I have a few more pictures from the weekend at the Graves Mountain Festival of Music that I thought I’d throw onto the screen for you. In other music-making news, I’m working on “the chop” and lamenting that I did not inherit my mother’s long fingers.
These folks had the right idea. The stream ran right past the stage and the most clever of the bunch just put their chairs right into the water, while the rest of us baked on the lawn.
I turn to my friend in the lawn chair beside me, give him a blissed-out smile that is equal parts sunburn and warm wine, and with my generally dormant mountain accent turned up to thick and dripping, sigh, “Lord, I love the smell of honeysuckle on the night air.”
And, in agreement, the band on stage at Graves Mountain Festival of Music sings back to me across the packed lawn that they, too, know there’s nothing quite like honeysuckle on a summer night.
That about sums up my experience at my first bluegrass festival. One big, musical call-and-response of affirmation and peacefulness.