Stink Bugs and Woodstock

While stories on stage at the National Storytelling Festival were top notch, smaller stories playing to crowds of one-to-five were equally engaging. As an African American woman from Alabama gentle ooched a “stink bug” from my mother’s back, a woman who had traveled all the way from the land of the Golden Gate Bridge told of how her local hotel was overrun by the bugs. As a group clustered above her head the pervious night she had sought another room.

Brown Marmorated Stink Bug. ©

Brown Marmorated Stink Bug. ©

When a resident of Woodstock, New York, climbed on beside me aboard the back of a golf cart, I heard an enticing elevator pitch of her 1969 Woodstock experience. She and her friends survived, along with the horses they rode to the event, amidst the rain, mud and free flowing drugs. “How did you feed the horses?” I asked. “We brought apples and carrots,” she answered.

The stage stories, as good as they were, weren’t the only good stories residing the festival. As they say, “Everyone has a story to tell!”

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