She lived in a makeshift cabin near Woodstock, New York in a remote and woodsy setting. With her father Kendall, whose red, untrimmed beard reached his waist, and Luke, a man who said he was “on the lam” from the law, they foraged dumpsters.
Silky’s mother lived not far away in a commune of hippies left over from the infamous Woodstock Festival. From time to time, she visited her young daughter.
Phyllis and I spent the day with Silky, a friendly and precious child. Kendall and Luke busied themselves gathering wood for a huge bonfire they were going to ignite at sunset. It was a monthly event, they explained, and would draw a crowd of like-minded folks.
We left with the excuse that we were expected to telephone home at 6:00 p.m. Kendall and Luke let us go on the condition we would return for the bonfire. At that point, Phyllis and I were concerned about our safety and did not return.
We have thought of Silky ever since, hoping she likewise would someday have a chance to escape. She deserved better than the rough circumstances of her childhood.
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