we stopped at Bread Alone for coffee and pastries, we were glad to see a stream of customers going in and out. A car passed us as we walked on Millstream Road, a cloud of pot smoke mixed with the exhaust. A sign outside of a house advertised “Pet Massages”. That’s always been the spirit of Woodstock to me.

It’s always hardest to see my house, and to walk along the Millstream. I thought of Rasta, and how he’s forever a part of there, as well as forever a part of me. As Ian took some photographs, I asked him to take a surreptitious picture of the house. The wooden railroad tie fence still goes along the edge of the yard. And the dirt driveway and the rustic garage are still there. But the new owners have closed in the front deck, and it completely changes the architectural lines of the house. And they’ve let the rhododendron and azalea bushes grow tall and stalky. Even the number on the mailbox has changed – the residences of Woodstock must have been renumbered, like they were throughout Poughkeepsie several years ago.

As I squinted in the sunlight, I could almost see my house as it was, superimposed over the house as it is now. And I could picture my younger and more idealistic self, writing on the deck, long hair frizzy and pre-dreaded, wearing a rainbow-colored tie-dye and Birkenstocks. If she had looked into the sun at that moment, would she have been able to see through the years, to see me, and know that it was the future me, wistfully looking across the street? She would have probably assumed that I was locked out, but that’s literally true.

And if I could somehow cross the border of time as easily as crossing the street, could I face my past self? What would I say to her? I would tell her that I’m sorry I couldn’t stay in Woodstock, and I would explain why. I would warn her not to trust the seeming stability and security of a marriage contract, because contracts can be broken. I would tell her to gain more independence, with a driver’s license and a private savings account, and to find a better, more lucrative job, while still working on writing dreams, so she would be able to afford to keep the house on her own. Because contentment turned into the emptiness of complacency, instead of the stronghold of self-reliance that I really needed. If my past self had been able to visualize the possibility of being locked out of home, and out of town in the future, things might have turned out very differently, and Ian and I might be living together in my house now.

But time only moves in one direction in this life, so I can’t go back. And I wouldn’t want to go back if it meant revisiting the unhappiness of living with my ex anyway. So instead, I can look to the future and the possibility of living in Woodstock again.

I think I’ve almost convinced Ian that Woodstock would be a good place for him as well as me. There’s a thriving art scene, with CPW, the Woodstock Artists Association, and many galleries in town. And the beauty of the woodsy mountain setting could be very inspiring for his photography. Ian agreed that’s it a beautiful place, when we took a hike along the stream on the Comeau Trails, across from the town hall.

Of course, any move takes a lot of thought and planning. There are things I would do differently this time. I wouldn’t want to have to commute to a job in Poughkeepsie, so I’d want to consider different job possibilities. And Ian would probably want a different job, too. It’s not possible to live in my house again, but we could find and make a new home for ourselves. We would have to rent a place, but I know there are affordable rentals in town. And I was a renter before becoming a homeowner in Woodstock – it was a good way to get a feeling for living there before deciding to buy a home.

I think that living in Woodstock again would help me find the part of myself I’d left behind. I think I’d find some of the happiness and contentment that was left there, too. Living in the right place, that gives a sense of belonging, is important to most people. It would make the right difference in my life. All I know is that I would feel like I’m home again.

And who knows – maybe on another bright sun-filled day in the not-too-far future, I might encounter my past self, on the Village Green or walking along the Millstream. And I know I wouldn’t have to explain anything to her this time.

Except maybe how I did my hair in dreadlocks.