the cup

I tend to start each day telling myself (in spirit if not in actuality), "OK, today I will get my life organized."  But, of course, that doesn't happen.  It'll never happen. It's just way too beautiful out there, and there's way too much going on in the way of worthy distraction. Take this weekend, for instance. Newport hosted the America's Cup ... sort of.  It was actually the America's Cup World Series. Totally different animal.  A mere preamble (a very cool global preamble) to the real deal, set to take place in San Francisco in the coming year. Still, who can resist? So I hopped on my bike — despite having so much other stuff I really could/should have been accomplishing, and having already experienced the AC spectacle from the water a day prior — and pedaled out to Fort Adams to soak up the scene. Along the way, I passed some kids who had set up a lemonade stand.  I stopped, as it was hot, and lemonade struck me as just the thing. The cost was 75 cents.  So I handed this cute young girl wearing a red-checkered apron (with pockets! how practical!) a dollar and said what seemed the only natural thing to say: "Keep the change."

And that got me thinking ... about the America's Cup and all manner of things.  There's been so much talk about how "it's just not the same" and "remember when?" But perhaps keeping/embracing the change isn't such bad advice, to oneself or to anyone else.

And making lemonade is pretty sweet, too ...

squash??

I feel like a goofball for never making it to the Harvest Fair this weekend — it's such a tradition. But, somehow, I've lost interest with no kids in tow; I couldn't muster the oomph to get up and go. I could barely muster the oomph to get out of bed this morning, as these cooler temperatures (it happened overnight!) are just so cozy/comfortable for sleeping. And I was too busy dreaming. I ultimately did get up (of course), because Mr. Betty came home from wherever he'd been bright-and-early and told me I had to get up and check out the squash. Not at the fair (where there were plenty, no doubt) but in the park. Someone — a phantom family of squash artists?? — had left their traces skewered atop the rusty fence surrounding Channing, near the tower in Touro Park. (That park is just full of mysteries.) And, once up, I managed to keep spinning my wheels, i.e. riding my bike, to the car show at Fort Adams, where images — from cool to amusing to weird to painful —were lurking in & around highly-polished vehicles and bumpers and rear-view mirrors ...

Truth is: I did get to the Harvest Fair — a few days before it happened (does that count??). And I could see/hear all the cars, kids, fun & games and even occasional tears due to bumps & bruises & not-wanting-to-go-home even though there was no one (not a soul) in sight, based on having been there, and to other harvest-type fairs, so many (plenty!) of times before ...

peace

Picking up where I left off yesterday before I so rudely interrupted myself with typical panic over all-I-have-to-get-done: there I was at the Folk Festival on Sunday afternoon, at the back of the Quad Stage tent, right behind the sound guy, listening to Ben Sollee and friends. And I was thinking how cool it was to see the playlist — not that I knew the songs, but lists are critical (!!). And the idea of having a plan appealed to me. And if I took a snapshot, I wouldn't have to work too hard should I want to revisit the lyrics later, online.

Lyrics often strike me in some way that I want to remember them (though I never do); I love that "ah, yes" moment when for a split second I think I get what the artist is trying to say. I'd heard a line earlier that grabbed me, for example, during the Avett Brothers' performance. They were on the main stage, outside the fort, on the other side of that slippery bluestoned tunnel where people were sitting (or not sitting, as they saw fit) on never-fired cannons and the like. And the keyboardist sang out: "There's a darkness upon me that's flooded in light." I'm not sure what that says, but it says something (to me, anyway). It feels right. Just as Sharon Jones' introductory remark felt right, as she looked out — with her band, the Dap-Kings — upon what must have been an overwhelming sea of faces and colors backed by the actual sea (okay, it's Narragansett Bay) and shouted: "How you all doin', chillin' out there in the sunshine??"

Perfect for the folk fest, yes??

Anyway, there I was, behind the sound guy, beside Mr. Betty, listening to Ben Sollee — which reminds me of soleil, i.e. sun (will I ever finish this thought??) — when suddenly I heard, or maybe felt, Mr. Betty's cell phone vibrating in his pocket. You know you've been together a long time, or that you're on the same wavelength, or that you have pretty good hearing, when you hear/feel a silenced cell phone in someone else's pocket amid an ongoing concert without even touching that person's pant leg (woo woo).

So I nudged Mr. Betty, who looked to see who was calling — was it one of the kids?? No (whew; that worry never ceases), but he realized it was a work-related matter requiring immediate response. He wandered away to return the call from a discreet distance, whereupon a couple of girls about Darling Daughter's age slid into his standing-room-only spot next to mine, behind the sound guy, and proceeded to get rapturously excited about the music. Honestly, in addition to smiling and waving and bouncing on tiptoes as if the musicians were going to look out and notice them (does that happen??), at one point, between numbers, when Jim James (who spent most of his time with his back to the audience) left the stage, one of these girls called out in a soft-but-perfectly-audible, almost-desperate voice, "Come back, Jim ... "

Other than that, the girls (they were really very cute) never uttered a sound, though they took plenty of snapshots with cell phones.

But then I heard something else: another cell phone, not on vibrate, right behind me. It was a loud ring, utterly retro, mimicking the metallic rrrrring of those phones that everyone of a certain age had hanging on the wall in the kitchen. You know: those phones with a curly cord that one wound mindlessly around one's fingers while chatting with friends from junior high or some such thing. Why anyone would choose that ring tone I can't imagine, but after two or three pseudo-metallic rings that did not jibe with the vibe emitting from Ben Sollee's mellow cello, a woman answered. I didn't turn to look, but I certainly heard her. She said, in full voice, "Oh, hi. I'm at Ben Sollee. Right behind the sound guy. Where are you??"

At which point the sound guy turned around, shook his head, and said, "Unbelievable."

Meanwhile, the cute girls beside me just kept smiling and waving whatever-they-were-waving at whoever-might-be-watching and behaving in comparatively peaceful fashion ...

That's what the girls were waving.

And, as I understand it — though I'm pretty sketchy on matters pertaining to history — shots have never been fired from Fort Adams in defense of Narragansett Bay.

too much

It's impossible to take in, let alone relay, all that goes on during Folk Festival Weekend. Friday night might involve hanging around outside the grocery store or the hardware store, beneath the stands of the Tennis Hall of Fame, with a local crowd who gathers to hear (not see) the opening act for free. Saturday might involve the on-the-water scene, another freebie (if only boats were free), when enthusiasts grab kids/friends/drinks/dogs — the more the merrier — and raft-up together off Fort Adams, within earshot if not clear earshot, for an afternoon of swinging & swaying to the gentle waves. Sunday might involve actually attending the festival — venturing via Oldport across the harbor with ticket, blanket and folding chair in-hand — and soaking up the energy of the overwhelmingly happy and peace-loving crowd including Super Son and a boatload of his friends and any number (a HUGE number!) of other folks & families doing precisely the same thing. Oh, and the music — where to begin?? One or two quasi-relevant reflections might bubble up in days to come. Or not. Maybe I'll just rest up, move on, rock on, "folk on" (as this year's t-shirt said), and get ready for next weekend, when the same-but-different series of events starts all over again in the name of Newport Jazz ...

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