Ryan, a troubled young man wrestling with inner demons, reluctantly sets out on a life-altering road trip to Bethel, NY, in an old hippie van. His mission? To fulfill his grandmother's final wish and scatter her ashes at the legendary Woodstock site.
But there's a catchâher will requires he takes along her elderly friends and their grandchildren, turning a simple trip into a transformative journey that promises to upend Ryan's world.
Ryan's resistance gives way as he navigates the clash of generations and personalities within the cramped confines of the van. With each mile, secrets unravel from his past, misunderstandings surface, and the trip transcends its purpose.
The road to Woodstock metamorphoses into a passage toward personal redemption and the unearthing of buried truths. As the van hurtles toward its destination, it carries with it the promise of healing, understanding, and the awakening of a newfound sense of belonging for Ryan.
Based on the 2012 short story.
Ryan, a troubled young man wrestling with inner demons, reluctantly sets out on a life-altering road trip to Bethel, NY, in an old hippie van. His mission? To fulfill his grandmother's final wish and scatter her ashes at the legendary Woodstock site.
But there's a catchâher will requires he takes along her elderly friends and their grandchildren, turning a simple trip into a transformative journey that promises to upend Ryan's world.
Ryan's resistance gives way as he navigates the clash of generations and personalities within the cramped confines of the van. With each mile, secrets unravel from his past, misunderstandings surface, and the trip transcends its purpose.
The road to Woodstock metamorphoses into a passage toward personal redemption and the unearthing of buried truths. As the van hurtles toward its destination, it carries with it the promise of healing, understanding, and the awakening of a newfound sense of belonging for Ryan.
Based on the 2012 short story.
ASHES AT WOODSTOCK The Ryan Darcy Journals, Book 1 By Melanie Sovran Wolfe
I'm torn between craving connection and the fear of being ensnared by its complexities. Perhaps that's why I find solace in solitude despite the company of a different woman each night. Is that normal? The contradictions within stir up a storm deep inside, leaving me grappling with a snarled mess of emotions to unravel that make me want to scream fuck it all. I donât need people.
When I had a family, it was fewer brownies, hugs, and picnics and more like a dog cage with an owner that walked by once a week and threw me a boneâand now, just learning, Iâm the last living Darcyâ Iâm free of this ball and chain called familyâitâs fucking time to celebrate. But first, this damn reading of the will shit.
My legs, once pillars of strength, now bear the weight of my impending appointment, and a seismic tremor threatens to dismantle my very foundation as a panic attack hits. The task ahead, an insurmountable mountain, presses upon me with an almost unbearable force.
Whispers in the recesses of my mind strive to rally my spirit. Ryan, endure the reading, itâs the key to breaking free and then hello beach babes and endless parties.
Summoning a deep breath, I grapple with corraling the emotions within, seeking to confine them to the mental vault I have meticulously honed over the years. But today, oh today, that well-practiced self-control slips through my fingers like grains of sand in a storm.
The lawyer's imposing building rocks my fragile composure, casting shadows resembling a beast waiting to devour me the moment I dare cross its threshold. Iâve avoided Barbara Darcyâs lawyer, who was also her friend, for long enough. Ill-prepared for this ordeal and fully aware of it, I seek refuge in the solace of a drink. Just one sip to calm the tsunami of anxiety threatening to engulf me.
With minutes dwindling, I find the nearest bar on my phone and run, not walk, towards its embrace. The bartender scrutinizes my ID, each moment an eternity. A silent plea echoes within meâno complications today, please. Finally, my ID returns with a nonchalant toss. "What'll it be, Mr. Darcy?" she asks.
"A Long Island Ice Tea," I suggest, flashing a practiced grin, hoping for a more generous pour. Her response, a flirtatious smile, signals a momentary reprieve. "Youâre a Darcy, like, the Darcyâs, the oil people?"
I swiftly drain the concoction, letting its warmth wash away my trepidation. For that fleeting moment, life feels bearable. "Nope, no relation." The glass hits the bar.
An older gentleman at the corner of the bar, facing me, says, âYeah, you are. Youâre the kid that ran away a few years ago. I was still on the force, I rememberâyou were reported missing at first, and then it came out that you were away.â
The bartender plunges a towel into a wet glass. âI knew it was you; your cute face was all over the news. Why the hell would you run away? All that money, I bet you went to fancy schools, drove cool cars andâŚhow many mansions does your people have?â
The rudeness is unreal. I request another drink and this time, I drink faster and exit the building ASAP. Heading back toward the lawyer's building, my newfound confidence bolsters my faltering spirits. A striking hourglass figure emerges from the entrance, triggering a Joey Tribbiani smile, "Hey."
