MORE WISHFUL THINKING THAN WOODSTOCK

I look forward to Memorial Day weekend the way a pizza delivery person would probably appreciate a fast car and an unlimited supply of green lights.

Oh what tips, what sumptuous rewards would await us then! Eventually we'd be good enough drivers to compete in the Indy 500. You see, just the thought of it is making me feel better about myself.

For just a few days let me break from rigid responsibilities and fly by the seat of my pants. A holiday weekend becomes just the ticket.

We all need a chance to recharge, to get back to the health, wealth and happiness program. Oh well, two out of three wouldn't be bad.

Come to think of it, Memorial Day has always been one of my favorite weekends. When I was going to school it meant a break from tests, term papers and thoughts of how long the unemployment lines would be after graduation.

In fact, it was Memorial Day weekend -- the year is not really important -- when one of us figured out that the solution to all of our problems would be to never graduate.

When we looked at how much tuition was going to be raised the next year and how much we already owed on our student loans, however, we vowed the next best thing would be to become teachers.

After all, didn't they get a vacation shortly after Memorial Day weekend? They could go three months before anyone could force them to wear a tie again.

We would sit in those hard chairs daydreaming about the promise of wild times while the teacher wasted all that chalk on information that just wasn't being received. Our minds went fishing for things these textbooks didn't have a chance to bait or hook.

One year we decided we were going to chuck it all and spend the entire holiday weekend in the Ozarks. It seems there was this marathon rock concert -- a poor man's Woodstock, if you will -- beckoning us. We were ready to let our hair down and our bare feet roam free. Oh to be uncivilized.

I think one of the bands at this concert was called Black Oak Arkansas. The lead singer's name was Jim Dandy. I told my friends that probably wasn't the name his parents put on his birth certificate, but it sounded good for our purposes.

We thought it was great at first. We'd live off the fat of the land, make friends with people who didn't even seem to speak our language and return refreshed and ready to get back into the mainstream of life. Our souls would be cleansed like never before.

Funny thing was, none of us thought to bring any food, tents, backpacks, sleeping bags or soap for our souls. Whose job was that anyway? Oh that's right, we were supposed to be letting our minds go on vacation. We had that down pat.

It didn't matter. We were going to live like the pioneers did. I mean, what did they do when a pack of thieves or wolves stole all of their food and guns and things? They made do with what they had, which was nothing.

I began to think maybe a lot of them didn't live very long. But that wasn't going to be our fate. We would ask our brothers and sisters to lend us a meal here and a few bucks there, just like Woodstock, man.

Someone suggested we just groove on the music for awhile and drink a few beers. Maybe someone would think to invite us into their tent and all would be beautiful.

After frying in a hot sun and listening to Jim sound anything but dandy, I decided I'd had enough. I would sell my spare tire if that's what it took to get something to eat and maybe have a place to sleep for the night.

So that's what I did. I came back with a bag full of junk food, a used sleeping bag and even some change left over.

My friends treated me like I was their new-found mystical leader who would escort them into the promised land. They even called me their mahatma from Missouri. "See," I said. "I promised you guys we'd have a great weekend and here it is."

On the way back home, my heart skipped a beat every time I thought one of the tires caught a piece of broken glass or a nail on the highway. Who needs these kind of weekends, anyway?

Interestingly enough, my grades improved the next semester. And shortly after that I realized maybe it wasn't such a good idea to try and become a teacher.

Bill Heitland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.