The Grandfather Paradox

It was the summer of love. Well, that’s the way my grandmother always starts the story. It was in fact two years after the summer of love, but that’s not quite as catchy. The spirit of peace, free love and all that hippie shit was alive and well, anyway – it was Woodstock, early hours of Sunday August 17, 1969. My grandmother and grandfather ‘made it’ for the first time. In some of her tellings of the story they ‘went all the way’ for the first time, or some equally sickeningly quaint little metaphor. The key takeaway here is they fucked. This particular fuck would eventually result in my father greeting the world nine months later.

After my grandmother’s first time. So she was batting a thousand, not bad.

They had not long met, and my grandfather was a roadie for Creedence Clearwater Revival at the time. The first band who signed to play Woodstock, my grandfather would remind us constantly. Opened the floodgates, really saved the whole festival. No one wanted to sign on until they did, then all the big names followed.

They saved Woodstock, and he saved them. CCR had a 12:30am slot and everyone was half asleep, audience included. But luckily there was one man there with his head on straight. My grandfather notices a damaged electrical cord leading to one of the microphones. “Sparking real bad” is the way he described it. The man had an impressive vocabulary. And luckily he spotted this sparking, otherwise who knows what could’ve happened. Could’ve started a fire that burned down the stage. Would’ve electrocuted John Fogerty, for sure. Killed him dead, without question.

My grandfather saved Woodstock single handed, don’t you know. Quite the feat. And with my grandmother front row (half asleep..) to see it. Lucky girl, no wonder my father was only nine months away.

It’s a claim to fame my grandfather richly deserved, my grandmother would say. The man deserved something. He was a talented musician in his own right, he just never got his chance. Never got a break. A frustrated artist.

A bitter, miserable, useless, failed old prick is what he was. Poison to anyone who knew him, but saving the real pain for those closest to him. For his loving family. There was a rot inside the man, the world is a better place without him. I should know, this rot has definitely infected the family tree. I wanted so desperately to enjoy his funeral, but he took that away from me. By passing on his rot.

There are two things guaranteed to bring families together, weddings and funerals. So, on what should’ve been a day of catharsis for me, I got the pleasure of being reunited with the daughters too scared to speak to me and the soon-to-be-ex-wife who would’ve happily buried me next to the withered old roadie there and then. And I couldn’t blame her.

What really hurt was that there was no pleasure to take in the world finally being rid of the man, because I carry on his legacy. A branch has been cut, but his rot has spread to the family tree. But not the whole tree, I think it must skip a generation. Against all odds, my own father is a good, decent man. A man who deserved so much better than the monster that sired him. And the son who could only ever disappoint him.

Which is why it can’t be him; he deserves better than that. I won’t have his blood on my hands. And his blood doesn’t need to be spilled to rid the world of our rot - it is fittingly called The Grandfather Paradox, after all. I think there’s an important difference between dying and just simply never having been in the first place. There’s a mercy in that. He deserves that mercy. I don’t, but I have to make peace with the fact that I shall get it anyway.

I console myself with the knowledge that the man I am following deserves no such mercy and will certainly get none. He is obviously younger, more vibrant. The hair is long and thick from the back, but I got a quick look at the front when I first found him near the stage. It’s already starting to be haunted by the ghost of hairline future. That, coupled with his moustache, visually ages him about 10 years, I’m happy to report. He had an inexplicable youthfulness in his later years. His mind remained sharp, and he was physically far more active than a man his age had any right to be, virtually up to the very end. That always bothered me.

It's Saturday August 16, about 12 minutes to Sunday. He’s currently carrying guitar cases towards the stage. Quite a few of them actually, more than you’d expect him to be able to carry in one go. Yet he moves with surprising efficiency. The receding around the temples and the pedophile moustache cannot take away the athleticism that would keep him spry in later life.

I hide myself among the backstage bustle. I stink of sweat, cigarettes (and other smokeables), and I’m standing around trying to look busy. I blend in perfectly with the other sound technicians.

12:30 is creeping closer. It’s almost time for the Creedence to take to the stage and launch into Born on the Bayou to the resounding yawns of a field of hippies very much on a comedown. I stick close to my grandfather looking for an opportunity to distract him and subdue him. I hadn’t really planned exactly how this part would go; I was relying on a spark of creative improvisation. Panic grips me for the first time when I briefly lose sight of him. Failure begins to be a real possibility for the first time and my heart starts to pound in my chest.

I should’ve known I could rely on the bastard to provide disappointment for anything even remotely close to excitement, though. Never one to shy away from hard work, it seems he was eager to roll up his sleeves. Then even more eager to find a quiet backstage corner, grab a lighter, teaspoon and syringe and make the most of those freshly exposed forearms. He’s right where I need him to be and won’t be going anywhere. Convenient, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little irritated at not getting the chance to improvise.

