Sweet dreams?

I forgot to mention that as an old lady (at least in this weekend's company), I can be set in my ways. My fellow would-be campers knew ahead of time that I was an air mattress kind of camper … I can handle pit toilets and going without showers, but I cannot sleep on the ground!!

So, Saturday night after the garlic fest, we set up camp (just my tent, really), and I started huffing and puffing (to blow up my mattress). I took a break about half-way through but persevered despite the ridicule I endured from the younglings.
After what seemed like ages, I had done it—blown up the mattress and looked forward to a comfortable night's sleep in the tranquil fields of Four Springs Farm, lulled by the songs of crickets and other little beasties.

Then the valve broke off. Gone. Something that not even duct tape could fix! I was beyond consolation; the prospect of 2 nights on the ground was more than I could bear. I recalled camping trips to the White Mountains when I was a child, when I would try to sleep and just lay awake all night from discomfort. After a few trips like this, my parents broke down and purchased cheap blow-up rafts for my brother and me. But because those rafts weren't made for 8 hours of over-the-ground use, they typically went flat (slow leak) on the first night, sometime during the wee hours. And I would cry and wish for my bed.

Well, the upshot is that I survived. Thankfully, a matted-down hay field is lots more comfy (and I use that term loosely) than the hard-packed tent pads of the national forest parks.

Labor Day

Because a driveway is for parking and a parkway is for driving, because seeding can mean removing or planting seeds, and because of so many other linguistic anomalies that I can't think of right now … it only stands to reason that on Labor Day, we must jump in cars and speed home from wherever we have been doing anything but working!

Today, I drove home from central Vermont with Karin and Ann. We stopped for brunch at a sugar shack near the farm, where "laid-back" didn't begin to describe the quality of service. We were anxious to get on the road, not looking forward to any traffic jams we might encounter. The actual ride, however, was uneventful and swift! Before we knew it, we were back in Salem to drop off Ann, visit my parents, and collect Patica. Just over an hour later, I had transferred my gear (and dog) from Karin's car to mine and arrived at home.

All in all, it was a great day. Not laborious at all.

Fiddles, pipes, and guitars—oh my!

Today's sole activity was attending the New World Festival, which offers a whopping 12 hours of music for just $25—a bargain no matter how you slice it! So after we "did our farm chores" (i.e., followed Jinny around as she watered and fed the fowl, all the while telling us about the heritage breeds she had chosen and answering our many questions), we headed about 20 minutes away to Randolph.

The town of Randolph was all but consumed by the festival. We traded our ticket voucher for hip green bracelets around 11:30 am (a half-hour before the first show was scheduled to begin), then walked down the street to find coffee. We soon came back to check out the fun stuff for sale, bought T-shirts and cool jewelry as souvenirs, sniffed out the food offerings, and settled in for our first show. Atlantic Crossing (a Vermont band that plays local contra dances, Jinny says) played the first of many great sets we'd hear before dragging ourselves out of the dance tent just before midnight.

When all was said and done, I had enjoyed the musical prowess of 11 performers! Some of my favorites of the day were Claude Méthé (an oldie but goodie from Québec), Réveillons! and Raz-de-Marée (also from Québec), Cantrip (not Catnip!; from Edinburgh, Scotland), and Nicholas Williams.

Although all the performers were worthy of a good round of applause, the prize for the most energetic, surprising, mesmerizing, get-up-and-dance sounds came from the McDades. Three talented siblings from Edmonton, Alberta—who play fiddle, various and sundry winds, and double bass (with backup by a percussionist and a guitarist)—have created a unique blend of music that won't let you stay in your seat. Spiced with unexpected twists in instrumentation and arrangements, what might have roots in traditional music is ratcheted up to a whole new level of consciousness. What's more, they make it look effortless! The sound almost defies description, but if I had to, I'd say that the McDades sound like a traditional Canadian-Celtic band that spent a long winter drinking vodka (straight up, of course) with the famous jazz greats in Eastern Europe—or something like that.

Do link through to some of the performers' websites; you won't be sorry. Check out some of their tunes, and buy the music if you like it!

So as not to omit the other catch phrases from the trip, I'll include them here. One of the concert venues was a church that clearly had ventilation problems; even early in the day, the sanctuary was stuffy and hot. After a couple of forays in there, Ann gave it her trademark description: SMELLS LIKE ASS. (So, it didn't really smell like, um, that, but it was unpleasant enough that I avoided that venue whenever possible.)

Also, an interesting outfit (a black bodysuit and skirt with red plaid accessories—including a bra worn over the bodysuit and a sporran over the skirt) prompted Ann to create a special moniker: TARTAN TITS.

