Even though I went to bed (or sleeping bag) at 2 a.m., I still woke up at 7. I was not exactly frisky, but I was wide awake, and going back to sleep just wasn't happening. So, I got dressed, and stumbled to the camp's common kitchen. I pulled out my cooler, and got a vanilla yogurt. A plastic bowl and spoon from the common stash, a little granola, and I had breakfast. A handy repast, which Elsie taught me during Winfield last year.
After my bowl of granola and a cup of Joe's strong camp coffee, I went up to the showers. The line was already fairly long; my wait was between 20-30 minutes. Sarah was 10 or 15 people ahead of me. Don't know if she saw me right away. Eventually, we waved. That was enough for a sleep-deprived morning.
Went back to camp. Hung out for a bit, then went down to the fairgrounds to hear Nick Charles, a fingerstyle guitarist from Australia (and friend of Tommy Emmanuel). He was pretty good, but the heat was already getting to me (92°). I became aware I wasn't feeling very good, and went back to camp.
Sat around and stared into space for some time. Mary T had a spare air mattress, which she brought out for anyone to use — it was her opinion it would be too hot in the tents, and folk should just lay out in the open, in the shade. It took awhile, maybe an hour or so, but I finally decided her idea was pretty good. It was stubbornness, or machismo; my brain just wasn't cogitating all that fast.
So, I pulled the air mattress near my tent, which was in the shade of two pecan trees. I must have laid there for 45 minutes to an hour.
When I awoke, I was still feeling kinda punk — like borderline dehydration. I went back to the camp kitchen, which is a covered and shady area, and started drinking water like it was going out of style. People came and went. I visited with folk. When alone, I read sections of Whitman's Song of Myself (a yearly tradition).
Cheryl came by. Cheryl is a friend of Mary T's. She and her husband live somewhere in west Texas. She got dehydrated a couple of years ago at Winfield, so she's especially sympathetic to anyone who seems to be on the edge of it. She loaned me a neck cooler (ah, heaven!) and some wet cloths; she also shared some V-8 juice. We chatted about this and that. Cheryl is pretty good at maintaining a conversation all by herself. Which was fine by me.
Then Joe joined us. And, this is one of the pictures I treasure from this year's Winfield.
Joe told Cheryl and I the story of reconnecting with a daughter who had been given up for adoption. He and the girl's mother had been married for a time, then divorced, had a brief reconciliation, then split up for good. The daughter was conceived during the reconciliation. Neither parent was able to raise a child at the time, and they agreed to put her up for adoption. Joe signed the appropriate paperwork relinquishing his parental rights.
Now, the daughter is in her early 30's, and has a daughter of her own. She's always known she was adopted, and recently took the initiative to seek out her birth parents. After some time, she discovered Joe's address, and wrote him a letter. Basically, she introduced herself, and said that if he wanted to visit with her, he should call a certain number within a certain window of time.
He rode his motorcycle to the town, went to a local bar, and a waitress helped him dial the number (it was rather dark in the bar). The daughter met him at the bar, they got acquainted. She saw that he was decent folk, and invited him back to her house in the desert. That's when he met the 5 year-old granddaughter he had not known existed until that moment.
Now, Joe is more or less of my father's generation. Joe is a biker, and we have a certain stereotype of bikers. But, as he told this story of reconciliation and redemption, he started to weep. Well, his voice broke, and he often paused to wipe away a shadow of a tear.
He was mostly telling his story to Cheryl, but I was there as well. He shared this intimate story with me. A true honor.
By now it was around 4:30 or 5, and I felt like I was up to hearing some more music. So, I went to Stage I, sat in the shady area of the bleachers, and listened to the three men who had won the flatpicking contest earlier that day. They were followed by John McCutcheon.
Here's another picture I cherish: I already knew this concert would be special. As has been traditional, John was going to share a new song, one he had written especially for the festival, at this concert. I knew Rhonda S and her sister Tamara ("Freefall") would be singing backup for one of his songs. I knew the crowd would often be singing along.
The song Freefall sang backup on was "Not in My Name"; they were joined by The Chapin Sisters, Tom Chapin, and Small Potatoes. The song is written, as if by a Biblical prophet, in God's voice:
Through the ages I have watched all your holy wars
Your jihads, your Crusades
I have been used as inspiration, I have used as an excuse
For the murder and misery you've made
I thought I made it clear in the Bible
In the Torah and in the Koran
What is it in my teaching about loving your neighbor
That you people just don't understand?
©2000 John McCutcheon/Appalsongs
I was sitting just a few rows back from a walkway that ran between the bleachers and the box seats. A girl of maybe 9 or 10 was walking there in front of, singing this verse from memory. Is this not a hopeful sign?
Most of the crowd, which I would guess to have well over a thousand, were singing along with the chorus: "Not in my name, Not in my name...." Are these not hopeful voices? When the crowd stood to sing, and then applaud, it would have been easier to count the people sitting down than the ones standing.
Yes, my friends, these are pictures worth cherishing and pondering in the scary days ahead, as the beast of Crawford, Texas goes slouching towards November 2.
This installment is getting rather long. So, we'll continue with the remainder of Saturday evening and Sunday in the next installment.
Stay tuned!
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