“How was your walk, Dad?”
“Good. I went along the river.”
“What did you listen to?”
“Is that good?”
“Some of the performances are great, others not so much. Mostly for me it’s just good memories.” I told my daughter my history with Woodstock and the hippie movement, how as a young boy I revered the self-proclaimed freaks; how wide the chasm was between them and the men I knew. I told her about my grandfather, the World War II veteran, and how he threatened to kick the ass of any goddamned hippie wearing a flag patch on his jeans. I told tales of humid Independence Day nights when I ran from house to driveway, splitting my time between fireworks and the annual showing of the Woodstock film.
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