july 9, 2002.

The purple nailpolish I put on in Montreal is almost completely gone from my index fingers. I think it's time to write the final story and put that baby to bed.

So. StanFest 2002.

I'm having difficulty collecting myself to give a coherent summary of my feelings about this year's StanFest. Enjoyment, certainly. Much mind-blowing, many musical moments that left me dancing like a fool, screaming like a banshee, singing like a siren and laughing like a child. Miserable, limit-testing camping that included the briefest taste of trench-foot. "If it hadn't been for the Corvettes, we'd all be speaking German now." There was a Gospel hour that slaked an appetite I hadn't been aware of. Many insightful, funny conversations with George, my second favourite Quaker. Worshipping musicians, running across the field with Ana Bon-Bon to see another diva sing. Worrying about St. Stephen hitching in the rain, only to find out that he'd been picked up by a van of performers, and had drank rum with a folk singer and a harmonica prodigy all the way to Canso. A Valdy Conversion Experience that made me eat every derisive word I'd ever said or thought about the man.

Visiting Mother Webb's on the way to Wolfvegas and seeing a dozen performers at the next table. Chasing kids who had hopped the fence to get in free. Seeing a flesh-and-blood vision of my unborn son, trying to find his tiny pockets.

In the course of our security job, securing babies, patches of grass, plates of fries and George's gigantic beard. Watching St. Stephen get sucked into the magic. The glorious feeling when the sun came out on Saturday, and I wasn't wet for the first time since Thursday evening. The people camping next to us, college kids on a bender, bipeds who I only call humans for the sake of politeness (though they had none). Socks, drying in a row over the course of 4 very wet days. The Boy's infected cut on the sole of his foot. Deciding to leave the Boy for a friendly Blues singer after he made me cry (the Boy, that is). A too-short raga that spoke to the seagulls.

Just like last year, all I can spit out this early are four monosyllables: God Bless Stan Fest.

Thursday

We woke early, determined to get into the car by noon. Mustang Scotty does not boast of terrific cargo space, so several hours were spent in rearranging luggage. After removing all the crap from the previous owner (not to mention the spare tire), we had just enough room for everything. Unfortunately, the Boy had to leave his drum behind in the interests of leaving a spot for St. Stephen. This was the worst thing that happened, however: despite the soul-sucking heat & humidity, we were cheerful & hotly anticipatory of the spectacle to come.

The car ride was about seven hours long. Under the malicious sun, Mustang Scotty became an Inferno and I was quite sick to my stomach. As we passed through Antigonish, it began to cool down. And down. And down. Upon our arrival Canso was covered in a thick, cold, coastal blanket of fog. Tenty seemed pitifully inadequate, and I wondered what the hell we were thinking when we decided to camp on the edge of the world.

(from the road journal)

7:10

Twenty minutes on site and we have discovered that our simulations were painfully inadequate. This is no sunny afternoon on a well-manicured Wolfv. lawn, crouching in the middle of the tent as the Boy mists us with a garden hose. It's cold, it's wet and it's dark. Stepping onto our tilty site, I felt an immediate and primal need for shelter. Once the tent was up, I was cheerful in the face of the Boy's pessimism. - our usual emotional roles absolutely reversed.

We can do this. If our ancestors could cross the Sahara w/goatskin flasks & flea-bitten rugs to sleep on, we can do this.

[the flag: strong wind. flown from 7 pm to 7:30.]

8 pm

Flag is down. Dowel splintered and gave up the fight. Shit. At least we got the picture for Stacy. I think it was my fault for insisting on flying the flag for a full half-hour. The Boy blames his own bad carpentry. We are sad, and wonder how St. Stephen will find us. A lack a day.

The good news is that we have running water - and a flush toilet! - on site. I don't think I was any closer to a bathroom when I lived in res.

Things to bring next time: dish soap! pre-made shish kebobs!

to be continued...no, really...