Drew waved us down at a fork, angled light in trees. We learned names later.
On his parents Winnepesaukee teak patchwork island we rinsed, dried, pressed blueberries: elixir on simmer, we danced to bluegrass. I wish I could remember the names. Two women yodelers.
Seeing my skip and heart alight, Drew said I must go to Lyons. RockyGrass sold out, I flew west for Folks Fest and wound up barefoot in the Saint Vrain talking to the owner, to land a dance gig of dreams.
Bela Fleck is my cooking soundtrack of choice. He’s deepened and steadied my position with clients in ways I’ve come to expect – respect by association. Love Bela, be loved. Talk about banjo’s rather than breadcrumbs and kitchen life ignites.
At the Music Hall, I sat front row, last minute. Newborn baby backstage, Abby teased her husband – the best known banjoist, and us, as long as we could take it. I left at intermission because the beauty was too much.
That’s years after Drew and our rainy day pick.
Three Mile Island is operated by the AMC. Another day I’ll tell you about the virgin caretaker of Carter Notch.
Thigh deep in bog water, we stretched to tangled branches. Sliding fingers down pregnant twigs, berries nudged in makeshift buckets, cobalt SOLO cups.
The rain started halfway through, stronger all the time. We were drenched, silent. Arms up, pressed together, harvesting. Sometimes leaning to reach the next higher cluster. One would walk a bit around the bush and it would pull the other in tow, then pendulum swing-round away. Looking up to rain, drops on lashes and pools on brows, lips and lids in stream.