The Bethel Tales

By Dennis Listort

In August 1969, hundreds of thousands of people assembled on the grounds of a farm in Upstate New York. After nearly half a century, this festival, billed as the Woodstock Music and Art Fair, still resonates as the quintessential music extravaganza of all time. Similar in theme and form to Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales, The Bethel Tales, chronicled by a 20-year-old named Danny Berger, it is a collection of 33 narratives told by a group of concert-goers as part of a story-telling contest to pass the time traveling from Manhattan by Greyhound bus to the Woodstock Festival near White Lake, NY. The tales told by the people on board, a diversified party of professional, blue-collar, secular, and religious individuals, are thought-provoking, humorous, inspirational, bawdy, and, at times, tragic. Their stories offer us not only a wide-ranging look at our culture of the time, but also of what people choose to remember and wish to pass on to others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528956758

Dennis Listort

Dennis Listort lived in upstate New York for over four decades. He has published poetry, short stories, essays, editorial pieces for newspapers and magazines, and has constructed crossword puzzles for the New York Times. He currently resides in Florida.

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About the Author

Dennis Listort, a retired public school teacher and administrator, is a freelance writer.

He is the author of The Writing Box, an adult contemporary novel; and co-editor with his wife, Darilyn Stahl Listort, of The Wolves at My Shadow: The Story of Ingelore Rothschild.

About the Book

In August 1969, hundreds of thousands of people assembled on the grounds of a farm in Upstate New York. After nearly half a century, this festival, billed as the Woodstock Music and Art Fair, still resonates as the quintessential music extravaganza of all time. Similar in theme and form to Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, The Bethel Tales, chronicled by a 20-year-old named Danny Berger, it is a collection of 33 narratives told by a group of concert-goers as part of a story-telling contest to pass the time traveling from Manhattan by Greyhound bus to the Woodstock Festival near White Lake, NY. The tales told by the people on board, a diversified party of professional, blue-collar, secular, and religious individuals, are thought-provoking, humorous, inspirational, bawdy, and, at times, tragic. Their stories offer us not only a wide-ranging look at our culture of the time, but also of what people choose to remember and wish to pass on to others.

Dedication

For Darilyn, my one and only.

For all my children.

For all my grandchildren.

Copyright Information

Copyright © Dennis Listort (2019)

The right of Dennis Listort to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528900157 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528956758 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

This work is a web of interplay among my wife, Darilyn; and my children, Cynthia Listort, Teresa Listort, Stephen Duffie, and Allison Duffie. Their comments and criticisms kept me on the true path.

Appreciation is posthumously extended to Dr. Morgan E. Jones, professor emeritus at the State University of New York, New Paltz campus, and to all New Paltz English Department faculty and staff of the 1960s and 1970s.

I am grateful for the help and assistance from Joni Mitchell, Michael Worden at the Alfred Publishing Company, webmaster Les Irvin, and Jane Tani at Grant, Tani, Barash & Altman.

Thanks are given to Kevin Smith and Fallon Black, publishing coordinators, and the entire Production team at Austin Macauley Publishers.

Introduction

If the novel is defined as a fictional narration of the human condition with events involving characters in a specific setting, then it can be argued that Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, composed in 1380, is the first novel written in the English language. The assemblage of pilgrims at the Tabard Inn in the Southwark area of London and their subsequent travel to the shrine of Thomas à Becket at Canterbury Cathedral forms the framework for Chaucer’s creation, written both in prose and poetry, a journey artfully peppered along the way with the travelers’ stories of love and lust, life and death, God and country, joy and sorrow, honor and shame.

Chaucer’s (1342–1400) varied life experiences undoubtedly fueled his writing. He was, at times, both prose author and poet, philosopher, page, bureaucrat, courtier, clerk for King Edward III, civil servant, diplomat, parliamentarian, comptroller, and envoy for King Richard II, as well as a prisoner of war captured and then ransomed in the course of the Siege of Rheims in 1360 during the Hundred Years’ War. These positions and experiences must have contributed to his literary inclinations and given him a wealth of ideas to generate and to bring into being his works which remain foundations of English literature. He is honored to be the first poet buried in Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.

In 1969, two unprecedented and remarkable events held the interest and attention of the entire world. On July 20th, spellbound viewers watched on television as Apollo 11 rested in the Sea of Tranquility, the culmination of what was called by many humankind’s first interplanetary voyage. Less than a month later, on August 15th, it was estimated more than half a million concertgoers assembled and reveled on a dairy farm in Bethel, NY, at what was officially billed as the Woodstock Music and Art Fair, for four days of music, love, and peace. This event remains the quintessential music festival of all time.

