Sylvia's Journal

We are far away from almost anything – yet we are also in the center of something called ‘local community,’ the kind of community that looks after is members, celebrates talents and instead of talking incessantly about why we are going to hell in a hand basket, is quietly farming the land.

Last night we went to a community talent show (Brooksville’s got talent) which took place in Buck’s Harbor’s community center which doubles as a basketball court. The show was a fundraiser for the West Brooksville Congregational Church. The newly appointed reverend, his wife and their two grandchildren opened the show, grandma with a fake beard, grandpa and grandson (8 maybe) with top hats and some costume I couldn’t quite place. The grandson was still new to performing and talking into a microphone. As a result I didn’t understand what the story or song (what was it?) was all about but it was cute and the audience was supportive.

After that a range of Brooksville citizens from young to old, some with amazing talent indeed, performed on a variety of instruments and in a variety of styles (modern, folk, Scottish). There was the accomplished guitarist with CDs in his CV, a rock band with what looked like mother and son, but also a line dance by two 7 year old girls who had not quite mastered the steps, a Hawaiian fishing and luau song, including a ukulele and matching outfits for grandma and granddaughter, and a poem for the oldest resident whose birthday wishes we heartily sung after her recital.

Our grandkids didn’t make I through the entire 12 act show. Faro kept eyeing the bake sale table with the kind of high sugar content items he is unlikely to get at home and Saffi because we had passed her bedtime and vacation can be tiresome.

The next day there was another evening of music, this time at an old farm with the musicians using the barn floor as their stage. Sita and Jim had performed in Belfast (ME) some years ago and knew some of the musicians.

As the sky turned various beautiful but menacing colors the adults knew what that meant. The 20 or so kids quickly understood as well that something exciting was going to happen and impatiently started chanting for rain. They were doing their first protest march with sticks and the stomping of their feet, chanting in unison: we want rain, we want rain! They, and all of us, got it but it didn’t matter. 

We moved into the barn and under the canopy of the food tent and simply kept going.  There was a keg of beer, huge jars of ice tea and lemonade, a bucket for donations, big pots of various wholesome foods and a suckling pig on a spit.  Our friends J and P who are renting a little further south joined us. We were the old people there – probably the only one who noticed the similarity with the 60s (the rain, an old farm, music?).  Only the mind altering substances appeared to be missing which was nice. 

Faro, after exploring some of the rusting old farm machinery scattered willy nilly in the field, joined the band of overexcited kids (most his age or a little older) and participated in the chanting. Axel, with is usual flair, introduced himself left and right, making the rounds as if he was a reporter, collecting the life stories of the (mostly) millennial with great gusto. When we left it was as if he was leaving a family reunion.  Everything we learned and experienced was hopeful.

When the chanting for rain started Saffi moved to the sidelines and watched the older kids in perplexed amazement, eyes wide as saucers. I would have loved knowing what was going on in her brain. I suspect that all the existing circuits  were lit and new ones forming on the spot; new circuits that had elements of watermelon, rain, music, and kids marching and chanting for rain; all thoroughly infused with a sense of intergenerational community, joy and safety; even the dogs that usually instill fear in her, made her laugh and approach (other little kids did it, that helped).