Where the music takes me

I grabbed a dusty, old cd out of the rack one morning last week. Looking for a change of pace to shake me out of the rut of the long commute, I picked up John Hartford’s Aereo-Plain, which I haven’t listened to in years. And as the bright notes of the banjo were joined by the playful wail of the bluegrass fiddle, the morning sun breaking across the 10-lane interstate became instead the sun rising on a folk festival forty years past. Beams of sunlight lance sideways through the deep green shade of the trees, sparkling like gold with the moisture in the summer air as the stage goes up and tents unfurl around the field. The smell of fresh bread and bacon hangs in the air, and people move in tie-dye and denim, embroidered cotton and long skirts. And the music, before the crowds have arrived and the formal performances have started, is everywhere … sweet and sad and joyful and heart-rending all at once, like life itself.