But I happily still have the need to get creative with the “exposed wire” my grandfather would always wax lyrical about. The source of his heroics that he is currently gallantly passed out about 12 feet away from. The thread by which one of the most celebrated cultural events of the century hangs…

The wire is chewed up a bit for sure, but not a spark in sight. I knew he was full of shit. I always knew it, but it is so gratifying to really know it. This great harbinger of doom is no threat to anyone. Not without a little help, anyway. So thank God I’m here to render aid.

The farm Woodstock was held on is a sort of a bowl shape. With the stage at the bottom of the hill, it makes a kind of natural amphitheatre. From the top of the hill, you can see everything happening onstage from a nice, safe distance. What I’m watching doesn’t take all that long, though. The flames engulf the stage in mere minutes. Less, even. The crowd definitely wakes up. People crawling over each other to get up the hill and away from one of the most famous stages in 20th-century music. It’s pandemonium, I would like to say. Mainly because this might be the only time in my life I’ve had the chance to use that word. And as I can see the fire consume the stage and everything – everyone – on it, I know this will be the last time I get the chance to use it. Or, I’ll never have had the chance to begin with? It’s too much to think about and I don’t have the brainpower.

I have never felt this calm. This free. This at peace.

Amongst the pandemonium (one more for luck).

I lay down, close my eyes and can remember the most intense feeling of tranquillity I have ever felt as I drift off.

….I remember.

I shouldn’t remember.

I awake.

I shouldn’t be doing that, either. I shouldn’t be doing anything. I did it, I succeeded. I felt the heat radiate from my success even from the top of the amphitheatre.

The tranquillity is quickly a distant memory. Extremely distant, I left it in 1969. Where I should’ve left a whole lot else too.

I head straight to my grandmother’s house. An unexpected visit. I’m a surprise, but a welcome one. She’s happy to have the company, always nice to see her grandson.

Shit. What had I fucked up? I did it, I did everything I was supposed to when I was supposed to do it. But I’m still here. Everything’s still here.

Still here, but slightly off somehow.

I can’t put my finger on specifics at first, but things are slightly different. Furniture seems to be moved or missing. Initially, I just put that down to being a shitty grandson who doesn’t know what his grandmother’s living room looks like because he doesn’t visit enough. Seems like the most likely explanation. But there’s more to it than that. The room seems brighter, somehow. Everything brighter. Then I spot it.

I see a picture frame. A photograph of a mother and her son. Just those two people, nothing more. A bright picture, free of shadow. Everything brighter, free of a 6 ft, balding, miserable, bitter shadow. I have to ask about him. My grandmother is clearly distressed, which makes her an irritatingly poor source of answers. So I leave her to her bright room.

I arrange to meet my father. He is far more helpful. Always accommodating, always happy to help. Just a genuinely good man. Like I said, it seems it skips a generation.

He very gently reminds me that it’s difficult for her to talk about. Difficult for her to even think about, she was so close to the stage. She got a front-row view of John Fogerty trying to smother the flames with a blanket as soon as he noticed the electrical fire. A heroic thing to do, but it was already far too late. She may well have been the last person to see him do anything.

Not quite “electrocuted for sure”, but my grandfather was at least halfway prophetic, I guess. I also learn by checking my Spotify that Woodstock must have taken place before Mr Fogerty wrote Have You Ever Seen the Rain. I really liked that song, and now it’s lost to time because the hero (read: moron) died before he could write it. A real tragedy.

Less of a tragedy is the fact my grandmother’s “first and only love” suffered the same fate as CCR’s celebrated vocalist. But my grandfather lives on somewhat. Through me! I’m named for him. To honour him. I can’t help but smile at that, but not for the reasons my father must have thought that made him ruffle my hair when he saw the smile. Like I’m fucking five years old.

“My father”. I’m very careful with the phrasing there. Fathers and sons, it’s a tricky thing. My smile quickly fades.

Because I remember. I remember.

We made it for the first time that night

After the show. After the fire, now. That’s not very fucking likely.

And my dad managed to turn out ok. Must skip a generation, that’s what I always thought. Fucking idiot. I smile.

I cry.

The Grandfather Paradox.

All this time, I had a reason. Something to blame for the rot inside of me. I knew. And I had a solution.

But the solution was useless, when I never really knew the problem. And now the problem is more oppressively intangible than ever. Why am I? And how the fuck do I fix it?

The fucking Grandfather Paradox. If only it were that fucking simple.

I’m smiling again. Then laughing, I can’t help it.

I never knew grandma had it in her!

But then again, I guess it was the summer of love…