Five Green Acres

of people I wish were my next-door neighbors.  Surely we’d be best friends.

I’ve watched this about three times so far today.  And it’s only 10:46 a.m.

Skip to 8:40 to hear her sing the Chinese folk song if you’ve only time for one song.  It gave me goosebumps.

When I told Isadora that we had gone to a barn dance the night she spent with Grandma and Grandpa, she replied with a puzzled, “isn’t that just for animals?”  Indeed, we had read a book about a midnight barn dance, where the animals paired up and stole out of the barn to partake in some secret midnight dancing.  No, I responded with a laugh, there were no animals, but it was no less magical.  As we lay there snuggling together at bedtime, I described the scene for her.

The night air was that perfect combination of sharp cold and crispness that only October can perfectly conjure.  The barn, a grand old structure, was illuminated with a few simple spotlights.  The windows gave mention of tiny white lights dancing around the vertical beams within.  The magic wafted through the drafty slats of barn wood, drawing us in with wispy tendrils of fiddles, banjo, and guitar.  In we went.  And we were looking sharp, dressed as we imagined appropriate for such an occasion:  beaver skin hat and red square-toe boots.  (unfortunately not picked up by the photographer)

It was actually our third square dance in about as many months.  How great is that???  I don’t think I’ve yet mentioned the Date-Night-to-Define-All-Subsequent-Date-Nights that we shared the first night of the Sugar Maple Music Fest.  I’d better bring you up to speed.  That first night of the Sugar Maple, we had secured a babysitter for the kids and headed out to the fest.  On the way, I mentioned seeing something about an old-time dance later that evening.  Frankly, we were just happy to be going – the specifics of the entertainment were icing on the cake.  At the fest, when they announced that dance lessons for the upcoming dance were being given in a smaller tent, we went, expecting to finally learn how to waltz, maybe, or some other mysterious dance.  I didn’t know what kind of moves were involved in an old-time dance, but we were game for anything.  It was Date Night, after all.  When Dot, our ebullient instructor, lined us up by couples to form a square… the light in my head went on.  I turned to Andrew, my eyes lit up, big as saucers, and exclaimed in as contained of a whisper as I could manage in my excitement, “THIS IS A SQUARE DANCE!!!”  How funny that we had no idea until that very moment.  And what a terrific surprise!  We absolutely loved it.  And we gushed on and on about it to our friends, family, ourselves for weeks after.  Where could we get more of this?  We were hooked.

photo courtesy of Wikipedia

When my friend Lily sent an invite to her Square Dance Birthday Party, you know we rearranged our schedule to accommodate it, bringing our camping friends along with us before setting off the next day on the lively camping trip mentioned here.  And that very night, I spied on her fridge the poster for the Barn Dance that became our third dance of the year.  So far.  There’s lots of dancing time left.

This is a shot I snapped on the very last teeny-tiny bit of battery power, right before my camera called it a night.  A collection fit for a living history museum exhibit, these are the Caller’s own collection of dances, a whole index card file of allemandes and promenades and do-se-dos.  The incalculable value of this repository struck a nerve with me.  They’re not unlike Great-Grandma’s recipe cards, a meager bunch of ingredients jotted down on an index card, their dishes coming to life only with the knowing hand of the card’s author, or through someone well versed in Great-Grandma’s method.   These particular cards and dances are almost meaningless to anyone but their author, yet in his knowing hands are worth their weight in gold.

I might add that I haven’t always been so enthusiastic about square dancing.  If you were to time-travel and find my 7th-grade-self amidst the dreaded square dance unit of gym class and hand her a printed copy of this blog entry, she’d no doubt look at you through her hair-spray-encrusted, intricately lofted bangs and smirk, “Yeah, right.”  It’s hard for a girl wearing MC Hammer pants and black patent leather shoes to don the glasses of the future and foresee it holding anything musical but more Milli Vanilli or Vanilla Ice.  I have to think that Mrs. K, who patiently taught us the steps of square dancing way back when, even though it must have seemed a lost cause for our ” too cool” selves, would have a bit more faith in my generation if she could see how her diligence has come back to serve me well.

