Home away from home

I spent all day yesterday at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass in Golden Gate Park. San Francisco seems to be the capital of free concerts, and this one takes the cake, in my book. Three days of the biggest names in bluegrass, five concert stages, all free. Sadly, I managed to miss Elvis Costello, Gillian Welsh, and Steve Earle. Yesterday, however, was basically the most perfect day in San Francisco history. We're talking a cloudless sky, folks. This does not happen often! So the sis and I packed up a blanket, copious amounts of sunscreen (SPF 8 million), and a few bottles of water, and walked the five blocks to the Park.

There were thousands of people on the lawn in front of each stage. San Franciscans are not accustomed to sunshine, and immediately don their skimpiest attire for any outdoor event that involves sun. This is a city in which public nudity is legal, folks. Be forewarned. There were rows and rows of shacks selling fair food. Sis and I immediately acquired a corn dog apiece. (Ready to be floored? It was the first corn dog EVER for both of us. Um, yeah.) Then we scoped out a spot on the ground, between a big group of very drunk 40-somethings and a dad and two tiny kids. The kids spent the better part of the day "wrestling" with the dad, which seemed to involve a lot of jumping on his back and kicking him. And people wonder why I don't think I want children of my own. They seem to be such a joy!

Bluegrass is the music I grew up with. An Appalachian girl from a very young age, I had the added advantage of two parents who really found folk music fascinating. I remember all of us piling into the van and driving an hour or so to Cochran's General Store. Honestly, I couldn't tell you in what township this was located, but Cochran's was an institution. You could buy anything there, from five kinds of honey on the comb to overalls and boots to burlap sacks of flour to the reddest, most disgusting hot dogs I've ever seen or hope to see. Cochran's was also the home of a nightly bluegrass jam. Local musicians would show up, and the store employees would push all the shelving units out of the way. We'd sit on top of barrels and watch people flat-footing as the musicians played. It sounds like Andy Griffith, I know, but things move slower in the mountains.

As we sat in the sun yesterday, listening to the accents of home and the sounds of my childhood, I completely forgot that I was in San Francisco. (Okay, with the notable exception of when the fighter planes flew over from the Fleet Week expo by the Bay.) Despite my inch-thick layer of sunscreen, I still have a wide swath of red blooming on my back. Most notably, I can't seem to shake my own accent. My vowels are longer than they've been in months, and the cadence of my speech has slowed to the approximate speed of "molasses in January." Oh yeah, I went there. For at least one day, the dull homesickness I've been feeling evaporated. It was a good day.