A year after Woodstock, I took my 12-year-old daughter to “Michigan’s Woodstock”— the ultimate generation-gap test for a young assistant professor trying very hard to be “with it.”

Post-Woodstock memories:
A drag with my daughter, 1970

August 1970. Hot and sticky in southeastern Michigan. Woodstock was a year ago, and Michigan wants a piece of the rock festival action. The contractor Richard Songer has purchased 350 acres adjacent to Goose Lake, about 80 miles from Detroit, and is launching a three-day rock festival billed as “Michigan’s Woodstock.” The Goose Lake Pop Festival been heavily promoted throughout the Midwest. The headliners include Joe Cocker, Jethro Tull, Chicago, Brownsville Station, Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels, the Stooges, and MC5.

As a 30-something and trying hard to be “with it” assistant professor based in nearby Ann Arbor, I figure I might go, take in the scene, do a few interviews, and perhaps write something about the experience. My 12-year-old daughter lobbies hard to be taken along.

What’s a “progressive” dad to do? Cave in (and fast).

By the time we arrive on Saturday August 8, the crowd is well over 200,000. How much over depends on your politics and point of view. Anyway, it’s more than double the initial forecast. As you might have expected, plenty of semi-clad people are running around, and a brisk drug trade is going down. The music is very loud but clearly being enjoyed.

My daughter, very much into the spirit of the day, volunteers to help find a small group of young people for me to interview. In this effort she soon succeeds, and all ten of us sit around in a small circle.

As the first order of business, one young woman lights up a plump joint, takes a hit, and passes it to her left. By the time I have extracted a few responses to “Where are you all from?”, the joint has reached my daughter. I notice too late. She takes a big drag, displays a wicked grin, and passes it along.

The group is smiley, positive and loving. Of course, when the joint gets to me, I must take a puff as well. Since I apparently pass the “test,” my questions get answered.

I can think of many worse ways to have shared rock music and marijuana with a daughter in 1970.