On Thursday night, under the fading light of dusk, I sat listening to music at an outdoor show / wingfest. There were probably a few hundred people at the concert. The lines for everything (especially the wings) were long. About half-way through the event they started running out of the good beer. I don’t think they were expecting so many people. When I got to the venue, a ski slope and lodge, I stood in line thinking all of my usual “anxious” thoughts. What if this is the line for people who already have tickets? What if they don’t sell tickets or are sold out? How many tickets do I need to buy to get wings and beer…? etc. etc. Standing there, I became increasingly aware of the weight and bulkiness of my lawn chair (I could have sat in the grass) and the proximity of the other people in line. I’m not used to being around this many people, and I kinda hate the chair.
The chair…. it’s black and beige, big and clunky. It has a fold up shade that’s the size of a storefront awning. It’s legs are rickety and the nylon and fabric is starting to fray. I bought it a few years ago when a woman I was dating was going to a blues festival with me. She was concerned about sunburn (I don’t blame her – I burned almost every year I attended) – hence the canopy / awning that can be seen from space. She appreciated the thoughtfulness – we were still in that early phase when minor gestures have significance. Now I use the chair because my chair (lighter, simpler, and more compact) broke sometime before my move to Memphis. As the chair weighed on me (literally), I thought I should just trash it and get a new one. That was when I thought about the symbolism… dragging around this clunky thing from the past that is slowly losing its usefulness, slowly inching its way towards little more than sentiment. It felt oddly poetic.
As I posted to Facebook a photo or two of the setting sun, I was shown a memory from four years ago. It was from the same blues festival back home but a year earlier and with my friend Tim. I shared that memory and told Tim I miss hanging out with him – even in the July heat. Being outside and remembering past festivals made me feel nostalgic and warm and happy to be getting back to some type of normal and the things I enjoy.
These outdoor shows always bring out a variety of people and make me feel connected to strangers. At the blues fest, you’d see plenty of “biker” types, but also some folks reading the New York Times. This show on Thursday had a mix of young and old, bikers and professors, hippies and preppies… Sitting next to me was an older couple, and in front of me were a group of friends and their young kids. A little girl named Piper who was maybe two or three – old enough to toddle, walk, and run, but not yet talk came over to say hi. Her parents looked on. She then started playing this game where she would run in to her mom’s arms, and then come back over to me for a high five. It was cute.
Back home, I usually went to the blues festival on my own. I took my chair and a cooler full of beer and people watched. Every once in a while Tim would join me, but for the most part I was there solo, a random face in the crowd. That was how it felt here among people who were just happy to be out among other people. Sun, food, music, and drinks – something new and entirely familiar.
