Who Won?
Not Me, That's for Sure
One of the things I enjoyed about "going around playing music"
was ... well, if I'm being honest, pretty much all of it. I
could have done without some of the greasy-spoon meals-on-the-
go, and the occasional night of trying to sleep on someone's
floor while their cat is trying to fix my hair for me. But
when all is said and done we always had a good time, on
someone else's nickel, and I could always count on coming
home with a story or three.
Let me give an example. One of my bands spent a pleasant fall
weekend driving around upstate New York, stopping occasionally
to play for a dance. One of the dances was in or near
Cooperstown and we stayed in a nearby town.
Our hostess worked at a farm museum and we were able to spend
the afternoon there. It was set up as a working farm with
colonial-era buildings, barnyard animals, and farm implements.
And, best of all, a tavern, complete with a fireplace,
authentic period pastries, and a coffee pot.
The four of us would have made terrible colonial farmers but
we did all right at getting rid of coffee and pastries. And
sitting near the fireplace.
There were some parlor games, too, and Gordon and I were
trying to figure out how to play one of them. There was a
sign which prohibited wagering but we decided "loser has to
drive the first three hours tomorrow" didn't count. For one
thing, the "winner" would still be in the car for those three
hours, and probably would have to drive for the next three.
Is anything really at stake in such a "wager?" It's a
philosophical question.
As we were doing this an "older" couple stopped and watched
for a few minutes. I say "older" but I don't think they were
as old as I am now. They moved on and we continued playing
the game.
Maybe an hour later we were out walking across the grounds
and someone passing the other way said, out of the clear
blue, "Who won?" I had no idea who they were or what they
were talking about (don't get ahead of me) so I pretended
not to hear and kept walking. It seemed like the safest
option.
I walked another ten yards or so and got it. "Oh! The woman
in the tavern." And I was kind of mortified.
I wound up in the gift shop and ... here she comes. She had
not seen me so I disappeared into the taller shelves in the
back and tried to stay out of sight. But she stayed in the
front of the store and I could not exit without passing
directly in front of her.
I had only one option at that point. "Ma'am, I was really
rude a minute ago..." Her posture and facial expression
indicated she did not disagree. "But it just caught me off
guard and I couldn't for the life of me figure out if you
were asking about a ball game, or what ..." I went on to tell
her the game had ended in a draw - let's just say that it
had - and we had a pleasant, if brief conversation.
And I was able to get some of the authentic Colonial-era
farm-fresh egg off my face.
True Story
Suggested reading:
My First Time at Greenfield
In which I find a new home. Metaphorically speaking.
I Can Quit Whenever I Want To
In which I kick the coffee habit. Until about lunch time.
Full Moon Over Peterborough
In which Bob shows the dancers what he's made of.
Perhaps Samuel Butler was right
In which I learn that "on the job training" is not always the best choice.
Friends, Romans, Countrymen... Grab yer partners!
Caller Bernie Chalk came not to bury Caesar but to do-si-do with him.
Some experience required.
You never forget your first time.
Time Travel!
Return to those days of yesteryear
The $20 Fiddle Tune
We're not in it for the money, but neither do we turn it down.
Is That Guy Okay?
A case of mistaken identity.
Every Fiddle Has a Story...
... but they can't talk.
Mmm, Ham...
In which Pete and I rely on the kindness of strangers.
Not Sure Who Won But I Can Tell You Who Lost
In which I wind up with farm fresh historically accurate Colonial-era egg on my face.
Happy New Year
In which the New Year creeps in on little cat feet.