Dear reader, I cannot tell you how many times last week I sat down intending to write, write about life, the universe, the upcoming Old Songs Festival. But each time I sat down, I allowed distractions to intrude.
I felt myself making the choice. I had reasons – there was too much to do for the upcoming festival, either for Old Songs, special requests by Joy and Dan, Director and Assistant Director, calls from campers, emails from crew chiefs, sound and tech books to compile for each stage.
Truthfully, I have been dreading Old Songs Festival 2024, the first one without Sheila’s energy, enthusiasm, her presence. I’ve been masking my dread by immersion in festival preparation – diving in with laser focus, not so much slicing through the feelings, but using an emotional hypodermic needle to bypass, to be able to function, around the grief.
That choice has consequences. Thankfully, Old Songs is a safe place.
At one point during the Sunday Afternoon Concert, the final one of the weekend, I was chatting with a longtime Old Songs supporter, board member, and the current board president. There are some people who can cut through the mask by their very presence and understanding, and she is one of those people. She made a comment, and I hope my response will stay with me for a while. It was one of those moments of truth. I said, “Old Songs is home, and when I needed a place to be for a while, to rest, to heal, I came home.”
How can the same place, the same event, be both a source of dread and healing rest?
As a family, we have so many memories of celebrating life at Old Songs. I am not just saying this because the festival is two weeks (or less) after my birthday. Old Songs was the first location where my sisters and I were able to be “free range.” Sheila always needed the buddy system, but that buddy could be either of her sisters, or her cousins, along with aunt, uncle, and of course mom and dad. But we all had significantly more independence at a considerably younger age than outside Old Songs land.
For a weekend out of the year, this fairground was as familiar as the family home. Interestingly, the same fairground, several months later for the Capital District Scottish Games, did not have the same familiar feel. There was, and is, something particularly special about Old Songs.
There have been years when I have been less than enthusiastic about the line-up of performers; there have been festivals when I could not summon enthusiasm for groups I should enjoy. There have been times when I thought it vastly unfair to both my youngest sister and I that her festival was by my birthday and vice-versa. I have felt like an outsider at Old Songs; when the Great Groove Band began – the folk festival equivalent of All-County Band – I received the message that my instrument, the clarinet, was not welcome in folk music circles. While this is patently untrue and there are plenty of clarinet players in the folk world, I felt unwelcome, an outsider.
This worked out well for Sheila, though, because it meant she had a buddy to go see her favorite – Roger the Jester.
I didn’t see any of Roger’s acts this year, could barely pay attention to the Lost and Found demonstration at the Sunday Concert. I just couldn't bear to see kids interrupting his shows, consuming his energy with bad behavior management, when Sheila was always so rivetted to his acts, and would get upset when the audience was disruptive.
I had many moments this past weekend when the pain of missing Sheila was hand-in-hand with enthusiastic enjoyment of the performers, the atmosphere, the special energy that is the Old Songs Festival. Perhaps the most bittersweet, as well as hilarious, moment was on Sunday.
I was eating lunch at a workshop labeled Music All Around Us, with Reggie Harris, Pat Wictor, Lee Murdock, and The Moving Violations (a contra dance band). My partner and my parents were with me, and Reggie stood up to begin his first song of the set.
Now, Sunday had begun as a warm, muggy mess of a day, one of those days where you stick to yourself by existing, every breath is through a sloppy bog, and the atmosphere feels heavy. As my partner and I gathered our lunch and entered the, thankfully covered, performance space, we felt a few drops, but nothing too serious. They were almost a relief from the stickiness. We settled in to eat and enjoy.
As Reggie stood up to take his place at the microphone, those few raindrops developed into a sudden, drowning, deluge, hammering away at the tin roof above us. Reggie had always been one of Sheila’s special favorite people, and this was my first chance all festival to see him. But the rain poured down. He gave a few curious looks to the skylights and tried again to introduce his song in what appeared to be a lull. The rain came down harder. The sound tech was amazing, deftly, carefully, raising the levels, while avoiding feedback as Reggie, along with Pat Wictor, sang. The rain kept coming, kept intensifying. We who knew the song, and could almost hear it, sang along, as the rain gusted harder, louder, streaming off the roof, it was as if the skies were crying.
The song ended, and The Moving Violations began their set… and the rain faded away, as if it had never been.
The song Reggie Harris had performed was one Sheila’s favorites, Ready to Go.
Grief does not end, it just changes form every now and then. Sometimes you have the weepings, and others you are simply glad for the time you had.
We spend so much of our lives fighting grief, ignoring the intrusion, and we forget that it is an emotion with an important role to play. Not all grief is the same, nor does it manifest the same way for each person, each time, each situation. If I have one wish for you, it is that you own your grief, and your manner of grieving. Do not fight your nature, attempt to hide, or pretend to feel an emotion you do not or cannot. Accept your journey, and be ready wherever it takes you. Your grief has a lesson for you that only you can learn. When it comes, be ready to go.
Dear ones I wished that I could have been with you but it wasn’t possible. We have been going through a saga of our own. The temperatures here have been in the high 90’s and one day it was 100*. And our entire building was without AC and water. Not fun!