The Art of Lying: The Story of Legend Valley

I’ve lied to my mom on a few occasions. I’m sure you’ve probably lied to your mom too. Am I right? Did she find out? My mom always found out. Sometimes she found out about a lie because my friends’ moms discovered a lie and told her. Most times though, I gave myself away. You see, I’m not a good liar. I’m always found out. Thank goodness people in general rarely ask other people whether or not they’re lying, even if they suspect that they are. Don’t ask me if I’m lying, because, if I am, I’m likely to smirk and give myself away. Such is the case in this story about the time I lied about Legend Valley.

They say that every good lie has an element of truth in it. That’s why, when we were sixteen, my girlfriends and I all told our moms that we were spending the night at Theresa’s house so we could get an early start the next morning, driving to Theresa’s grandmother’s farm in New Lexington, Ohio. Theresa did have a grandmother with a farm in New Lexington, it’s just that that is not where we were headed on Sunday, July 15, 1979.

Instead, we were headed to Legend Valley, a large outdoor concert venue in Thornville, Ohio, not too far from New Lexington. It would be the first outdoor concert any of us had ever been to. I think the four of us had all gone to see Peter Frampton the year before, but that was an indoor concert that my mom knew about. My mom would never have let me go to Legend Valley, and that’s precisely why I didn’t ask her. And what would be more wholesome for a teenage girl to do on a Sunday afternoon than visiting a friend’s grandmother’s farm? She couldn’t say no to that.

Theresa would be driving us in one of her family’s sedans. Theresa was the oldest of all of us and had had her driver’s license at least one month longer the rest of us. Not only was she the most experienced driver, she was also the only one of us with access to a vehicle to drive.

We were psyched. There were four of us: Theresa, Jill, Molly and me. We each arrived at Theresa’s house around dinner time that Saturday. Our first order of business, of course, was to buy beer to take to the concert the next day. We were all sixteen years old, not old enough to even buy 3.2 beer in Ohio. Jill assured us that her older brother (nameless to protect the guilty), would buy beer for us. And he did. Jill showed up at Theresa’s with a warm twelve-pack wrapped up in her sleeping bag.

We needed to get the beer super cold for the next day. We knew you couldn’t take glass into Legend Valley, but we didn’t know for sure about cans. To be on the safe side, I had borrowed two two-gallon Thermoses from my house. We would empty the beer into them. Problem solved, right?

They call sophomores “wise fools” and that couldn’t be more accurate in describing us. Instead of cooling the cans of beer in the refrigerator overnight, we decided it would save time to empty all the warm cans of beer into the Thermoses and then put the Thermoses in the refrigerator overnight. Fools indeed! We were a bunch of idiots.

The next morning, we arose early, eager to begin our road trip. The drive would take us about forty-five minutes, and we wanted to get there early. We anticipated a crowd and we wanted to be able to secure a decent-sized space on the ground to lay our blanket. Our plan, I guess, was to sit Indian-style for the entire concert, which included five bands. We weren’t thinking much about comfort, aching backs or sore necks.

In fact, we weren’t thinking about the heat or sun exposure either. The high that day was 89 degrees, but I remember it feeling more like 100. Not a cloud in the sky and not a drop of sunscreen on our skin. Back then, of course, we called it suntan lotion, meant to attract the sun, not repel it.

The three passengers kept giggling on the drive, to the annoyance of our driver. Theresa was a very cautious driver, which was good. No one wants to be stopped by a cop when they’re transporting two Thermoses full of beer. We were laughing because millions of cars were passing us! And they were passing us pretty quickly and probably weren’t going faster than 60 miles per hour themselves. Our laughing became stifled giggles as Theresa became more and more irate. Five cars…six cars…twelve cars…twenty…

We finally arrived and parked in a field with about a thousand of other cars. I guess we weren’t that early. The gates had not yet opened for ticket holders to enter the concert grounds, so we had to stand in a long line for at least an hour. Boy, was it hot!

Thankfully, we were all dressed in shorts. Jill and I had on our matching white cutoff overalls and were wearing tube tops underneath. Neither one of us required a bra. Back then, my friends and I referred to any top worn either without a bra (because the straps would show) or with one of those tube bras (you don’t see anymore), as a “hussy top.” So, Jill and I were wearing hussy tops that day. To be fair, though, the bib from our shorts covered a great deal of our exposed flesh.

Our young, innocent eyes were exposed to some wild things that day. In line, the smell of marijuana permeated the air. Ahead of us, guys smoked joints openly. Weren’t they afraid of being arrested? Jill actually saw some guy snorting cocaine from a square of mirror. She didn’t know what she was seeing. Later on, in the concert grounds, Jill even witnessed a couple having sex. Boy! The things your parents never tell you!

The lineup for the concert included The Cars, Cheap Trick, Eddie Money, Roadmaster, and Todd Rundgren’s Utopia. None of us knew Roadmaster and I wasn’t familiar with Todd Rundgren.

