Yes the math doesn't work out, which I knew, but I like to call them hippies now and then. Even though I know exactly where they were in August of that year and it certainly wasn't in Woodstock.
The tale of my birth and first year is quit a tale or at least it would have been in a small town in 69. Now, it would not even raise an eyebrow. Back then it had all the big ticket items. Protestant girl & a Catholic boy. Pregnancy out of wedlock. Mother is sent away to hide the family's shame. The breakup from the stress of it all. The secret birth. The signing then tearing up of adoption papers. The couple reuniting and getting married....
Most bizarre is My Mom's story of her being left alone the very day of my birth to sign the adoption papers. She signs then cries herself to sleep. She has a dream where the name "Andrew" appears to her on what she describes as "a bright white towel blowing in the wind". She then awakes and tears up the papers and convinces them to change the birth papers where I was originally named Lawrence.
To this day, she thinks I am destined for greatness. So far, not so much. I like to tell her that the only way my name will ever reappear on a white towel is if I start a hotel chain.
In any case, I couldn't have had better parents so it all worked out. Except for my lifelong phobia of white towels. J.P. HELP!!!
Haha, kidding on the phobia of course but it adds a better ending when people (mostly women) are looking at you with that feigned 'I'm touched but I don't know what to say' look on their face after you tell them the story.
That is scary close to my story, Andrew. Except in was 1953 (far worse stigma era), the white towel in my birth mother's dream said, "Run, bitch, run," and my original first name was Buzzkill.
And you can have your name on a bright white towel, if you can learn to carefully position the "Andrew" stencil on your ass.