I was born in Taos, N.M., at home, in the presence of my dad, Daniel Francis Eggink, my brother David, my sister Liberty, my aunt Donna, her baby daughter, Abigail, and a doctor. My mom, Abigail Storm-Eggink, said I had a really pissed off look on my face. That's the beginning of my story.

My earliest memories are of California, we moved there shortly after my birth.

We lived all over. I can remember ever since I could talk (not everything of course, but alot), even what I dreamt. I remember distinctly how I thought, and it wasn't too much different then I do now. I think it's funny that people treat kids like they don't understand the things going on around them, but they do, they're just collecting information in the language they know so far, but they understand. I might have been more aware of things at that age, thanks to my older brother and sister, who pretty much made sure I didn't forget my childhood. Me and my sister would always run over and over memories of all the places we'd been and all the people we'd known, knowing that we would want to write a book one day or maybe make a movie. We'd like to think thoughts like that are our own, but they were because of my dad. He was the one who was always trying to tell us how important our lives were. We grew up with the feeling of being displaced royalty, like an ancient Russian family that had been robbed by some new imperial government. But we knew we were rich in a way that couldn't be taken away from us.

My dad has always stressed the fact that your most precious inheritance is that of who you are. The person who you are is some part of everyone who has ever lived, but made up in the special way that could only end in you, the end of some line. Who your parents are, when you were born, and where you were born.

I was born in the Sangre De Cristo (means Blood of Christ) Mountains on Starwater Creek, flowing from Blue Lake. My bones and cells were formed from the atoms of that water and the minerals of those mountains. Such a random event, one's birth, and yet it was always leading up to just that, you. I used to wonder if there could possibly be anyone else in history, or living, who was like me. I knew there was. Perhaps some person in Ireland, or Holland, or maybe a half- native, half-Colonial American, who looked just like me, I was sure. I felt ancient. I could tell I was something that had been happening for a long time. This was the role that the soul, I, got to play. Neither male nor female, but occupying the role of the female, and dealing with the consequences of that.

Life was always incredibly interesting to me, even though I had this constant nag trying to tell me that I should be miserable, but when you are miserable or afraid, you can't really experience life, and then what are you doing. I never wanted to get stuck where I couldn't experience life for what it really is. Therefore, my worst fears were of suddenly becoming insane, homosexual, cold-hearted, or just afraid (self-conscious, or paranoid): anything that would keep me from experiencing and understanding life. I wanted to be incredibly wise, and be able to heal people.

Traveling through life in the flesh, with the usual battles, and taking eighteen years to figure out that we were all going through the same thing, I knew that my family was in some special position in time and space, to do something about the problems in this world. I always knew that I had to somehow do better (don't we all) but, of course, that's hard and it always seemed that I was an incredibly bad tempered, selfish, and unchangeable sinner. It was a battle from my birth, so how could I ever hope to be more. I thought if I could just stop thinking about myself, life would be wonderful. Like I said, it took eighteen years to even understand what that meant.

After we left California, when I was three, we traveled accross the country for about a year and a half. My mom sang in honkeytonks to support us and we had all sorts of incredible experiences and miracles. I turned six in New York City. My big brother, David, an incredible musician, left shortly thereafter, on his sixteenth birthday, to live life his way. Our car had broken down, and we were living on Grove Street in Greenwich Village, in the apartment of the son of Alice LaPrell. She lived downstairs. She was definitely what you would call eccentric and a couple of times had Liberty and I over for tea and cookies, a scene right out of a fairy tale, sitting in her garden, a world apart from Manhattan. There was one time when she brought us to see this man named Father Fly, who was the eighty-year-old priest of a homosexual church in the neighborhood. That was a strange experience, he was dying and for some reason she wanted us to meet him before he was gone. He had cancer in his throat and had to talk through a hole in his esophagus.

There was a fair on Grove Street every Spring, and we decided to sell some homemade greeting cards for twenty-five cents a piece. Everyone liked them, so, we decided to keep selling them around the village. That helped to support our family.

One night, in the summer of '82, while we were selling our cards outside of Sloane's Grocery Store, on West 4th St., my parents met a group of musicians who called themselves "The Magic Mouse Gang". They invited us to come with them to their community, the Renaissance Farm in Massachusettes, to live. Well, that wasn't quite our idea of living, all of a sudden having a bunch of people who wanted to tell us how to live. We arrived in the Magic Mouse camper, so we left hitch-hiking.

