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United Campus Ministry papers, 1970-1972

1971-05-03 Press Citizen Article 'Views of the Peacefest -From 5 Who Weren't There'

[[handwriting in upper left corner]]
PRESS
CITIZEN
5-3-71


Views of the Peacefest
- From 5 Who Weren't There

EDITOR'S NOTE -- There were more than 10,000 people at Saturday's "peacefest" at the Macbride Field Campus. But many others were affected by the event in one way or another. This is an account of five persons who did not attend.
_________
By THOMAS C. WALSH
Of the Press-Citizen

   Five days a week, Rick Stater of 815 East Bowery Street drives a bus route which takes University of Iowa student teachers to their assignments in Washington, Iowa. Saturday afternoon he stood on a dusty gravel road, staring into a sick engine and waving the May Day rock festival traffic around his broken - down bus-turned-road-block.
   "It's the battery and a bad clutch," he said disgustedly. "I was on my third load and started to have trouble. I got a push start, but, when I tried to turn around, the idle was too low and it died. And when these buses die, they don't start again."

   Stater was one of 10 Iowa City Coach Co. drivers who worked the morning shuttle shift. From 8 a.m. on, two buses ran every half hour, giving free rides between the Center East Catholic student center on East Jefferson Street and the field campus gate near Solon. By noon, four cycles had been completed, and, with his and another bus besieged by terminal trouble, Stater estimated that 1,400 persons had traveled to the site on the buses.
   "I started about nine, and every one of the seats on my bus have been filled up," he said. "The first two buses were about half-full because they left early, and the cold (39 degrees) kept most people home in bed then. By 9:30, all the buses were running full capacity."

   Stater said he volunteered to work during the rock festival because of the lure of overtime pay. If he were not driving his bus -- or waiting for a tow truck to relieve him of it -- he said he'd no doubt join the 10,000 persons who were listening to music and frolicking in the grass on the inside.
   He waved a tractor around the bus, and stared at the dust cloud which consumed it.
   "I sure do wish that tractor would have stopped. He probably could have pulled me out of here."

   Since 1953, Paul Meyer has rented a small gray farmhouse which overlooks Lake Macbride near Solon. Normally, the area is quiet and remote, but the house and its two-acre lot back up to the land which Saturday was "consumed" by the May Day festival.
   "I heard on the radio that there was going to be some sort of gathering here," he said. "When I was in town at 12:30, they were saying that there were 4,000 people here already. They sure are coming steady now," he said, reviewing the parade of people from his white-railed front porch.

   The stretch of highway which runs in front of Meyer's farm was closed during the festival by the Iowa Highway Patrol, forcing the thousands who comprised the audience to park their cars behind roadblocks and hike the remaining distance -- almost three miles.
   "There's plenty of parking space in there," Meyer said, referring to the Lake Macbride field campus. "I don't know why they don't let these kids drive right in and park there. I see these little girls being pushed along the highway in strollers. That's a long way for the little ones to walk."
   Meyer said the festival participants had caused him no pain and he seemed deaf to the distant but very audible sound of rock music and anti-war rhetoric wich permeated the surrounding woods.

   Dick's Iowa Service is a small gas station at the corner of East Fifth and College Streets in Solon, an intersection which Saturday was jammed with festival traffic. Sales, perhaps, went up, but the station attendants' morales were suffering from prolonged fatigue.
   "They've been coming in since early this morning, mostly asking directions," Jim Krob, Dick's son, said while emptying a can of 30 weight detergent into a yellow Chevelle. "Mostly a lot of young kids who know there are people and a party somewhere but don't really know what it is or where it is. I've only seen one out-of-state license plate all day."
   Dick Krob, a large overalled man who owns the station, pointed at a red-headed freak wearing a red T-shirt emblazoned with a green Marijuana leaf.
   "Now, see? That's what I mean," he said. "An awful lot of air. These motorcycle kids give you trouble too. It's been peaceful going in, but that's no guarantee that it'll be the same when they come out. The Des Moines Register said today this side would be closed, but there are an awful lot of people coming through."

   Jim, 25, expressed no desire to leave the gas pumps behind and participate int he festival.
   "Some guy just drove by here on a mini-bike and said to forget it. He said it was awful. I know a lot of people want to see what's out there, but I don't," he said. "I'm afraid I don't get that excited about these things. I don't think they know what good peace is -- peace on earth or anywhere. I don't think some of them know much of anything."

   Mort Koser's grocery and gas station in North Liberty did a bang-up business during the festival, but he missed the soothing ring of the cash register bell because of a vacation to California.
   "He picked the right time to go," his sister-in-law, Mrs. Clifford Koser, said. "I'd be afraid to estimate how many people have been in here today. I don't think I can count that high, but we'll be all right if the day doesn't last too long."
   Sales were up 10 times over the normal volume, she said, but the work involved in checking and bagging all the items didn't bother her. Only the motorcycles did.

   "There's three motorcycles out there now," she told the other checker. "What do you want to do? Should we lock up or what?"
   Although she admitted receiving no indication from police officials that trouble with motorcyclists would be probable, Mrs. Koser said she was under strict orders to close the store "as soon as there are too many motorcycles and they surround us."
   The three motorcycles disappeared toward the festival, and the woman turned away from the window to sell a dozen eggs.