My first serious encounter with Chaucer came the following year, in 1970. I had completed all course work for my Master of Arts degree in English Literature at the State University of New York, New Paltz Campus, and what remained was my thesis. My advisor, Dr. Morgan E. Jones, encouraged me to pursue research relevant to the sounds of our language, past and present. Since he was blind, I understood his gentle urging, realizing that to him sounds were nearly everything. Thus, I found Chaucer and his writings snug in the middle of the Middle English period (1150–1470). With Dr. Jones’ guidance and encouragement, and hours of painstaking research and composition work, my result was Phonological Change in the Ancestry of Modern English.

The similarities between Chaucer’s Tales and the Woodstock experience – the idea of diverse groups of people traveling to a specific place for a specific reason with storytelling in transit as a means to pass the time – were obvious to me. And so, for several years afterward, I kept thinking about telling a story of an assemblage of men and women, young and old, on their way from the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City to Yasgur’s farm in upstate New York. Nearly a half-century later, after careers in education and business, raising a family, traveling, writing, and spoiling grandchildren, I finally managed to get started in 2016.

I duplicated many of Chaucer’s fourteenth-century characters but in a modern setting. For example, the first storyteller in the Canterbury Tales is a knight, in the Middle Ages the epitome of honor, bravery, truthfulness and courage. My first storyteller is a retired Marine, in many ways our modern-day equivalent, making the trip to Woodstock accompanying his teenaged son. I mirrored Chaucer’s use of written expression with many of my tales composed in prose, others in poetry, as were his. This variation of voicing provides an interesting contrast when viewed as a whole, with the storytellers relating their anecdotes in the way best suited not only for each of them personally but also for the content of their stories.

And so, to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the Woodstock Festival in 2019, this work, in homage to Chaucer and to the human spirit which seeks out music, fun, adventure, and love, is before you. I hope it will be an interesting look at people purposefully traveling together, paraphrasing Joni Mitchell’s words, to try to get their souls free.

I came upon a child of God, he was walking along the road

And I asked him, Where are you going?

And this he told me:

I’m going on down to Yasgur’s farm,

I’m going to join in a rock ‘n’ roll band.

I’m going to camp out on the land,

I’m going to try an’ get my soul free.

Joni Mitchell, Woodstock

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My Prologue

Every summer in August, I try to get away,

Leave my Manhattan neighborhood, even for a day,

Just to wander about and enjoy the sun,

To have a chance to experience some fun.

Though this year I’m taking a longer spin,

Upstate to a farm where excitement will begin,

A festival with music, young people, beer,

Fresh air and laughter where the air is clear.

The placards have been posted all around

Proclaiming an Aquarian Exposition is to be found.

There’ll be three days of peace, love, and music to make

A statement in a small hamlet called White Lake.

This morning, I know it’s time to start!

Out into the street, walking fast, my heart

And my mind looking forward to this event.

I have a feeling this trip will be time well spent!

I’ve brought along my pens and my marble writing tablet

To record my experiences, so I’m all set.

I’ll write down everything I hear and see

And try to save it for posterity.

My very first stop soon after I depart

Is on Sixth Avenue, at the Horn and Hardart,

The Automat where you serve yourself your food.

I’ve eaten there before and the meals are pretty good.

It’s between 35th and 36th; then, I’m bound

To catch a chartered Greyhound

At Port Authority. Inside the cafeteria,

There’s a sort of controlled hysteria.

I’m encouraged when I see a long table

With an interesting group of folks. I’m able

To find a seat and to my surprise no end

I am warmly greeted by those women and men,

Most in their 20s, some in their 30s and 40s.

I learn they are ready to begin their journeys

By their conversations because they all

Are talking of the expedition and what for them might befall.

Each one is going to the Festival, you see!

Coincidence or fate? I’m curious to see.

I now will tell you of those who were there,

The thirty people, some foul, some fair,

Who they were, what they wore,

What they did for a living, and maybe even more.

On my left was a retired MARINE.

I was anxious thinking he would cause a scene

Because most young people say, Damn!

And worse of our military today in Vietnam.

When I asked him, he told me of his actions

In the fight against the Axis factions

As he believed there was a clear

And actual enemy threatening our dear

And cherished American way of life.

"I had left my home and my wife

To enlist soon after the dreadful horror

That savagely rained upon Pearl Harbor.

That occurrence was the push that brought

Me to understand a war must be fought.

Spending most of my adult years in service

To my country, I am not at all nervous

To say that Semper Fidelis means a way

Of life, to Corps and to Country, even to this day."

Then he told me more of his story,

What he did for country, not for glory.

"In ’42, I was with the 1st Marine Division

At Tulagi and Guadalcanal, under HQ’s decision

To fight. I did my duty among my bands

Of fellow soldiers invading the Solomon Islands.

Bearing up in the face of loss, all my dead

And wounded comrades, I always said

I must go on. Next, Wake Island was on our list,

And again I fought on and did my best

Knowing soon I’d be on my way

To Makin and Tarawa, on raids to sway

The tide of war. From the Gilberts I was to land

At Kwajalein, a small atoll in the island

Group known as the Marshalls, and from there

To Saipan in the Marianas. The Japanese faired

Well at times, they were fierce, their power resolute,

They came in waves to win a victory absolute

But my forces and I persevered. There was a storm

Of fighting everywhere, especially on Guam,

And then soon after came the blood of Iwo Jima.

