(Boontling for 'good drinkin' at the party')
I snuck back to the Bay this weekend, leaving as soon as I arrived for the Wild Iris Folk Festival in Boonville, home of many fine beers(including He'Brew) and probably the only enclave in California with its own regional dialect.
The festival was perfect-a small crowd of 500 where many spent their hours playing in impromptu jams instead of attending the performances, and where Utah Philips stands behind you in line for pancakes and nobody notices. It's a rough life indeed, going from tent to stage to cooler, munching on brie, getting a little Cali sunshine. We even constructed a washtub bass and played in our own little hillbilly band that night, banjo, guitars and all.
Monday was spent grazing the Vigil back forty, netting 5 cherries, three artichokes, and the last of the fava beans. The nasturtiums planted over Mat/t's grave are sporting dozens of red, peppery flowers(they're mighty tasty). Some might be appalled at the cat communion , but the extra nitrogen is just the sort of thing that makes our fruit trees ever-abundant, and that's probably the way I want to be put into the ground.
I even had some family come out for a dinner of spring vegetables for my 'last night in town'. Ever since I left for Venezuela at age 17 I've been breezing through P-Hill for a week or two at a time, long enough to catch a McT party or a heated Trivial Pursuit battle at the Fulk residence, but never long enough to get a job or do anything remotely responsible. Marsha Fulk finally exposed me, asking every time we held an extended Sunday dinner party if it was my 'last night in town', her way of telling Ash that he should find a better excuse for the hordes who invaded her house and peed on her lawn on an almost weekly basis.
I've got my ticket out of Portland for June 30th, meaning that I'll have to throw a party here for my last night in town, maybe fulfilling my dream of turning the basement into a mini-bike velodrome.