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[[handwriting in upper left corner]] PRESS CITIZEN 5-3-71 Views of the Peacefest - From 5 Who Weren't There EDITOR'S NOTE -- There were more than 10,000 people at Saturday's "peacefest" at the Macbride Field Campus. But many others were affected by the event in one way or another. This is an account of five persons who did not attend. _________ By THOMAS C. WALSH Of the Press-Citizen Five days a week, Rick Stater of 815 East Bowery Street drives a bus route which takes University of Iowa student teachers to their assignments in Washington, Iowa. Saturday afternoon he stood on a dusty gravel road, staring into a sick engine and waving the May Day rock festival traffic around his broken - down bus-turned-road-block. "It's the battery and a bad clutch," he said disgustedly. "I was on my third load and started to have trouble. I got a push start, but, when I tried to turn around, the idle was too low and it died. And when these buses die, they don't start again." Stater was one of 10 Iowa City Coach Co. drivers who worked the morning shuttle shift. From 8 a.m. on, two buses ran every half hour, giving free rides between the Center East Catholic student center on East Jefferson Street and the field campus gate near Solon. By noon, four cycles had been completed, and, with his and another bus besieged by terminal trouble, Stater estimated that 1,400 persons had traveled to the site on the buses. "I started about nine, and every one of the seats on my bus have been filled up," he said. "The first two buses were about half-full because they left early, and the cold (39 degrees) kept most people home in bed then. By 9:30, all the buses were running full capacity." Stater said he volunteered to work during the rock festival because of the lure of overtime pay. If he were not driving his bus -- or waiting for a tow truck to relieve him of it -- he said he'd no doubt join the 10,000 persons who were listening to music and frolicking in the grass on the inside. He waved a tractor around the bus, and stared at the dust cloud which consumed it. "I sure do wish that tractor would have stopped. He probably could have pulled me out of here." Since 1953, Paul Meyer has rented a small gray farmhouse which overlooks Lake Macbride near Solon. Normally, the area is quiet and remote, but the house and its two-acre lot back up to the land which Saturday was "consumed" by the May Day festival. "I heard on the radio that there was going to be some sort of gathering here," he said. "When I was in town at 12:30, they were saying that there were 4,000 people here already. They sure are coming steady now," he said, reviewing the parade of people from his white-railed front porch. The stretch of highway which runs in front of Meyer's farm was closed during the festival by the Iowa Highway Patrol, forcing the thousands who comprised the audience to park their cars behind roadblocks and hike the remaining distance -- almost three miles. "There's plenty of parking space in there," Meyer said, referring to the Lake Macbride field campus. "I don't know why they don't let these kids drive right in and park there. I see these little girls being pushed along the highway in strollers. That's a long way for the little ones to walk." Meyer said the festival participants had caused him no pain and he seemed deaf to the distant but very audible sound of rock music and anti-war rhetoric wich permeated the surrounding woods. Dick's Iowa Service is a small gas station at the corner of East Fifth and College Streets in Solon, an intersection which Saturday was jammed with festival traffic. Sales, perhaps, went up, but the station attendants' morales were suffering from prolonged fatigue. "They've been coming in since early this morning, mostly asking directions," Jim Krob, Dick's son, said while emptying a can of 30 weight detergent into a yellow Chevelle. "Mostly a lot of young kids who know there are people and a party somewhere but don't really know what it is or where it is. I've only seen one out-of-state license plate all day." Dick Krob, a large overalled man who owns the station, pointed at a red-headed freak wearing a red T-shirt emblazoned with a green Marijuana leaf. "Now, see? That's what I mean," he said. "An awful lot of air. These motorcycle kids give you trouble too. It's been peaceful going in, but that's no guarantee that it'll be the same when they come out. The Des Moines Register said today this side would be closed, but there are an awful lot of people coming through." Jim, 25, expressed no desire to leave the gas pumps behind and participate int he festival. "Some guy just drove by here on a mini-bike and said to forget it. He said it was awful. I know a lot of people want to see what's out there, but I don't," he said. "I'm afraid I don't get that excited about these things. I don't think they know what good peace is -- peace on earth or anywhere. I don't think some of them know much of anything." Mort Koser's grocery and gas station in North Liberty did a bang-up business during the festival, but he missed the soothing ring of the cash register bell because of a vacation to California. "He picked the right time to go," his sister-in-law, Mrs. Clifford Koser, said. "I'd be afraid to estimate how many people have been in here today. I don't think I can count that high, but we'll be all right if the day doesn't last too long." Sales were up 10 times over the normal volume, she said, but the work involved in checking and bagging all the items didn't bother her. Only the motorcycles did. "There's three motorcycles out there now," she told the other checker. "What do you want to do? Should we lock up or what?" Although she admitted receiving no indication from police officials that trouble with motorcyclists would be probable, Mrs. Koser said she was under strict orders to close the store "as soon as there are too many motorcycles and they surround us." The three motorcycles disappeared toward the festival, and the woman turned away from the window to sell a dozen eggs.