Can I just say that the dirt at the Stephen Foster Folk Culture Center State Park (they just couldn't come up with a long-enough name, obviously) is blacker than the dirt in Lloyd and I did not think that was possible.
My feet are, well, black.
It was fine. The Cicada Ladies were a treat. They're so darn cute. Plus, they can really play and sing. It's so cool to walk around with my fine, tall daughter and have people stop her and say, "Y'all were great! When are you playing again?"
And so forth.
So we watched them play and it was hot. Everywhere I went I heard people say, "Why do they have this festival when it's so damn hot? We should get up a petition to have it in the fall."
Well, they should. And yes, there were some actual real bathrooms that were tiled and had air conditioning. Awesome! I used one Porta Potty and it was disgusting as it always is.
Thank god I'm not camping there. That's all I can say. It wasn't unbearable because every now and then a nice wind would come along and there are lots and lots of trees. But still. It was hot. And I have spent nights sweating in a tent and sobbing silently into my pillow. Oh yes, I have. And I am not much interested in doing it again.
Jessie and her daddy and I walked around after they played at three and I even bought a silver chain for my silver things I like to have hanging around my neck. A silver heart locket that May gave me, a tiny framed picture of me and Owen when he was a baby, and a little Virgin of Guadalupe that I got in Mexico once. It's a nice chain made with links like a chain should be made. It didn't cost much, either. And I got a little giftie for May, too, since it's her birthday time and all of that. Mr. Moon and Jessie got ice cream and I got iced coffee, none of that fancy bullshit milkshake stuff either, just iced coffee. Thank-you. And before we left we got an excellent dinner. Two baked-chicken and rice meals with collards and field peas AND cornbread. The ladies from the New Jerusalem Baptist Church made the food and sold it to us. Jessie and I split mine and it was so good and I'm so glad she split it with me because I was as full as I could be when I was done. Six bucks a meal. That's a good deal, y'all. Sweet tea or lemonade a dollar more.
I should have taken a picture but I didn't.
We ran into the woman who midwifed me with both Jessie and Lily. She's a musician too. Of course. It sure was good to see her. She'll probably pick with Jessie some in the campground tonight. She plays bass and has a deep, woman voice, true and strong. I have known her for thirty-eight years and she looks EXACTLY the same. How is this even possible?
So it was good. But boy, was I ready to come home. I don't know how in the whole world I can feel so out of place in a down-home, dirty foot situation like that one was, but leave it to me- I can accomplish it. As I texted Hank, it should have been called the White People Folk Festival. Okay, I'm white but still. And folk music. Jesus. You were born in a coal mine and you don't like working underground?
Forgive me. I'm sorry. It's just...well. It gets repetitive.
Of course all the music wasn't like that. Not by a long shot. But a lot of it was.
And as I also texted Hank, I was not the only old woman wearing braids. Yes. I am an old hippie. I know it. Damn. At least I wasn't wearing some damn funky lace-up shoes with socks with my skirt. Of course, if I had been, my feet wouldn't be this dirty. But they sure would have been hot. How in HELL can you wear socks in ninety-plus degree weather? And why? Good Lord. That's why they make sandals. And do not even talk to me about wearing socks with sandals in the summer. Nope. Don't.
Anyway, I'm home and there is no bra in sight. My cleavage is resting. My soul is at peace.
Shit. I forgot to buy a Cicada Ladies coozie. And I didn't learn how to weave a basket (which honestly, is something I really wish I knew how to do and I'm not kidding you) or...or...do any of that other stuff that people were demonstrating. I don't know. Contra dance. Make cane syrup. Grind corn into meal and grits. I really should know how to do those last two things.
Maybe next year.
But I will not be camping. No sir, not for me.
Can you imagine going to bed with feet completely black with dirt? Yeah, I've done it before and no, I do not care to do it again any time soon. Of course, there are showers in the camp ground but by the time you'd walked the distance back to your tent, your feet would be filthy again. Unless you wore socks.
Forget it. I'm going to go take a shower.