A Sunday at Mississippi Riverfest

Yes, I know that you think that you are a whole lot younger than me, but your day will come, so let me tell you about my weekend. Our local university spends a little money every Spring to bring in some music talent, and also give the local artists and non-profit groups an opportunity to make a little money.

I am still learning about this whole thing about getting old. It seemed to me that, except for a few awkward years as a teenager, that aging was a more or less straight line progression, so I wasn't really prepared for my reaction to a day in the park. When I got home, I wrote a little story.

The first sense to be awakened as I drove past Riverside Park was the awareness of the sweet smell of grilled onions, mixed with browning meat and popcorn. Then I heard the purr of electric generators servicing a dozen lunch wagons, followed at last by the sounds of music. These all faded into the background as I concentrated on finding a place to park.

The curbs of the tree lined streets were filled with all matter of transportation with new vans and expensive trucks, sprinkled in between cars that might have pre-dated their owners in age, and were physically neglected by college students who had more important priorities. My Subaru seemed to fit somewhere in between. By the time I found a parking space, I was nearly a half a mile from my destination, and I was having second thoughts about spending the afternoon at the Annual Mississippi Riverfest. But I got caught up in the thongs of people on the sidewalk, and I started to feel a little stronger and my step was not quite as labored. As I walked, I became aware of sights and sounds around me, and the gap in time between the first walk down this sidewalk nearly 15 years ago and today seemed to melt away.

The trees are still bare, and the grass is just starting to turn green, but there were flashes of bright colors everywhere. The lunch wagon offering cheese curds and corndogs was a bright yellow, the popcorn vendor's tent had a bright green top, and the Greek gyro stand was white with bright red letters across the it's banner. I was determined to eat something new to me, so the Greek Shredded Chicken, with a variety of somewhat unfamiliar vegetables wrapped in pita bread was the first course. That was followed by fresh roasted corn on the cob that was stripped of it's charred husks in front of my eyes and plunged into a vat of bubbling hot butter. Memories of eating corn on the cob at my Mother's table came back to me, and for a moment I was sent backwards nearly 50 years in time.

The grounds of what is normally a very quiet park on a modest bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, was covered with life. People on the ground, on blankets, sitting on coolers, and others just milling around. The sun was bright, and the air was warm enough to make me shed my sweatshirt, yet cool enough to encourage the young women to wear enough clothing, to the point that they were not too distracting. Lots of curves, but a minimum of skin was being offered to the harsh rays of an April Sun. But there were plenty of sights to enjoy and ponder. A young man walked by with a 6 foot snake wrapped over his shoulders. Another had a live Bobcat draped around his neck with the disarmed paws on his back. One young couple, which appeared to be from India had a Ferret on a leash.

There were many dogs, nearly half of them were Black Labradors, in all sizes, but a variety of breeds were represented. I saw a German Sheppard, several Bassets Hounds, a few little pug nosed things, a Saint Bernard, some Poodles, and even a Mastiff with its big squared off head. One of the Black Labs was in a harness pulling his paraplegic master around in his wheelchair. In a former life, over 40 years ago, I had been a mail carrier, and thoughts of that skinny 118 pound frame playing with the dogs came back to me when one of those big brutes started licking my beard. There was one dog that was being led around by an uniformed police officer. The enthusiastic Collie seemed to be paying more attention to coolers and backpacks, then the trees that were being marked constantly by the rest of the four footed clan.

Off to my right, on a small stage, I heard a folk singer. Off to my left was a group of young girls, clad in very modest black tights, dancing to the music of Pakistan. Down over the bluff, on the river's edge was a heavy metal band starting to warm up. Three local radio stations, two from town and one from the University Campus across the river had each staked out a corner and as I walked around the park, the music of one would fade out as I became aware of the next. None of the music was at all familiar to me, but with the exception of the heavy metal band, it all sound pleasant, and I was slowly becoming a part of the crowd.

I wandered around little tent covered booths run by a variety of Craft Merchants and non-profit groups. Sand blasted wine bottles in one, jewelry in another, wool clothing from Peru, and masks and carvings from Africa. Here was a face painter, there a woman in a traditional Somali dress doing very delicate scroll work on a young woman's arm, and at the end of the row, an artificial climbing wall. For a dollar, I could have thrown three very ripe tomatoes at head sticking through a plywood board, or for five dollars had my picture taken in a very oversized chair that would have made an interesting sight. I would have appeared to being 5 years old again, but with a gray beard.

I spent nearly four hours just wandering around, petting dogs, looking a people and listening to music that was starting to sound familiar to me. The sun was warm, the sweatshirt was tied around my waist, and I was really feeling like a part of the crowd that were mostly college students. I was looking down towards the heavy metal band at the bottom of the bluff when I saw a familiar face. Her name is Jenny. She had been one of the many part time employees that had passed through our company. She was very good when she was there, but because she also was a student and sometimes worked the overnight shift at a local factory, she quite often overslept and was not with us very long. She was holding a small baby in her arms.

When I walked up to her, she smiled and I looked at the little bundle in her arms. She told me that her daughter was only three weeks old, and that Sammy, another of our former employees was the father. She was living with her parents, and Sammy had also moved back to his home.

I sat down on the ground, and asked if I could hold the baby. When Jenny placed the child in my lap, the little girl smiled at me and grabbed the tip of my little finger. Jenny is only 24, younger than my own children, and just for a few moments, I was allowed to play the role of a Grandfather. Suddenly I felt very old again.

On the ride home, the car radio was set to the College Station, but the music was once again meaningless noise.