So a recurring theme of my life for many years is that I find some thing, some place, some event, some community that I enjoy, value, cherish. I seek to support this entity; I volunteer, I teach, I rise to what I jokingly refer to as my "level of incompetence". And I realize that whatever magic is happening, that I may be instrumental in creating or supporting, I am unable to participate in because I am so involved in making it happen.
The Falcon Ridge Folk Festival has become like that for me. I love this festival this community. I work my ass off for weeks before the fest setting up the merch spreadsheet, and over the four days of the fest. I buy supplies that exceed the cost of a camping ticket, without compensation because I know the fest runs on fumes, financially. Yet I am wholly detached from it. This year, I did not sit in front of a single stage, did not join a single song circle. I barely had time for a shower (1 in four days) or sit-down meals in the volunteer tent (2 in four days). I opened up the merch area at 9 am daily, I closed it down after 11, and I rarely left the merch tent except for short breaks - effectively 14 hour workdays.
I noticed. At the closing song, the dudes from Adam Ezra Group who were checking out merch stopped, faced the stage in a sort of reverence. I chugged past with my head down, a box of CDs in my hands, a queue of artists lined up to check out, knowing that while everyone was at Five Brothers enjoying their post fest meal, I'd still be counting CDs so dammit, no time to stop. Jesus, Buddha, Woody, Pete, and Bruce Springsteen coulda been up there singing that damned song and I'd be oblivious.
So if I was surly this weekend, or short, or snapped at you, apologies. I love you all dearly. But it's hard not to be resentful of everyone for whom Falcon Ridge is this magical place, which is to say, most of you. It's really not that way for me. I show up every year, do my job, but more and more it's like I am tending a grave. Duty. Memory. Habit. This year I moved my campsite up behind the merch tent - in 2016 I never visited my campsite except to sleep; in 2017 at least I got to step away for short breaks, to change my clothes or grab a drink or to cook myself a little something, but it also served to isolate me from the volunteer community, from the folks I've camped near and with for 20+ years.
I've tried to change things from within over many years - but this fest operates with a level of inertia and stubbornness that resists such mission critical things as online ticket sales, a responsive website, an actual presence on social media. So "we've always done it this way" seems to be pretty much the answer to any suggestion or attempt to improve things. The fest pretty much operates exactly the same as it did in 1992.
This may finally be the year I step back, give someone else a crack at merch wrangling. It seems hard to imagine anyone else doing what I do, but of course someone will step up - if I got run over by a rogue golf cart, someone would have to. In the meantime, I watch my Facebook timeline filled with love and memories and warmth from the festival weekend that people look forward to all year with both wistfulness and resentment. I'd love to go to that festival, it sounds like fun.