Of course, our beer was warm when we got there; I don’t think it was ever cold. I wasn’t a huge fan of beer at the time (which is why twelve beers for four girls was sufficient) and the thought of warm beer was disgusting to me. Besides our two Thermoses, we had also brought a cooler full of ice. I’m not exactly sure why we brought a cooler. It hadn’t occurred to us to bring any water or soft drinks as an alternative to the beer.

Though none of us wanted our warm, Thermos beer, we were nervous about buying beer at the concession stand. We were afraid of being carded. Eventually, one of us summoned up the courage to buy a beer at the stand and then others followed. I have to tell you though, after about an hour sitting in the sun, I was ordering lemonades.

Molly made me laugh that day. When she was using the port-a-john, all of her change fell out of her pockets. And man! She was carrying a lot of coins! I was in line after her, about eight feet away, and I heard all those little buggers rolling and spinning on the plastic floor. She did a good job in shepherding all those coins back into her pockets because I used the port-a-john after her and there was nary a coin to be found. That day, Molly also impressed me with a special skill she has, but I won’t get into that here.

By the time Roadmaster was up on stage, I had had enough. I was so, so hot. Earlier that day we had let a bunch of guys sitting behind us have most of the ice in our cooler. Later on, we regretted being so kind. It would have felt mighty nice splashing some of that ice and water on our faces.

I was melting. I finally asked the guys sitting to the right of us if I could dunk my sweatshirt jacket (not sure why I had a sweatshirt jacket) into the trash can they had. Their trash can held a keg of beer and a bunch of ice. (And we were afraid of bringing cans of beer!) They said yes and I plunged my navy-blue hoodie into the freezing depths of that trash can, brought it back up, crossed to our blanket, laid down on my back, and draped the ice-cold hoodie over my face. Relief.

But it was short lived. I wasn’t enjoying the music of Roadmaster and I was still so hot. Todd Rundgren’s Utopia was the only act left and I knew I couldn’t sit in the blazing sun through another group after Roadmaster left the stage. I was ready to leave.

Todd Rundgren’s Utopia, though, was the band Theresa had really come to see. She wasn’t going to be leaving until they left the stage. Molly agreed to leave with me. I don’t know what we had in mind. I don’t think we had the keys to Theresa’s car and even if we did, we wouldn’t have felt comfortable sitting in her car with the air conditioning blowing. So, we walked around the parking field. At one point, I remember we found a faucet. We turned it on and drenched ourselves with the cold water.

Molly and I could hear the music from the concert in the parking lot. It was then, finally, that I recognized some of songs that Todd Rundgen’s Utopia played.

About an hour later we finally met up with Theresa and Jill. All of us just wanted to go home. To our nice, air-conditioned houses. To seats that had backs to them, something to lean against.

It was about six o’clock when Theresa dropped me off at my house. My plan was to go in the back door, go straight to the kitchen sink, and scrub out any evidence of beer being in the two Thermoses. When I came inside, my mom and brother Jeff were sitting on the couch watching the evening news. As I’m scrubbing away, my mom asks me how the visit to the farm was. I answered, “Fine.” Nothing really to add. She may have asked me what we had done at the farm; if she did, I don’t remember how I answered her. (This is how one lie turns into multiple lies.)

Done scrubbing, I bring the Thermoses over to the kitchen table to dry them. Then, on the news, a video appears of the concert at Legend Valley. The reporter is mumbling something I’m not hearing because I’m transfixed by the video showing hundreds of drunken young people, half naked, some dancing, some lying around, some smoking, some drinking, and all of them sweating to the music playing in the background. Oh, dear. It probably looks to my mom how Woodstock might have looked to her mom.

“Mom,” Jeff says, “I bet Jill went to that concert.” What a little shit! I can’t believe what a jerk he is! I’m going to kill him!

“Jill, did you?” My mom asks.

Crap. I’m looking hard at the Thermos I’m drying, afraid to look up from my task.

“Jill,” my mom repeats, “Did you?”

Oh, no! I feel myself smirking! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!

I lift my head to look at my mom, but I don’t say anything. She knows. I can’t say no with a smirk on my face.

I nod.

“Jill Marie! You were there?!” She points to the television.

I want to tell her that it wasn’t as bad as the news makes it look, but that would be another lie. The truth is, the news video is pretty accurate.  

“And you were dressed like that?” She exclaims, pointing now at what I think is my super cute outfit. You remember, my cut off overalls along with my tube top. Is my mother suggesting that I’m dressed like some sort of slut? How dare she! My own mother!

And, with that, for the first time ever, I was grounded.

The lessons I learned from this experience are multiple.  1. Do not put warm beer in a Thermos thinking it will get cold; 2. Do not return from a made-up trip during the evening news; 3. Do not return from a made-up trip if there’s a chance your brother is at home to suggest things to your mom; 4. Do not scrub out evidence of your lie as soon as you return from your made up trip. Oh, right. And, 5. Do not lie to your mom.