While we were standing on the side of the road my mom and dad wrote a song called, "I've Had Enough Of Them Babylon Ways." Our family of eight, hitchiked to Maine. In Bar Harbor we were told about a farm where there was seasonal blueberry raking. Rakers came and camped and had a good time. When blueberry season ended we decided to go. We left there pretty much for the same reason we ever left anywhere, people, who couldn't get their own life right, trying to tell us how to live.

Before we left New York, my mom had met a man named Paul Winley while she was singing in a subway station. A copyright attorney that my parents had been working with helped put together a record contract for my mom. After it was agreed to a recording was made of two of our songs. So, after leaving Maine, we hitch-hiked back to New York City, Harlem, to promote the record. Things fell through and we never even saw the record. Once again, we were trapped in New York City.

We met some Vietnam vets in Washington Square Park, who lived in an abandoned warehouse. They invited us to their humble abode. We stayed their until the authorities got wind of it. Rather then giving us money to get out of town, they told us we had to go on welfare and stay in a welfare hotel. We went to the welfare office and were given the rent for a room in the Martinique Hotel. When my mom and dad saw the roach and rodent infested apartment, they took the $1,500 rent money (the first half of the monthly $3,000) and went back to the warehouse. The authorities returned and told us that they would take us kids away if we didn't go back to the hotel.

We spent two and a half years in the Martinique, and turned things upside down. We helped CBS make a documentary on the families living there and exposed a mob-run chain of hotels that were making millions off of homeless families, even ones that they evicted and were still collecting for. Mothers being forced into prostitution, kids getting raped in the hallways, it was a pretty harsh reality.

We passed through it all unscathed. We walked the streets in an impenetrable unit.

My brother, David came back in '83 at age 18.

In 1984 we met Ford Elam Ohne in Washington Square Park. He was covered in lice. We brought him home to live with us at the welfare hotel and my mom deloused him. The people who worked at the hotel didn't know what to think about it. A couple of times he was found wondering around the hotel lobby in the middle of the night in just his underwear. But, my parents were real activists in the hotel and knew every lawyer in NYC who was helping the homeless, so, the hotel owners didn't really mess with us the way they did other people. But, that was why my parents were trying to change things for those who were unable to help themselves.

Anyway, my dad is a geneologist and had studied his family history. One day, when my dad was asking Ford about his background it turned out that Ford was a distant cousin. We found out that he had family, a father and a half-sister, down in Florida. When we sent word to them that Ford was homeless and needed real attention, we got word back from his half-sister that they thought Ford was dead. It turned out his father had died leaving him a sizeable inheritance of $75,000. He was an alcoholic epileptic and incapable of handling his assets so, we continued to take care of him and my parents were given power of attorney to help handle his finances, while trying to get him a place to live. But he'd get drunk and insult the potential landlord, or somebody, and made it impossible for my parents to help him. He was a hard man to get to help himself, too. He seemed to be bent on self-destruction. He had had a hard life. Alcohol just ruined him. According to him, though, he was at one time, one of James Dean's lovers.

A year in New York City with no credit, therefore unable to rent an apartment, and the funds dwindling on hotel bills and expenses as we tried to get something together for the eight of us, like starting an independant business. One thing we did was print thousands of our card designs. My mom had been collecting our best designs and putting them in a portfolio. So, we had 20 designs printed up and tried to market them before our funds ran out. But the card business was not as easy as we thought. We finally ran out of money and, in '86, moved into a squat on 13th street on the Lower East Side. The other people in the building were all uniquely interesting. They had picked us as a family to make a balance in the building. This squat actually ended up to be one of the few that really succeeded.

However, we were forced to attend public school, for the first time, at PS 19.

The next year Liberty attended 7th grade at Professional Children's School, at her grandmother's expense. (Liberty was my half-sister. Her mother had died of brain cancer when she was 2. So, this was her mother's mother).

In the fall of '88 we were staying on 14th Street, while my brother David was living at the squat. Someone called the authorities and told them that we were living there without our parents, which was obviously a lie, and one Friday, while mom and dad were both working, the police came and took us away. We got to experience first hand the ring of blackmarket adoptions being conducted by the Child Welfare Authorities. They took us on a Friday so that my parents couldn't go into court until Monday. They thought we were just another one of the poor white families in New York, whose blonde children could bring in an easy profit. Two of my brothers were adopted and taken over state lines (which was unlawful) before the weekend was over. The authorities had no idea my parents were para-legals. Mom and Dad worked all weekend to prepare legal papers on Monday, in case we weren't given back. We weren't. They filed a case in Federal Court and also filed against the Child Welfare office in their own Family Court, (something most people don't even know how to do), demanding they give us back. We were returned within five days, but a case that could have won us millions of dollars, and cost NYC their foster care license, if we'd had the time or money to fight it, was left behind.

