Bluegrass Music in the Dry Grass - High Mountain Hay Fever Festival

At the beginning of the month our quest for bluegrass music took us south and west into a barely-inhabited part of Colorado for the High Mountain Hay Fever Bluegrass Festival.

The site of the festival was Westcliffe, a charming small town (population 568) with a short downtown about five blocks long.  There were hollyhocks growing on the street corners, and hanging flower pots. The music pulled in four thousand people so lines were too long for the restaurants, but food trucks provided wood-fire cooked pizza, some junk stuff, and good barbecue, even “North Carolina style sauce” (but no red slaw.)  

Apparently people retire here and bring their passions—music, theater, art, food, and horses. One of the local musicians said they have so much expertise in the city “you should be able to get college credit for hanging out with them.”

A narrow valley away, the Sangre de Cristo mountains run northwest to southeast.  Our vacation rental house, which I will never reveal to you because it was too wonderful and I don’t want lots of people to know about it, sat high on a ridge, mountains as far as I could look to the left and to the right. 

It was the most remote place I’ve been in Colorado since I don’t hike or backpack. 

We didn’t see any wildlife except hummingbirds, but the owner shared a story about a bear falling into the basement window well, which was why it didn’t have a screen on it. And video footage of the driveway showed recently passing mountain lion and bear. In the middle of the first night something big bumped into the side of the house. Spooky. 

The afternoon thunderstorm clouds gave way to clear skies by evening. I tracked the moonset (2:30am) and got up early in order to see the stars. As I  regularly complain, we don’t have but four to seven visible stars in the city. I keep praying for a power outage on a clear night with no moon so I can get a good look at the heavens.

We barely wanted to leave to hear the music.  

Colorado is really into “innovative” “hybrid” “genre-blending” bluegrass. This spring we heard a group described as bluegrass, that had a fantastic fiddler who added jazz and klezmer. It was exhilarating and creative, but stepped way beyond bluegrass boundaries. 

Bluegrass music which grew out of Appalachia includes church-influenced lyrics, which Colorado bluegrass does not. Their version of “gospel” music leans decidedly to new age. It’s a lot of “mama died and I’ll see her someday” or sad stories of somebody derailing their life and needing the gospel but never hearing it. 

This festival had “West Grass” and “Latin Grass” and, we were glad to find, lots of traditional bluegrass. It also had a solid representation of true “good news” gospel music.

See the trees? Waaay out there?

The stage and audience areas are set under a huge circus tent to block out the sun (there are few trees in Westcliffe) and the sides rolled down when the afternoon thunderstorms blew through. When the sides were up we had a great view of the nearby mountains. 

I’ve already given the property owner our dates for a whole week next year. High Mountain Hay Fever Bluegrass Festival is our new western favorite. 

Hilarity on the Sixth Hole

I've never played golf, never watched golf on TV, never thought about living near a golf course. By chance the retirement community we bought into has beautiful grounds, swimming pools, the opportunity to participate in the community garden, and is built around a golf course. 

Since we've moved to a condo overlooking the golf course, I've decided it's an asset.

The wide expanse allows sunshine to reach my windows and glimpses of the moon.  The breezes blow unimpeded across the lawn and through my windows. 

We're happy to see wildlife. The hawk's scream lures us to the window and we watch as it circles repeatedly, hoping it'll snatch up a pesky squirrel. A coyote lopes across the course headed for better cover nearby. 

Even when it was bitterly cold, we could be naturalists in comfort. The whoosh of goose wings when landing or taking off, and their magnificent choruses brought nature close. I looked forward to it every morning.

However the grounds keepers view geese as a nuisance.  A golf cart chases them away if they linger once the snow melts. This spring one of the groundsmen drove a remote control motor boat on one of the ponds to scare them away. I laughed out loud. 

We forsook our hobby visiting lovely wineries when we moved to the city.  Instead we're amateur golf commentators. (It doesn't compare, but it's handy and amusing.) We watch and critique drives, putts and chips as if we were experts. Excessive mulligans do not escape our attention.  When reading outside we hold our breath when some not-so-controlled golfer brings the game a little too close for comfort, balls bouncing onto the garage roof, or smacking into the building. No broken windows or bruises so far. 

During good weather I watch for my friend Kristin on Wednesday mornings' league play. I cheer silently. She waves. It's like a hug. 

We're also seeing our teen-aged grandson more since he's taking golf lessons with the competent and friendly golf pro.

Recent hilarity at hole number 6 piqued our curiosity. Our senior golfers tend to be more serious, and practically mute.

             

All morning we heard high-pealed giggles, and the sing-song cadence of teasing. One young, exuberant, female foursome after another played through the hole outside our lanai. I wandered out to watch. 

