When I first met Eddie Adams: by Peter Adams
It was January and late in the day when I arrived at Eddie Adams’s century-old farmhouse in upstate New York. Outside my footsteps were muffled by the snow as I walked by a Harley Davidson, now transformed into a white-quilted sculpture. Everywhere icicles and more snow.
I knocked on the kitchen door, “You must be Peter,” a young lass smiled. A table set for 20 people stretched down the kitchen, while a glorious aroma of herbed spaghetti sauce wafted from a huge pot being lovingly stirred on the stove. Somewhere a piano was being tuned. “Eddie’s through there!” she said, just as he walked around the corner wearing his trademark Trilby hat. “He never takes that off...” before adding, “even in bed!”
Eddie Adams was accompanied by two Rip Van Winkle characters with beards down to their nuts.
“These two guys came up for Woodstock1 Festival, thirty years ago,” explained Eddie, “and never left. They are the unofficial caretakers of the Woodstock memorabilia museum.”
The Rip Van Winkles grunted, nodded and left.
“Now what would you like to know... I’m not talking about that photograph.”