It would come to a head on Okinawa, and seem a

Fitting end with 12,000 missing and dead

And 36,000 wounded, the survivors tired and ready for bed.

I knew Jack Lucas, who had enlisted at fourteen

Without his mother’s consent, and saw the scene

Later when Jack saved the lives of three, his aid

So valiant, so fitting, falling on a grenade.

He did survive." And then the MARINE told

Of the honor to know the brave and the bold,

Some Navajo Code Talkers, who played a role

So important that knowledge of their mission would not unfold

Until all was said and done. This MARINE

Returned to his wife and to his home having been

Awarded medals for bravery beyond the call

Of duty. He truly is what some, if not all,

Would proclaim as the perfect soldier, a perfect man.

I felt the need to offer him my hand.

He seemed practical, very self-disciplined, yet

Humble to a fault, as nice a man as I’ve ever met.

He wore his fatigues from which I could sense

He had fought hard and did not relent,

With its stains I thought were blood, a prompt for sure

Of what he’d been through, what he had endured.

Your reason to go to White Lake? I wanted to know.

He said, To spend time with my son, very much so.

The MARINE’S SON sat next to him, a college

Student whose thirst for knowledge

Was reason for him to join an educational

Fraternity, one with members of sensational

Talents in the sciences and the performing arts. If I might,

I’ll guess he was twenty years of age, of average height,

Outgoing, with very curly hair. He seemed strong and fit,

Had a pleasing voice, even though he smirked a bit.

He was muscular, and he hoped his physical prowess

Would help him with a girl he wanted to impress.

He later admitted to me privately that he found it difficult to sleep

Because he knew he would often wake ready to weep

Thinking of this woman. He wore a shirt tie-dyed

With raglan sleeves, a design so wide

Across its front with a kaleidoscope of color

With not one spot upon it any duller.

He looked at me and tilted his head

While thinking, I suppose, then he said,

"I love this idea of a concert on the land,

And hope to dance to every band."

He was young and carefree and liked to hum

And sing, whistle tunes and fidget some

When he thought no one was looking.

The son brought a FRIEND along, a skinny thing,

Wearing a hooded jacket that was so out of place,

Since the weather now was moving at a hot and humid pace.

The two of them had hitchhiked from Florida,

Eight days of rides up the I-95 corridor.

He appeared to be their servant, since anytime

Either one of them needed something he would rhyme

What they had asked for in a verse, quick to

Mimic a poet’s voice, but he would always stick to

What was asked of him, without his being paid.

He had tan skin, short hair, and wore a bracelet made

Of rope. I saw a St. Christopher’s medal around his neck,

And he carried a traveling bag made of thick

Burlap inside of which something heavy was concealed.

None of us knew what it was because it was tightly sealed

There was a NUN, named Sister Mary Giles,

A very friendly woman with a sweet and modest smile.

We sometimes caught her singing hymns as if praying,

And then she’d translate from the French the words she was saying.

As we ate our snacks, which we served ourselves,

You know, from the food compartment shelves,

We could see her proper manners and her etiquette.

She always took small portions, bit by bit,

Careful not to have any fall from her lips

Or let too much butter smear her fingertips.

She had a routine of using her napkin

To dab her mouth and wipe across her pearly grin.

When asked why she and the four others in her group

Were about to go to Woodstock, her hands would droop

As if she were unable to find her words.

But then she recovered and said, "We are holy birds

Who fly around to learn all we can about the young,

About their troubles we hear in the words that are sung

In their ballads of protest, sorrow and dismay.

We wish to understand them and thus help them in every way."

I could tell she cared so much for others

Because she considered us her sisters and brothers.

She was miserable to see anyone ill or hurt or sad.

And the only time she would swear and say something bad

Would be By Saint Loy! who, of course, we knew

Was a real saint. Anyway, through and through,

She was a virtuous woman. She had a small dog

With her, bundled in a duffle bag, sleeping like a log.

Earlier, I saw her feed the pup a choice piece of meat,

And some hard-boiled egg, and even then, she was to a fault neat.

She had a fine nose, bright eyes, and a broad forehead,

Maybe as wide as the width of my hand or a loaf of bread.

She was a good-sized woman. Her habit was black,

Well-pressed; neatness was something she did not lack.

She carried a rosary made of coral and green beads.

On this string of beads was a gold brooch, her deeds

Obviously rewarded, inscribed with an ‘A’ for all to see

And the inscription Amor vincit omnia which we

Know means ‘love conquers all’. To be done,

She was accompanied by three priests and another nun.

There was a LANDSCAPER, a conscientious man,

Who said he had a delicate