They squealed like kids on a roller coaster when they drove their carts to the tee. They clapped and jumped in glee when the shot was good, and groaned collectively when it wasn't. They were a serial party, moving from hole to hole. Their playfulness put smiles on our faces and made us chuckle. 

I had to know more. Were they in a tournament? I inquired. It was a reunion of twenty friends who met in an Iowa high school. The organizer said she's looking forward to moving to our community (in thirty years when she's age eligible.)

Yay, golf course. 

Oh when, oh when will our summer come?

I've been counting the days to the unofficial beginning of summer. This past weekend was not what I hoped for.

The pool opened on Saturday, and there were only four brave souls staring at the water. It was too chilly to get in.

Sunday we went to an outdoor wedding that had to relocate indoors when the thunder got louder than the preacher, and the lightning got more attention than the beautiful bride. We scuttled in just as the shower turned to a downpour. 

None of us panicked when a tornado siren went off after the ceremony, because the music was so loud we didn't hear it. 

In the early dark hours Monday I sat up in a panic like a mom responding to a shriek from the baby monitor. My "babies",  (one) tomato and (one) green pepper were getting pummeled by hail. I rolled them way from the unprotected edge of the patio.  I was still picking little ice balls out of my hair when I climbed back into bed. Daylight inspection showed the pepper had lost a few blossoms (drat!) and even the cucumber seedlings were smashed. 




Tuesday night the wind whipped and forecasters predict an overnight low of 39. Yes, that's Fahrenheit, not Celsius. 

my tomato bundled in its winter jammies

 Even my husband is using the term "climate change."  

We are SOOO ready for summer. 

Maybe those perfect summer days we remember from childhood are only in our imaginations. 

Need a laugh?

Could you use a good laugh today? 

Here are make-you-grin signs from a local taco restaurant named Cochino (pig, hog).

One element of humor is incongruity--two things are compared that don't usually go together. These are funny because they combine unlikely pairs: dinosaurs and tacos, two cultures-Chinese New Year and Mexican-American fast food, and a “scientific” recommendation for tacos. 

Another element is surprise. We expect one thing from a situation, and get something different.

Performer Ron Thomason, former English teacher, turned horse breeder and bluegrass musician is both smart and funny. At a recent concert he made a pitch for their "merch", slang for merchandise. In addition to the usual CD's and signed photos, he pitched their "thought repellant hats," equipped with "ignor(ance)-guard."  I couldn't write fast enough to keep up with the many reasons you may need one to stay safe in today's political environment, so I just sat back and laughed out loud. Enjoy his gift of humor in this monologue about his prize horse. 

Who would think a 70 year old former beauty queen would be funny? But Jeanne Robertson certainly is. I was excited when I finally bought a ticket for a live performance, and really bummed when I couldn't attend. I consoled myself by watching several of her monologues on youtube. She can find something comical about her husband's trip to the grocery store, sitting in a doctor's waiting room, or regifting.  Here's one of my favorites.  

Sometimes life creates laughable situations. Mine frequently come from my husband, and I call these Bill stories.

For example, looking at a friend's Facebook photo he noticed the man's weight gain and perceived it as "His head is getting smaller and smaller." He referred to a  100 year man as a centurion instead of a centenarian. And complaining about a erroneous charge for a flu shot he said, "They didn't charge us when we got the shots for ricketts." He meant shingles. 

Laughter is so important it's on the Mayo Clinic website. If you don't want to click and read, here's the summary:

         Laughter exercises our organs, releases good chemicals

 in the brain, relieves stress, improves your immune system, 

relieves pain, improves your mood, and increases 

personal satisfaction. 

They should add that humor can deflect bad moods and peevishness as well. 

Mayo suggests you learn a joke.  Instead, I'll share an anecdote from my seven year old grandson. "Mom" he said, I want to work to earn some money. But only dollar jobs." No loose change for that kid. 

PBS makes me chuckle on a regular basis with Father Brown, and The Durrells on Corfu. The book trilogy on which the Corfu series is based is now available in print. Written by Gerry, the youngest Durrell, his 1956 style vividly describes Corfu's unique natural world and the antics of his family. 

I know funny people who just have quick wits, and I've always wished I was one of them. 

As an adult university student I found my young classmates to be amusing. I was surprised when one of them said to me "You have a good sense of humor." I protested I really didn't. She pointed out that I was always ready to laugh, and receptivity was as essential to humor as the ability to produce it. 

So here I am, ready to receive your funny stories. Please share. I can always use a hearty laugh. 

Notre Dame Points Me to God

When I watched Notre Dame burn, it took my breath away. Watching the spire fall  brought tears to my eyes. I wondered how the rose windows and the organ fared.

