My own private Woodstock
Woodstock was a music festival held from August 15 to 18, 1969 in Bethel, New York, at a dairy farm belonging to a Max Yasgur, whose anonymity was forever shattered by the cultural and historical impact of that event. Woodstock has been described variously but the most apt would probably be as “three days of peace, love and music.”
And “drugs” if I may hasten to add, although that has largely been reserved for the deeper accounts and not in upfront taglines. Many of this generation probably have never heard of it and if they are interested they can always Google it up. Or go to YouTube. I myself have almost forgotten about it. 1969 was such a long time ago.
I was actually floored when I did some finger-counting and discovered I was 16 when Woodstock happened. Ahh, to be 16. A terrible nasty cough would not be as bad when you are 16 than when you are just reminiscing about it decades later. I do not get sick easily. I was a Vidaylin and Scott’s Emulsion baby, back at a time when Scott’s came in its original taste.
No words can describe the original taste of Scott’s Emulsion. Kids today are lucky it now has an orange flavor and some gel tablets. But it is to this forced childhood regimen that I ascribe my hardiness. But even the Scott’s of youth is no match for Father Time. And so I had this cough that lasted three days like I never had a bad cough last that long before.
And so I was down for three days, out of circulation and nothing to do. But I am a mischievous guy. To cajole myself from a respiratory beating, I decided to play the music of my era, for the most part of three days, just like Woodstock. As loudly as I can, just like Woodstock, without having to elicit a court warrant from the neighbors.
With rock music from Jimi Hendrix and Sly and the Family Stone, etc., blaring from the stereo, I sat myself out on a rocking chair in the porch next to my stone-deaf mother-in-law on a wheelchair and watched how priceless the incredulous looks were on the faces of humanity passing by. What a crazy Cebuano I must have seemed to these Warays.
But this was my way of getting over this terrible cough that I was never used to. Before, I just drank more than plenty of water, took double doses of Vitamin C, and that was it. Now this cough took away my strength from just coughing that my wife, panicking, became even more loving and caring. For three days there was peace, love and music. Like Woodstock.
And drugs, if I may hasten to add, although unlike Woodstock, they are not of the mind-bending kind. So my wife dutifully gives me well-timed doses of Robitussin and Bioflu, in between meals on a tray consisting of fish tinola, rice and a banana. Fish in Carigara are the most expensive in the world, so I truly feel very valuable.
She also serves me ginger salabat instead of my usual coffee, which I had to lay off from for three days to make breathing easier. Actually, I got better at the beginning of the third day but to bask in peace, love and music was just simply too irresistible I had to feign still being unwell enough to continue getting served my meals on a tray.
I don’t know about other men out there, if they have their own private Woodstocks or other pretenses they can imagine. But nothing beats calling out to your wife and have her come running with a “yes, dear?” And then have her massage your chest gently with Vick’s Vaporub. Looking down on you, she is as beautiful as the day you married her.