My dad had to miss work and therefore lost his job, so we all moved back into the squat.

The winter of '88 we appeared on an episode of the Geraldo Show which had to do with the homeless, and by April we had been offered a house to live in in West Virginia.

Dad, Thyl, Dunn, Dirk, and I left Abigail, Liberty, and Finn behind in New York until Liberty was finished with the school year. They joined us in July.

In July we got word from our Aunt Susan that a friend of hers, Bev, who lived in Virginia, wanted to let us stay in her house. All her children were grown, she and her husband were truckers, and were rarely home.

We left for Virginia and, in August, Dad had to go to New York City to get my brother, David, out of some mess he'd gotten into with the law. Then he and David found work as messengers.

The house in Virginia was beautiful. Bev's son and his wife lived up the road and gave us rides to town. Once a month we would go to town and buy a month's supply of food. Liberty and I would bake all kinds of pies and cookies. We were living our homemaker's dream, but with the constant nag that it was all someone else's and it all had to be taken extra good care of.

Well, that changed when Bev became ill and had to return home to stay awhile. There were a lot of us in a small place and it was testy. The Bible says, "Leave before thy neighbor hateth thee". So, one day, when my dad called from New York City we told him Bev needed her house back.

Finally, when my dad returned, we left.

When my dad was in New York City, my brother David had given him his little red Plymouth Horizon hatchback, which we kids called "The Atomic Fireball". (Also, whenever my dad stopped for gas he would buy all of us atomic fireballs. All eight of us traveled around Virginia for the winter in this little hatchback, studying my mother's family history. One day, while looking through my mom's family records, Dad found out about a gold mine which was owned by my mother's ancestor's on her mother's side. My dad got the deed, called my grandmother, and gave her the news of the "lost family mine" and we went and surveyed the property.

So, we own all of the mineral rights on the 102 acre piece of property, with water rights, and can mine it any time God finds it appropriate.

We went to graveyards, libraries, and historic sites all over Virginia. For a short time, in the winter, we stayed in the Salvation Army Shelter in Richmond (my mom wrote a song called "The Vision").

Then, one day we met Shirley Wampler, who was volunteering at a local free kitchen, and she invited us to come and live in her five bedroom house with herself, her husband Gaelen, and her daughter Margaret. We stayed there for a few months.

My dad found a job, but we were not able to find other housing. Again, it was a touchy situation.

Then, one day we got a call from a man who introduced himself as a brother in the Lord who had heard about our efforts to help the homeless in a newspaper article he'd read and he wanted to help us. So, he invited us to come his way. That was our graceful exit out of that situation. Also, dad had hurt his back pretty bad at work and that made it obvious it was time to go. We left and went to the Star Gables Motel in Harrisburg, Virginia. (Virginians don't understand why anyone would abbreviate the word Virginia, as in Va.).

From the motel we came and went, while working on our CDC crusade. We returned to New York City because the Physicians for Social Responsibility had invited my mother to speak at a conference for the homeless.

On the way we stopped by Washington, D.C., to meet with Mitch Schneider, who my parents had met, along with Martin Sheen, when we were backstage at the Geraldo show. But, during the visit in D.C., they found out there were too many "private agendas" to get any help with our CDC plan. We headed on to New York.

While my mother was at the conference in New York we stayed with some friends in New Jersey. Then, we drove into the city for three days. After our car being broken into twice and having three minor car accidents we headed back over the bridge, holding our breath and praying we didn't break down. We could just imagine once again being trapped in New York City. But God is merciful. We hit the highway.

When passing a sign that said WOODSTOCK, we remembered a friend, Karen Dalton, who had stayed with us in the Martinique for a little while. We had heard that she was there dying of AIDS and my parents had always been told that they looked like they belonged in Woodstock. So, that was the next place God wanted us to go.

We asked what was so special about Woodstock? They said the largest concert that had ever been was held there. What that had to do with us I had no idea, and neither did they, I just wanted to get back to Virginia.

We took the exit and headed to Woodstock.

When we got to town the first impression was the fact that the police were wearing ranger hats. What was this place? There were tourists everywhere.

It was April and the weather was beautiful.