Andrew and I are both learning to play the guitar.  It was one of those things we both wanted to do, but perhaps seemed so GRAND and INVOLVED that we couldn’t quite wrap our brain around actually getting started.  Silly us – getting started was actually pretty easy, with an instructor friend in town eager to get the ball rolling.

Andrew has had an electric guitar for years now – it came with his VW Jetta TDI.  (Isn’t this how everyone gets started with The Guitar?)  It was a promotional gimmick, tapping into that latent desire we must all have to play the guitar while driving. (you can plug it directly into the car’s stereo system)  Yeah – it was funny for awhile – showing up with his guitar, plugging it in, shredding a bit.  Ultimately, though, the joke could only go so far without actually knowing how to play.

And I’ve always wanted to learn how to play something.  Piano, mostly, but there was that other episode with a guitar, the one where I got one for Christmas, stroked it lovingly for months, but never learned how to play.   A short stint with the trumpet in fifth grade was overshadowed by saxophone envy (everyone wanted to play the sax that year and got in line ahead of me) and the birth of my baby sister.  Mom said it was too much driving to keep up the lessons at the neighboring school, especially with winter approaching and a new baby.  Likely, though, she sensed my waning enthusiasm and jumped on the opportunity to simplify the routine.

I hesitate to put words into Andrew’s mouth, but I think I speak for both of us when I say that we act with a certain “where have you been all my life?” fervor towards our guitars.  The kids’ heads barely hit their respective pillows before we rush back downstairs to rock out.  The chords come pouring out, some more gracefully than others, and the expressions on our faces alternate between concentrated focus and awe, as if the sounds coming from our very hands are magic.  Daily, we compare the slowly-forming calluses on our left hands’ fingertips, take new interest in the state of our hands.  Hangnails and too-long fingernails become barriers to our new-found love and must be avoided at all costs.

I think we’re quickly becoming infamous as The People Who Bring their Guitar Everywhere.   While we’ve only racked up 3 lessons each so far, we’ve already given a handful of concerts:  at our fire pit, while visiting family, at the cottage, and most recently at a nautical-themed dinner party.  Was it fate that our ever-growing songbook included tunes perfectly suited for an after-dinner performance?  Perhaps.

We returned to the Sugar Maple Music Festival.  This must be our favorite event of the entire year.

It was the culmination of a year’s worth of anticipation, beginning the moment we left last year’s event.  Last year, as we danced and marveled and let the cornucopia of  sound wash over us, we also recognized the longing that we carried with us to make our own music.  Wistfully, we ogled the banjos and fiddles and guitars and accordions.  And as we wound our way through the crowd of contented listeners last year, taking our leave and observing our little one’s need for sleep, I made two wishes.   First, I hoped we would return to the festival the following year with a family of four. (check)  And second, I hoped that by that time the following year, I would be learning how to play an instrument of my own. (double check)

As it turns out, having a set deadline for a goal or wish is infinitely useful in manifesting that goal.  But more on that later.  For now, I’d like to focus on the marvelous time we had at the festival this year.

“We could live on this blanket,” I said as I set about preparing our picnic lunch.  A still-warm loaf of fresh baked bread was sliced on the spot for our sandwiches.  Fresh blueberries were squirreled away by a little girl sharing with a new friend on a neighboring blanket.  We were comfortably afloat in a sea of music, arriving just in time to hear the traditional cowboy songs performed by KG & The Ranger, an act that included yodeling and lasso rope tricks.  We had been anticipating it for months.

KG & The Ranger

The stilts were a pleasant surprise.

Maybe next year will find us joining one of the jam sessions offered in a nearby tent?  Or the accordion workshop? Perhaps the child-size accordion I stumbled across at a garage sale a few weeks ago can be put to good use.

This year, the painful angst came not from the intense, unfulfilled desire to play an instrument, but in having to leave the festival at the beginning of this act to head north for a wedding.  A consolation made its way home with us, allowing us to revisit the fest while (edited) washing dishes, bouncing baby, or making supper. vacuuming up broken glass, intercepting the maple syrup being emptied out onto two leftover blueberry pancakes, and accompanying the battery-operated noise of the Jumparoo.

I made a new wish as we drove away this year.  Respecting the rules of wish-making, I’ll share it once it comes to fruition.