At our beloved (8 years running!) Folk Festival. Three days (minus one for us this year because of the pouring, driving rain) of fun, music, sunshine, dancing, bare feet on the grass, good food, running into people we know, and wondering how we will make it a full year before it all happens again.
Beautiful Tia with her sassy new do.
Ella LOVES the "Folk Festible" as she calls it. She has every year since she was in my belly and was jumping around in there. This was her fifth year. We counted down the days, the minutes until we could romp around the Bangor waterfront and jump to fiddle tunes and jam our faces with kettle corn. Can you see it?
We packed the buggy for the kids and packed it with blankets so they could fall asleep (yeah, right) since we had them out 3 hours past their bedtime. I was sitting on the blanket piled with kids and Sandi?
Well...
Well...
As we were watching the end of an all-women Irish group, Ella said she was ready to go (something so unusual we took heed and packed our piles of stuff at warp speed.) We were navigating the buggy through the throngs of people and she says, "Momma. I'm about to cry." This is akin to, "the A bomb is about to detonate" because she doesn't mean a couple of tears; she means a full out losing of the the marbles. We hightailed it out and she was asleep as soon as we hit the sidewalk.
And when we drove by the waterfront the day after the festival ended, Ella and I sighed deep, sad sighs as they disassembled the stages and packed it up. I remembered that I go through this every year. The festival marks the end of August, the end of summer, the start of a new season, a new year. I will get over it. Just maybe not today.
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