She offers a fleeting approval, and her smile lingers, breathing life into my tattered confidence. The misperception of my age persists, a falsehood I have no intention of correctingâthe truth might lead to my banishment from the adult world, yet fate and my older, handsome looks spins its capricious design.
Announcing my presence to the secretaries, I seek refuge in a chair, deliberately disregarding the hushed exchanges behind me.
"His grandmother died..."
"Is he single..."
"No, he can't be that youngâŚhe looks twenty-five."
"How much do you think he'll inherit?"
Idle chatter I dismiss and bury myself in the pages of a men's magazine, a transient escape from the incessant ringing of phones and office noises.
A demure figure among the secretaries catches my eye. Rising from her station, she approaches, offering a tentative inquiry about a drink. A pretty thing, perhaps in her twenties and fresh out of college.
A moment later, she guides me down a corridor, our conversation dancing around introductions. "I'm Ryan," I mention our footsteps at rhythm in the hallway.
"Yes, I know," she replies, her voice a gentle melody. "Ashley. Nice to meet you."
But before entering the office, a sudden urge to confide seizes me. "So, Ashley, my friend bailed on me, and I'm in a bit of a bind." Furrowed brows mirror her concern. "Oh, how so?" she tilts her head.
Leaning in, my voice lowers, "My birthday's approaching. I was going to celebrate in the Bahamas, but she left me for another guy." Adopting a forlorn expression and spinning a yarn, as my grandmother would call it. "Ya, know, I'll be all alone." The pout reasserts my plight.
"That's terrible. I'm so sorry; maybe you can find someone your age to go with you?" Ashley offers her sympathy but doesnât take the bait. Itâs my age, damn my age. Our eyes connect, and in a gentle whisper, I implore, peering over my sunglasses. "What is age, really?" Her eyes seek answers in my face. "And Ashley, trust me, you'd have the time of your life."
She leans in and sniffs. "Drinking?" She recoils, her face contorts, severing our connection. âItâs a bit early.â
"Yeah," I admit, the lingering scent of alcohol a damning admission. "My going-away party ended early this morning. But hey, Iâm not a big drinker if thatâs an issue."
She ignores me, knocks, and opens the door. "Mister Darcy is here."
As she leaves, I raise my sunglasses to my head, locking eyes with her, and she looks away with a smirk. She'll acquiesce eventually and join me; I can sense it. Once the deed is done, I'll shower her with luxuries and send her offâa mutually beneficial transaction.
The room, a fortress of mahogany bookcases with one big window offering a tantalizing view of the world beyond, greets me. Nervousness slowly creeps back in waves as I remember the purpose of my visit.
A man, silver hair glistening with too much gel, rises behind the colossal deskâRonald Wagner, known as Ron stands up and extends a hand. "Ryan Darcy, it's a pleasure," he greets me. "We met many years ago at your grandmother's home."
"Hi," I reply, anxious to commence. "Yeah, I remember you."
"I truly am sorry for your loss," Ron expresses more sympathy than I care for. "Barbra Darcy was a remarkable woman."
"Yeah, well..." I say while settling into a leather chair; my gaze inadvertently catches a photo of him golfing with my grandparents. Memories best left untouched. "We stopped speaking a few years ago."
"Yes, I know... It's unfortunate," Ron acknowledges as I hastily unwrap a piece of gum, regretting my recent decision to quit smoking.
Then, a figure entersâa tall, African-American woman with short white hair takes over the room before I can escape. "Hello, I'm Debra Johnson." She says to Ron, and they shake hands. âWe met at a party some years ago.â
âYes, yes,â he recalled.
Her piercing gaze reduces me, reminding me of my insignificance. "Ryan.â Her tone is ripe with disappointment. âWhy didn't you come to your grandmother's memorial service?"
The past, a shadow lurking in the present, reminds me of my betrayal and why, stirring a tempest of resentment within. Uncertainty and unease fill the room as familiar and unfamiliar faces crowd my space, questioning my very existence.
"Deb, ease offââem; he's got no one left," a red-head with silver roots interjects from the doorway, her voice a soft melody amidst the unfolding drama. Her warm, round face holds a kind smile that momentarily brushes away the lingering tension. "I'm sure he's dealing with his own grief." A subtle wink is thrown my way, her gesture offering a glimpse of warmth in her demeanor. "Don't mind her harsh exterior; she's got a heart of gold," she consoles, gently patting my shoulder. "Hey there, sweetie, I'm glad to see you."