In my opinion any great building or work of art humbles us because most of us  are incapable creation on a grand scale. But we are thrilled to see the result of others’ vision. We are enlarged and blessed by the achievements of other men and women in the arts. 

So the damage to Notre Dame naturally caused sorrow for the millions of us who have visited. 

I'm grateful for my opportunity to sit in the cathedral for an organ concert years ago. Sounds on that scale vibrate through our bodies, and fill our minds and souls. (Standing on a German cathedral roof when the bells tolled the hour knocked me off balance.) I hope Notre Dame's organ will again someday fill the huge church with magnificent music.

Notre Dame was part of the historic musical shift from a unison melody line, like Gregorian Chants, to polyphony (more than one voice.) The organs in Notre Dame were used in the composition and performance of the newer style. The sample I’ve linked to is multiple voices, a brief example of a sacred meditation on Christ’s suffering before the crucifixion. It could have been performed at Notre Dame.  

Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

Joy and wonder fill us when the sun lights up windows with colors that are seldom gathered together in nature as they are in stained glass. 

Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

This week many commentators lauded the cathedral's beauty, its fine example of Gothic architecture, and how it has been a  symbol of the French people.  But we stand in grave danger of making the building an idol if we forget it’s original purpose—to be a place of worship to God. 

The grand spire pointed us up to Heaven, not the heavens. 

Similarly, the center of the north rose window points us to Jesus' birth, the pivotal moment which divided Judaism and Christianity. 

If we focus on stones and architectural style instead of Jesus, his death as a sacrifice for our sins, and his resurrection proving his divinity—Notre Dame is a magnificent building and nothing more. 

In this brief meditation, Bishop Robert Barron eloquently describes how the church was designed to point us to God.      

May the damage to Notre Dame as a place of worship point us to the Person we worship, not a place we worship. 

What an appropriate reminder for Easter, when millions of people worship the risen Christ. 

Bad Travel News turns into Good Art Views

Travel bad news: cancelled flight, reroute, mechanical delay on reroute which would make me miss my connection home, with stand-by only for an earlier flight. 

Good news:  It gave me time to wander and discover new airport art. Art is a bonus in any airport--charming, soothing, enjoyable. At no extra cost. 



These metallic butterflies glittered and flittered over my head in Greensboro like the real thing. 
I bet they'd have sounded like gentle chimes.








Eventually I connected in Philadelphia and was compelled to stop to photograph these pieces. 



This long panel was wool stitched and felted to create mushrooms and toadstools. I've seen both red and orange fungi in the wild. I don't know if there is one with a turquoise cap like these, but they  created a whimsical mood for me. 














From a distance I thought these colorful shapes might be made of buttons and macaroni. (Maybe I need stronger glasses.)  But when I magnified the photo I discovered they were flotsam and jetsam--the ordinary transformed to beautiful, like Cinderella's pumpkin.






   

I had even had time to grab a snack at the 2019 version of a drive-in restaurant. I rolled my carry-on to the gate-side restaurant, ordered online, and my beer and appetizer were promptly delivered. Only difference was that the server wasn't on roller-skates. 

So even though I got home later than expected, it was a happy-ending.  There wasn't any novelty in the original itinerary, but Plan B turned into a little adventure. 






Since I'm bringing you the best of recent airport art, here are photos from an earlier trip to Albany, NY. I had plenty of time to wander here, and  enjoyed the colorful circles made by light entering the large round windows in the front of the terminal. 

 
  Down on the concourse I imagined myself living in one of the imaginary homes in a set created by Robert Hite.
Follow the link to see more.






Mohawk artist Elizabeth Doxtater embroidered the boots. 












Which all just goes to show that the process of travel can be almost as much fun as the destination. 

Fertilizer Evokes Happy Memories

The nostril-scorching aroma immediately sent me back to the happiest seventeen springs of my life. Each of those springs was heralded by daffodils poking through leftover fall leaves and a trip to Lowe’s Home Improvement Center.

Today the sharp tang of pallets and pallets of bagged fertilizer activated synapses in my brain. That smell meant it was time for the annual state of the lawn survey. Back when I had a lawn, I'd use those walk-arounds to note patches that needed to be reseeded and areas where the wild onions flourished. That began my list of must-dos and for the garden. 

So walking into Lowe’s today to buy squirrel repellent, was a let down.

 I yearned for the gearing-up of another season’s beauty and fruitfulness, dirty knees and broken fingernails, digging and watching my arms firm up (as much as possible in a woman my age).

With no yard to fertilize, no flower beds to rake out, no searching for the tips of iris or asparagus or the buds on the blueberries, spring feels flat.

I lament the absence of tree frogs singing near the pond the next field away.  I’ve had to settle for a recorded version as my phone’s ring tone.

And the repellent hasn't discouraged the persistently curious rodent digging in my flower pots--my only sign of spring.