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!

Fireworks!

Every year, staff from the library take the summer student workers to Frontier Field to see a Red Wings game. They invite staff families to get tickets at a special price and come along as well. "What a great idea," I thought. "The boys like sports, and this way they can get to know my colleagues while having fun." So I bought the tickets even though (I am almost ashamed to admit this - it seems so unAmerican) I don't really care for baseball. I have been to football, basketball, hockey, volleyball, and soccer games galore on the high school, college, and professional levels. But never to a baseball game on any level. I have friends who are avid fans, but I just can't get into a game that seems so inactive.

Turns out the boys didn't really want to go. I had to ask them to come for my sake. Drew was rather put out about being made to go, but since he had no choice in the matter, he found himself standing in line with the rest of the group, waiting for the gates to open at 5:30 (which thanks to Roberts early Friday closing we were able to be first in line!).

It seemed rather like a horse race when the gates opened and we all streamed inside. We were handed complimentary blue baseball hats with the logo of the evening's sponsor on it (and the three of us got our picture taken for the corporate newsletter), and we ordered pizza and rootbeer for dinner. We had plenty of time to eat before the game began, and our seats were about the best in the house - right behind home plate and high enough up to see everything. The young man who was to sing the national anthem paced about nervously while the boy scout troup marched onto the field with the flag and various officials surrounded them. We all stood for the singing - he did a marvelous job - cheering afterwards while they introduced the starting lineup (oops - a bit of football lingo jumped in).

I think I figured out how baseball has been able to stay a competitive sport for event attendance. Every minute or so, there was a sideline activity to keep you entertained when the game got slow. They gave away tickets, prizes, had the mascot throw baseballs up into the bleachers (and numerous pop flies took the same route to some eager child's hands), played music, got everyone clapping or cheering, ran contests, vendors hawked wares - it almost felt like some medieval renaissance fair. Except for the loud announcer's voice.

The boys ended up having a good time, and really got into repeating the players names with just the right inflection, especially enjoying the name Tommy Watkins. Even when it began to rain, no one wanted to leave. I put up my umbrella, and the boys just got wet. Fortunately, the rain stopped before the end of the game, and we were able to stay for the fireworks. I guess Rochester felt bad about our missing the Fourth of July celebrations and wanted to give us another chance. They even added music with lyrics that matched the weather and the colors and the noise (as kids we used to call fireworks bing-bang-booms).


All in all a wonderful evening topped off by a stop at Wegmans for ice cream on the way home.
Perhaps I would consider doing that again!

Jumping Jackets and Dead Rabbits

Every morning I drag Drew out of bed at 7am (and I do mean drag) and he walks me to work. It takes us about a half hour to wander over to campus through the little housing development next to our apartment complex. Drew brings his scooter and sometimes zooms ahead, especially when there is a bit of downhill to navigate. It is our special time to chat about nothing and everything, and some days the conversation is unique, other days ordinary.

Cloaked in the magic garb of morning, these little jaunts sometimes reward us with dazzling sunrise colors, unexpected glimpses of wildlife, and always glorious birdsong. Today we noticed how many little spiderwebs were outlined on the grass by the morning dew. As we walked along talking about this and that, I flipped my bag from one shoulder to the other to distribute the weight better, not paying much attention to the jacket draped across the top of my bag.


It wasn't until I got to the library that I noticed my jacket was no longer with my bag. I asked Drew to see if he could find it on his way home. He puttered on the computer for a few minutes, then headed back, retracing out path on the lookout for my black jacket. As he was passing Pearce Memorial Church, one of the women working in their summer camp program warned him that there was an almost dead bunny nearby that he should avoid as it was flopping about in the throes of death. I think it spooked Drew a bit.

He was almost home when he spotted something black on the ground near our building. He ambled over to the place, then reached down to pick it up when suddenly it jumped and yowled! Drew jumped back and screamed. What he thought was my jacket turned out to be a black cat who was just as surprised as Drew at the mixup.


Drew scrambled inside the house, his heart pounding. From his bedroom window, he spotted something else black on the ground. Cautiously, he went out and poked it with a stick. Sure enough, it was my jacket, safe and sound. He was kind enough to pick it up and bring it in the house for me. Thank goodness he was able to overcome dying rabbits and jumping jackets, and recover my jacket for wearing another day.