Corn Hill Festival

Our chosen walking adventure for this weekend was the Corn Hill Festival. It doesn't have quite the appeal of the Lilac Festival, which could well be Drew's favorite festival of all time. It's about six of one, half dozen of the other since both festivals offer the work of local and interested artists, typical fair foods like fried dough, kettle corn, and cotton candy, all of which we indulged in this year, and blocks of walking in hopefully good weather.

Sunday afternoon was sunny with a gentle breeze. I vaguely remembered that they ran shuttle buses from the east end garage, so we drove downtown first to see if they still offered that service. Turns out they didn't, but it was great to see my old haunts - Eastman School of Music, where I worked for seven years as the Sound Recording Archivist, the downtown malls, the little eateries nearby many of ethnic persuasion - my first experience with Indian, Thai, African, Ethiopian and Greek foods- the Hochstein School of Music - it looked pretty much the same even though I have been told they did some major renovations to the interiors. Slowly the street names came drifting back through the fog of absence, and I got my bearings, remembering where to go and what streets to take.

We parked near Hochstein and walked a half dozen blocks to the festival. There was a surprising absence of sound - no screams from rides, no music, no blaring loudspeakers. Every corner had a policeman directing traffic, and little groups of people wandered toward us, heading home after their explorations were done. Some carried odd looking water sprinklers made of copper, others toted pictures or furniture. Most were arm in arm, chatting easily and smiling. Then at crest of the hill we little tents and booths set up along the sides of the streets, dwarfing the elegant old homes and filled to overflowing with all types of wares.

We wandered up one street and down another. My sister Mary used to live in the Corn Hill district, and I remember her complaining about the traffic and the crowds and how it impeded her travel to and from work. The price you pay for living in the cultural district I guess.

There was so much to see it was hard to take it all in. My strategy is to only stop where something catches my attention, otherwise we would be there for hours and hours. If I find something I am interested in, I ask for a card and explore websites after the fact. That cuts down on impulse buying.

Only rarely do I ever purchase something on the spot. For one thing, the prices are prohibitive. For another, things that seem fabulous at the moment often have less appeal on second look. We found tie dies, natural cotton clothes, hand spun wools and yarns, hand woven scarves, thousands of drawings, photographs, water colors, oils, jewelry of every imaginable size shape and design, clever ideas, home crafted you-name-its, stained glass everything, bowls, pottery, window decor, wreaths, plants, kites, leather purses, wooden carvings, picture frames made of many different substances - I could go on for some time.

It's mind boggling to think of the hours and hours of manpower that went into making all those things. And when you think about it, nothing we saw was a necessity of life. I can live very well without ever having any of those things, thank you very much. And yet how fascinating to see the creativity, the purposefulness, the thought and imagination that provided such rich variety.

It was a wonderful afternoon. What a great way to get some exercise. I brought home a dozen cards, and will eventually do some online looking. Who knows? Maybe I will even get something!