I’m sitting in a coffeehouse in Windsor, CT. The Lovely Centre Coffee Bar of fame and our meagre fortune has an air conditioning problem and we’re singing encouragement to the repair guy up on the roof.
A long drive, we detoured through Pennsylvania to avoid the tolls of I-95. We actually evaded traffic up till Connecticut, but then, just as we thought we were home-free red tail-lights finally invaded our vision.
I think we’re finally getting the hang of this whole travelling thing. We’ve got a couple of gaps to fill in to break up some of the longer drives, but I think we’re really mastering a circuit – with wonderful home-comings scattered across the country. The wounded and the broken-hearted and the freshly in Love. We’re a strange mix all coming together and enjoying the Connecticut air.
Something wonderful about the drive – wildflowers let loose about the medians (the neutral grounds, for you New Orleaners) attract hordes of butterflies. Flitting yellow and white like animate confetti exploding in a frenzy in patches over I-91.
The open mic itself was, just… wonderful. It’s good to be out and about again. The short stint home almost felt too long – only because I didn’t feel as settled as I have on previous landings. Like, I guess I found it harder this time around not to “have a home”, it really struck home… but it doesn’t matter once we’re moving again, so it’s like a return to normalcy. Plus we’re visiting friends again… Mike and his wife Gail light up when we spot one another across the crowded Centre Coffee room. The host, Eric, remembers us and makes a fuss, the owners, even the dog, Angus, sitting shaded under a tree out back, looks up and grins and wags his tail. (Yes, I’ve finally become convinced that dogs can grin)
Good talent tonight, and again, I’m reminded that if I’d grown up in the open mics that I’m visiting now, I wouldn’t be here today – I’d have simply gotten so discouraged at my comparative lack of talent, I would never have pushed on to be (moment of non-humble robness) as fucking awesome as I am today.
Lance popped in, fresh with a Harry Potter-esque scar gleaned from hand-to-hand combat with the patio door, and he and Heather traded poetry and stories and excitement, and I can’t wait for him to get a chance to hear us as a trio.
Driving back to Mike’s, the darkness of Connecticut roads, worrying that I’m not remembering it all as clearly as I thought I would (though I did)… we pull up his long, winding driveway in pitch black country darkness, and find a light on up ahead of us.
Mike’s standing with a big sound system set up in a barn, lights blazing, guitar blaring. It’s an excellent welcome. I have just finished the latest Harry Potter book, and Rowling’s words always leave me with a craving for the crispness of Christmas or at least some semblance of autumn. Summer in Maryland is destined to leave me wanting – but driving up to the barn, the weather cooling in the woods and the dark, there is the sound of leaves being pushed and rustling as Heather sings ave marias into a reverb saturated microphone… it’s not Christmas, but I lie on the asphalt thinking that it ain’t half bad.
