When my mom and stepdad first married, he was very much still in the "booth at outdoor festivals" stage of his art career. I didn't have to spend too much time stuck under the tent where his art was displayed, but I was there often enough to get to know the meteorological laws that govern spring arts and crafts festivals. It is guaranteed that there will be rain, wind, and either unbearable scorching sun or freak cold snaps. It's never calm, partly cloudy, and 68 degrees for an entire event weekend. That might be part of the reason I developed a phobia about going to them (or for that matter to state or county fairs). For most of my life, I have been reluctant to go to any of these types of gatherings, even to the point of ignoring my children's pleas. So when I found myself excited about going to a street festival this morning, it was significantly out of character. Certainly I am in a different place physically these days, but was that enough to broaden some of my horizons in this way? I sort of hope so. Time will tell.
I wore a light jacket to the fair, but when we parked the car and started to walk up the hill to the site, a light breeze refused to leave alone the silk scarf I wore, so I turned back and threw both of them in the car. I decided it was plenty warm enough, and for the first forty-five minutes, it was. Then thicker clouds blew over, and then a few sprinkles of rain. Eventually two or three bands of moderate rain moved over, and passed quickly. We had walked the length of the main street, and had turned back to walk the secondary paths with some smaller vendors when fat drops of rain started hitting my face, even through the thick canopy of trees over the walking path. I ducked under a tent that spanned a bridge, and told the man I wanted to hide from the rain a minute and check the radar. He saw a tent that interested him and said he would be right back. Then the real festival rain arrived, and we were stuck thirty yards apart, for at least half an hour. A couple dozen people joined me under the bridge tent, but I found myself not feeling gregarious or social. I just stood there, bored, trying not to eavesdrop, but unable to do anything else. One lady was quite concerned about her kids being under a tent constructed with metal supports in a major thunderstorm, until her adult companions convinced her that we were not under the tallest structure around, and thus should be fine. This is not to say I didn't feel the crackle of ionized air a few times as lightning flashed overhead. But eventually the worst of the storm passed, and we all left our emergency shelter. By then my man and I were fairly tired and ready to leave, but I still managed to stop by two more vendors to spend money. Three, if you count the barbecue we grabbed at the last corner before we raced down the hill to our car, in yet another wave of rain.
This festival coincides with the time of year when this small town is at its most insanely beautiful. This is the place the rich people from the peninsula used to have their summer homes, back in the days before air conditioning and chemical mosquito control. It's covered in gorgeous homes that all look like they regularly grace the pages of Southern Living. Each and every one of them have gardens that make my stomach clench in envy. This week, all of the white dogwoods have bloomed, the wisteria is draping purple pendants all around, perfuming the air, the pink and red azaleas are nearly all open, and a few bright yellow pops of either forsythia or jasmine caught my eye from a distance. I want to get my hands dirty, but my body is still trying to slow me down. I did carry home two small packs of petunias that we bought from a high school agricultural program. Maybe tomorrow I can put together a few flowerpots to get me going for a while.
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