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stickers.
Blocks from the stadium, the party started. Groups of Dead Heads gathered with coolers under the shade trees that ring a neighborhood high school. The sidewalks blossomed with tie-dye, the signature of Grateful Dead fans. Vendors hawked commemorative T-shirts: “Give me liberty or give me Dead!”
We were ready. We had three thermoses filled with ice and water, one a monster that held 10 gallons. We had sunscreens, hats, sunglasses and bandannas to soak in cold water for relief from the heat. And we had an old Indian print spread, a relic of the 1960s, to throw on the ground for seating.
We might as well have left it at home.
The JMU senior, when he’d used his $45 ticket the day before, had reconnoitered the area. He led us to a spot directly in front of the sound board (from which the volume and tone of the music on stage is regulated). It was one and a half hours before Bob Dylan would step up to the microphone. We stretched out the spread, setting bags and thermoses at strategic comers and edges. “This is OK!” I thought as we settled in and filled cups with ice water to hold back the heat. “A little warm, but OK.”
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