All in Good Time

I should write. It has been a month, a month of Big Things. I suppose the one that was the most fun that I almost missed was going on stage at Art in the Vineyard to receive the Community Partners award for the Radar Angels. I had so many reasons why I couldn't go, from sheer overwhelm to not being in the Jell-O Art season to a reluctance to put together a costume for a three-minute occasion. What I learned for the zillionth time is that I never know how something is going to actually be and the more I get wrapped up in my imaginary scenario for it, the more I miss. I threw a costume together two days before it, and that turned out to be the best part, not a chore at all. We sang a song without a rehearsal and that was embarrassing, but the bar was low for the Queen of Jell-O Art and apparently I was easily forgiven for not getting the lyrics right. I kept trying to hand the mic back to Kitty while she gamely sang and danced. I got to see the fireworks and hanging out with Indi, Angela and Joanie was really great. At one point Indi said "We are so lucky to have each other!" That summed up the whole Radar Angels/Jell-O Art/ 40 years in Eugene/artistic life equation neatly, and I hope I never forget that moment, with the glorious summer evening sky, the old folks hopping to the Sugar Beets, the multiple-generation Radars shining, and me in my cute red petticoat and 4th of July shoes. I only wish I would have thought to take the moment to get the Mayor to wear some Jell-O Art on her head: what a missed opportunity that was.

The main reason I tried to get out of it was the pre-Fair overwork and that's just my usual excuse for missing the beginning of summer every year. I never think I can fit in a single additional thing, having my holy workload all lined out right up to the minute. Because once you get to Fair your fate is sealed, in the retail sense; if you didn't bring it you won't sell it. So much focus is on the retail: selling the new stuff, getting rid of the old stuff, having enough of all the items people will want, based on thirty years of experience and a lifetime of people-pleasing and hard work. I really get deep into an obsessive state that doesn't lift until all the items are dusted off and stowed again, though it slows down considerably during the post-Fair week. I always dream I'll get a vacation then, but I almost never do. Summer is t-shirt season and I sold out of lots of the popular hats, so both me and my printing customers needed stock built up again right away.

I do lose the anxiety of the deadline and all of the dread that comes with Fair. Will it rain? This year the chance of rain on Thursday evening was 80% (the mixed blessing of smartphones) so we put up the giant tarp over my selling area and my sleeping area and there were a few drops. About midnight it rained for an hour, keeping me from sleeping but lulling me into a relaxed state that lasted. Fair is a slog of  hard work, though, getting up early, staying up late, keeping on task for six days with the involvement of lots of people. I rarely look up and enjoy it. This year we did do some fun hanging out on our decks out back and I got to see more of my son and his wife than usual, but I didn't really dance much. The lovely Radars came by on Sunday for a couple of songs on the path! I even had a Jell-O Art Show t-shirt on that day so the moment was sweet. I had a walk in the dark around the property on Tuesday or Wednesday night, listening to the birds and insects and the ramping up of the energy as the event launched itself on it's bumbling way to euphoria.

One afternoon I was coming back from lunch at the Avant Gardens when I happened upon the Rabbit Hole and tiptoed in. A tall man was in the center of a tight group of singing people, and he seemed to be teaching rounds parts. I stepped in closer and picked up a second-soprano part and watched and listened while it came together. The song was a simple one about teaching children the songs so they will know. It spoke of deep values and the many senses. When everyone was singing the tall man told people to listen to each other, and everyone started walking around the circle, singing and hearing. I started crying, kept singing, and just let the tears come. Later that day the man came into my booth and picked up a hat, the Nuthatch. I immediately told him to please take it as my gift, and explained how much I had loved the moments I spent singing. We talked for awhile and almost in passing he told me he led grief workshops. I hadn't even realized I was grieving.

That's what Fair often is for me, the place where I grieve and find the deepest joy. It really is a sacred place and a central point in my emotional and physical year. So many passages are marked then and there. I miss the dead, I mourn and celebrate my youth and growth. I rest easy about the future. Yes, the year will come when I am not there. My art and my goods and my booth will be no more, and a few people will notice and perhaps miss me. It's a big place, though, with a gigantic populace, and it will all most certainly go on without me, and not miss a beat. I like the humbling aspect of that. I like that I can be and feel so important in such little ways, with the knowledge that so many others are of equal importance, and none of it matters when Monday comes and we all go back to town for another year. It's never over really, since Fair itself is more than the event, but the event part of it is certainly over-the-top and spilling out, way too much to hold onto.

I suppose that is why I don't seem to take any photos. They'd look ordinary, probably, people eating things and dressing up slightly weirdly, smiling a lot and hurrying off to somewhere and something else. They'd be the same as many other photos of many other years. It's hard to separate the memories. We often speak of them in regard to the ages of our kids, who grew up there. It is always good to have the kids there together, still friends, still family. Family was good out there this year.

But now it's over. Lane County Fair is over too, and again I didn't go though it is less than a block away from my house. I always think I will, but it's too soon for me. I'm still washing tarps and drying rugs. There are still many boxes and tubs to sort through. I had to get right back to Market and Tuesday Market, as the tourist season is great this year! I'm still on a high that has lasted since the spring. I hope I never come down.

But I do think hard about my sister and her silent house. So glad she has a dog...maybe I need a dog. She's going through the parenting pain of the later highschool years, such a painful time to be a parent for most people. You wonder if your child will ever love you. You are pretty sure you still desperately love your child but you do hope they will turn back into a person you recognize. You slowly let them slip away from your arms and you long for them. This goes on for years. It's a harsh passage, and I understand why people get so silly over grandchildren and cling so tightly to their old and balding husbands. I sometimes think a husband would be good for me, or even a cat, but I do have the birds in my yard and the mama and baby possum under my deck to keep me from getting lonely. I don't get lonely, but I do feel the limits I impose on my life. If I had someone making it impossible for me to avoid taking a vacation, or even a walk after dinner, I would rest more and not work so much. Perhaps. But she needed her husband for this part, and that must be so much harder. I think of her all the time. I hope she hears me.

However, it is Monday and there is work to be done.  Getting up for Tuesday Market has been hard, which means I have to go to bed earlier tonight. No watching old Antiques Roadshow. No sitting around on the deck until I have to scramble to get dinner made before it gets dark. No putting off what is on my list.

Truth is, I even stopped making lists this summer. They were always the same lists: paint the porch, stain the wood, replace the roof, clean the shed, dig up the garlic, wash the windows. Fix the plumbing. Sweep the sidewalk. I know what there is to do. I don't have to tell myself over and over. I just have to do it. One job at a time, one print at a time, one plant at a time. I love the ordinary summer. I'm happy it finally got here after the rush that was spring. I feel like I can finally write again.