And that is all she wrote! Till we go back next year, anyway …

Huge Tag Sale!

For this holiday weekend, I have planned a twofer of themed festivals and a farm camping experience that promises convenient, cheap accommodation with environmental value-added. Dubbed "Garlic and Gaelic," this minibreak is intended to provide me, Karin, and Ann some good food, fun times, many musical interludes, and maybe—just maybe—a bit of relaxation.

After more than our share of delays this morning (surprisingly, none due to the numerous self-professed HUGE TAG SALES that line Vermont's Route 9, which never were huge by our estimation), Karin expertly piloted us to the Garlic and Herb Festival in Bennington (c'mon, everybody say it: "Where Vermont begins!") midafternoon. We all agreed that "Garlic" was a bust—it totally didn't live up to its website description—but the garlic ice cream and garlic kettle corn were surprisingly good. We don't regret attending but wouldn't recommend it or go back.

To round out the anticlimactic Garlic Festival experience, I took uninspiring pictures of the Battle Monument (at 302 feet, the tallest structure in Vermont, sez the AAA guide, but I was too far away), then we piled back into the car. We traveled about 2 hours northeast to South Royalton (about as central in Vermont as you can get), which would be our home away from home for 2 nights.

Four Springs Farm is a working organic farm and CSA (which stands for Community Supported Agriculture—a way for customers to purchase a share of the farmer's harvest before the growing season begins and receive harvested produce through summer and fall) where owner-farmer Jinny Cleland grows vegetables, berries, herbs, and bedding and ornamental plants; raises pasture-raised laying chickens, meat chickens, and turkeys (Bourbon Reds and another); offers educational programs; runs an off-season bakery; and rents space to tenters or even offers "farm vacations" to families or groups. The farm was a nice alternative to the usual campground, and Jinny is a wealth of information!

Ephemera

Thought for the day: Stop to marvel at the ephemeral beauty of a dewdrop as it glistens on a blade of grass in the morning sun, because with every moment that passes, the sun hastens the dewdrop to its inevitable demise.

Living on

What joy! I have one of Bounthong's beautiful plants. It's still recovering from the weekend it spent out in the sun at the apartment, but I have every hope that it will survive. What's more, Koukaï told me that this plant roots easily, so I plan to start some new plants for several people who (not surprisingly) also wish that they had a little remembrance of a special woman who touched their lives.

And today, the Koukaïs are back in Brussels to pick up their lives where they left off 6 weeks ago (or 4 months ago, or a year ago, or even 18 months ago).

One week ago

One week has passed since Bounthong died (notice that I don't use euphemisms)—and finally, I have a chance to write about how the aftermath unfolded. I've back-dated the posts so they're in chronological order (thus shorter and easier to read as installments).

My anger about the plants had not lessened much when I called the apartment today. I didn't want to talk to Seuth, so I asked for Koukaï. I apologized to her for not visiting last night to help her with the clearing out and explained how upset I had been at her father. She seemed surprised, so I guess he hadn't told her what I had said—or maybe he just didn't get it. (He is a guy, after all.)

I told Koukaï that I could stop by any time today, to help her in any way I could, pick up anything she wanted to send to Goodwill, and say goodbye. Because she still wanted to go through her mother's things and many people were expected in the afternoon, she asked me to come in the evening, when we would be able to sit and talk.

When I arrived around 7 pm, Thuy was there. I asked her whether she had been too late for the plants, too, but to my surprise, she said that she had been able to take a few before Seuth started pitching. She said that she had left the plant with white flowers for me, but that she had taken two others of the same type (with red flowers, though) and some Christmas cactus. "I only wanted one of the tall plants," I said, and she replied that I could come pick one up whenever at her house. Not wanting to miss out again, I followed her home when she left.

Back at the apartment, Koukaï and I talked a bit but were often interrupted by phone calls—people checking in or wishing her a good trip home. Tioy stopped by to send a fax, so we visited with her for a while.

At some point the phone stopped ringing, people stopped coming, and we could just talk. Koukaï told me about her mother's last few days in general and her last day in great detail. She explained that she hadn't called me on Sunday or Monday (when Bounthong clearly was nearing the end) because she didn't want to ruin my birthday. She spoke of the intense connection she had shared with her mother during these last weeks, coming to accept the reality of the situation that faced them, and the difficulty in letting go when the final moments arrived. At once remembering the past and thinking to the future, she told me of her plans to go back to the temple in Laos that her mother had helped build, to continue the work that her mother had started.

I know that we will keep in touch, even if her mother is here with us no longer. If Bounthong was my second mother, then Koukaï is my first sister.