For quite awhile now, I’ve been returning to Bethel, New York for the anniversary of the Woodstock Music and Arts Fair. When I first started going back, we camped out on the original grounds — which were privately owned — and a few times managed to have an impromptu and totally illegal music festival. It was definitely low rent — and wonderful.

One of the stops I make every year is Hector’s Inn, which was where the bus from Port Authority dropped off me and Jimmy Barnett back in 1969. There really was a Hector, who was kind of famous for buying several truckloads of beer and selling it to Hippies at reasonable prices. Many years later I met him and told him that one of the first things I did when I got to Woodstock was buy one of those six packs. By then he was in poor health, but my story brought a little smile to his lips.

Across the street from Hectors is my Friend Larry Houman’s place, who married Hector’s daughter, Carol. They had set up a little shop that sells Woodstock memorabilia — which surprisingly is one of only a few in the area.

On Anniversary weekend, a lot of people show up at Larry’s and Hector’s, and this year that group included Arty Kornfeld, one of the two promoters who conceived of Woodstock and are most closely associate with it. I made a little movie about his visit. When you’re done watching, come back to this post to see what our little chat reminded me of.

Everything Reminds Me of Something Else

Artie helped write the Cowsill’s hit: The Rain, the Park and Other Things, and you probably heard the guy in the video getting sentimental over how much he loved the song. I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the song (and flower girls), but the melody reminds me of when I was about fifteen years old and working as a Caddy at the Timber Point Country Club on Long Island. One of the kids who caddied there was a guy from Central Islip named Mousy.

Jimmy and I used to get up early and walk a couple of miles to Main Street and catch an eastbound bus on Montauk Highway, which dropped us pretty close to Great River road. All the caddies congregated there to wait for the “rich guys” in their Cadillacs to give us a ride to the country club — and they always did.

I met a lot of interesting men who belonged to that country club, and for the most part they were decent guys. The really interesting people were the caddies — which were kind of a mid-sixties cross between the Little Rascals and the Dead End Kids — even though a few of them were grown men.

There was Mister Turtle, who had to be in his sixties and as one might guess, made his way up the fairway at an exceeding slow pace. Another was Glub-Glub, so named for a speech impediment that clearly was the result of some kind of mental impairment — we Caddies were not know for our sensibilities.

There were a few local kids from the somewhat tony town of Great River, who showed up to earn a little spending money, but most of the other kids were from locals that were a few rungs lower on the socio-economic ladder. Some had already dropped out of high school — or soon would.

There was a “pen” where caddies would do what my mother called Shaping Up, which meant waiting for a job assignment — which didn’t always come. Carrying one golfer’s bag paid five dollars and twice that if you carried two. If the guy was worth a damn, he’d buy you a hot dog at the turn and usually tipped a buck or two on top of the rate. It could take five or so hours to get a round in, but back then, five or ten dollars went a pretty long way.

Sometimes you waited a good long time to Get Out, and being the good juvenile delinquents in the making that we were, we passed the time smoking cigarettes and playing Blackjack, which was where I was first exposed to high stakes gambling, which is a relative thing.

In the morning — before anyone got paid — you bet a quarter a hand. In the afternoon — after everyone collected their pay — the minimum shot up to a buck. It was entirely possible to lose in five minutes the money that took you a day to make, something I did once and will never forget.

At any given time there might have been eight or nine kids crowded around the small table we played on, with a another row or two behind them waiting to play. This was when the guys who bankrolled the house and dealt the cards got serious. After all, separating teenager punks from their hard earned cash paid better than carrying golf bags.

They dealt fast, and were on the lookout for anyone swapping cards. One day the dealer — a guy named George who had to be in his thirties and had a bump on the crown of his forehead that was way too similar in size to a golf ball — declared that no one could look at their cards until it was time to play them.

But Mousy fond this restriction an outrage, and refused to observe it. I can still remember him protesting: “We can look at our cards, Man,” and George answering just as insistently that if he did, he would not be allowed to play. Mousy would not give in, and after awhile a couple of the other players sided with him and George relented.

I was pretty sure Mousy was doing some card swapping or cheating in some other way, but I can remember his look of satisfaction as he peered at his cards and considered whether to hit or stay – as he began to softly sing Artie’s song.

Suddenly the sun broke through
(see the sun)
I turned around, she was gone
(where did she go)
and all I had left, was one little flower in my hair

But I knew
(I knew, I knew, I knew, I knew)
she had made me happy
(happy, happy…she had made me very happy)
Flowers in her hair, Flowers everywhere

I love the flower girl (I love the flower girl)
was she reality or just a dream to me
I love the flower girl (I love the flower girl)
well love show’d me the way to find a sunny day
(sunny day, sunny day, sunny day)

I love the flower girl (I love the flower girl)
was she reality or just a dream to me

‘Till next time friendly reader.