We met Luke Klementis and he told us that we might want to meet DAY at the Cut 'n' Dry barbershop where they were having a drum circle. We headed back downtown and met DAY and a whole bunch of other Woodstockers. Day accepted mom and dad in Jesus' name, which was rare.

Day had a friend, Steve Romine, who had a bus parked in the woods outside of town and he let us stay there for a few months.

It was the rainy season and us kids made the best of it, wading through all the flooded streams, exploring the woods and planning how we would defend ourselves if we were attacked by bears. Mom and dad were always in town and we would wait patiently for the hum of their engine coming up the driveway. We had learned patience in Virginia waiting hours in the car for mom and dad to find some record or other in some archive or other, so we were used to it.

Steve Romine brought us to the Mill Stream which ran along the side of town, where all the local kids swam.

In June, we moved into a house that Luke Klementis had inherited from Jim Matteson, his treasure hunting partner, who had passed away. (It was an amazing story. Matteson died in Luke's camper, down in Kentucky, or somethin' and he drove the body back to Woodstock, NY. After he dropped off the body and told the coroner what happened, Luke was arrested for carrying a dead body across state lines. Of course, Luke was a homeboy, and he didn't really do anything a loving friend wouldn't do. So, the charges were dropped). He gave us the house rent-free so we could get our situation together. He also gave dad a professional camera to use for the summer. Dad spent the summer photographing everyone and everything and us kids spent the summer at the Millstream and the basketball courts.

We were the only kids from one family who stuck together. Mom and Dad had always taught us to know, at all times, where all of us were at any given moment. And it's still that way.

Every full moon the locals went up Meads Mountain to Magic Meadow where they would light a fire and drum until the early morning.

DAY told us they were planning a three day eclipse gathering in the meadow in August. The dates of the eclipse fell on the anniversary dates of the original Woodstock Festival, which we found out was held sixty miles away in Bethel. We offered to jump in and help. Mom and dad helped out with our legal position when the town tried to stop us, and stayed for two weeks afterwards as the cleanup committee, leaving Liberty, Thyl, and me in town alone. We had a great time.

In September Liberty went to Minnesota for the winter to go to school and take care of her grandmother. David wondered in off the road shortly after she left, and stuck around the whole year.

In November, Luke lost the house to his wife and we moved to 145 Tinker St. My little brothers started school at Woodstock Elementary and I entered Onteora Highschool.

The kids in Woodstock are somehow blessed. Our school had students from five different towns, and the Woodstock kids were always somehow the hierarchy. I never felt more at home in any town. Art and music thrived in my life more than ever. I had some great teachers in school, and the best friends I had ever met.

Spring of '90 Liberty came back and David went with my dad and DAY to the Minnesota National Rainbow Gathering. My dad came back. David stayed.

In July, we all went to the Ithaca Regional Rainbow Gathering. It was pretty interesting but it seemed to me like everyone had incredible egos and there were a few perverts here and there, but there were alot of really cool people to keep it balanced.

Dad and my brothers went straight from Ithaca to Bethel a month early to get ready for the August Woodstock Anniversary Reunion. Liberty, Mom, Finn and I went back home and joined them at the beginning of August.

People began to arrive and free kitchens and acoustic guitars were already strumming in the woods and in the grass.

As the weeks passed the stage grew with a volunteer crew, water trucks and porto potties were donated, and spirits were elevated.

The original three days arrived, along with thousands of cars, people, tents, teepees and painted buses. Those of us who had been there for weeks, sat back and, from our camps on the hill, watched the Woodstock reunion grow into a family tree with birds of every kind lodging in it's branches and eating the fill of it's fruits.

I met people of all ages and all walks of life, all walking a road that led to Woodstock, looking for the same three things: Peace, Love, and someone to share it with, in a song, in a word, in food, in toilet paper.

We got to be friends with Gina Funk and Ishtar, who were from Woodstock but we finally got to hang out. I had the best summer of my life.

The days were filled with sun, swimming, and watching. The nights were filled with stars, mist, and listening. There were little acoustic and electric stages set up here and there by VW buses where bands got together and jammed.

Then someone brought in a real stage. I was standing in the field the night it arrived and the semitruck came speeding down the hill at about 40 mph and almost hit me. It would have been pretty funny to be hit by the stage at Woodstock. A whole bunch of us were almost hit. In fact, it almost ran over one of the smaller stages where a woman was doing a great rendition of "Bobby McGee".  Continue to Part II

Written by Jewel Eggink

Edited by Abigail Storm

Back to Woodstock Nation Home Page
 

Last updated 1 March 1997
Copyright 1997 All rights reserved