Turning her attention to Ron, she salutes playfully, "Maggie Roberts, reporting for duty," she announces with a laugh, her presence bringing a brief moment of levity. "Hi, Ronny boy, it's been an eternity." Maggie glides around the desk, enveloping Ron in a warm hug, a gesture filled with familiarity and history. Then, she shifts focus, addressing him, "You've not had the pleasure of meeting Cathy, have you?"
Maggie gestures towards the doorway, her gaze falling upon another woman entering the room. Cathy's presence radiates a certain sophisticationâthe long black and silver hair interrupted by a thick single silver streak near her face, her hair framing her tanned, winkled skin.
"Ah, Professor Spottedbear," Ron's excitement slightly betrays his composed demeanor, the hint of enthusiasm slightly out of place. âCome in, come in!â
"Please, just Cathy," her strong, husky voice cuts through the pleasantries. She dismisses his formalities without hesitation.
"Cathy, thank you for being here," Ron's attempt at maintaining composure fades slightly in the face of her presence. His demeanor, slightly awkward, betrays a hint of infatuation. "I heard you teach at BerkleyâI had a cousin who attended Berkley," he continues, attempting to establish common ground. "What's your subject?"
Debra's gaze lands on me, an inscrutable expression etched across her face. My clammy hands fidget, sliding back and forth, a nervous tic that betrays the unease I'm feeling. I subtly rub them against my jeans, a futile attempt to dry off the moisture that seems to persist.
"Native American Women's History," Cathy responds, her voice carrying a refined air that underscores her academic standing.
"Impressive," Ron comments, his tone filled with evident admiration. His lingering infatuation with Cathy, palpable in the way he reacts to her words, makes me want to tell him to go for it, to ask her out. Iâd get a kick out of seeing an old dude use some moves, but he shifts his focus to Maggie. "I apologize for not approaching you during the service."
"Don't worry about it; I was in another world," Maggie responds, her words tinged with a trace of sorrow as she recalls her own loss.
Ron's expression softens, a kindness in his eyes. "Yes, I noticed. I didn't want to intrude, considering the circumstances. Weâve all lost a dear friend."
Maggie settles herself beside Debra on the sofa, diverting the conversation, "This was quite unexpected." She glances towards Cathy, who opts for a chair near the desk, in close proximity to where I'm seated. "Why did Barb want us here for the reading of the will?"
It dawns on me, and my heart stops. She wouldnât do that to me? She wouldnât give them my inheritance. Or, would she?
Ashes at Woodstock is the story of a young man coming to terms with life in a way he never expected: behind the wheel of a VW bus named Ethel, with a group of retired hippies. Themes include reconciliation, grief, love, personal development, and of course, Woodstock. As someone with a lively interest in the 1969 music festival that drew over 460,000 people for a weekend of peace and music, I was excited to read this book! Overall, it was a decent and easy read, but I did find it to have a couple of notable issues.
When emotionally troubled Ryan Darcyâs grandmother, Barb, passes away, he inherits a large sum of money. To obtain the money, however, thereâs a catch. Barbâs three best friends, Maggie, Cathy, and Debra will hold onto it until they feel Ryan is responsible enough to manage it himself. The first test? Surviving a road trip with the ladies in Barbâs beloved Volkswagen bus to Bethel, NY, to the site of Woodstock and the unforgettable memories the four women made years ago. It is here that Barb has requested her loved ones spread her ashes. A fact known to all of them, Ryan has a lot of growing up to do, and as he, "the grandmas", and a couple of last-minute guests cover the miles together, he has no choice but to learn about family, love, and responsibility.
The storyline is attractive, and I applaud the author for continuing the conversation about Woodstock through the telling of this contemporary novel. A story of self-discovery set against a backdrop symbolic of cultural revolution is appropriate and interesting.
However, the flowery first-person language is difficult to navigate, resulting in a barrier between the reader and the story. It also diminishes the credibility of the story, as it contradicts how one might imagine an immature, hostile kid like Ryan would speak. Â His actual dialogue aligns better, but simplifying the elaborate narration overall in lieu of further developing the characters might have produced an opportunity for a more meaningful experience for the reader. The characters have valuable backstories that are worth knowing, yet none feel thoroughly addressed. In general, delivery falls a bit short.
This story holds a lot of promise, though, which could perhaps be resolved by a prequel that expands on the grandmas' friendship and their weekend at Woodstock, or a sequel that follows Ryan as he continues his own adventures post-road-trip. Anyone interested in Woodstock or the 1960âs might be entertained by Ashes at Woodstock, but if you already know the basics, donât expect to learn a whole bunch of new information. Just try to bring an open mind and enjoy the ride!