We are listening to the orchestra’s first morning rehearsal.
By ‘we,’ I mean the Britt Festival and I. This year, he turns fifty. I have a
ways to go until my golden years, and sure, the Britt’s grown a bit
crotchety—putting up literal fences and all, but I’ve brought coffee, and
everybody’s happy. We enjoy State-of-Jefferson-blue skies and share a bit of
history.
For many summers, I’ve come to this outdoor amphitheater for
concerts in and outside the fence—dinner picnics for both. Mornings, I’ve
stretched here after running the woodland trails or brought pencils and
sketched the vineyards and hills beyond the band shell. Off-season, I’ve sat in
the empty benches and chatted with God until the stars came out. And once, on
the lookout above the vacant sound booth, I kissed the man I didn’t marry.
I still wait for someone to witness my life as I hope to
witness his. But there are years and years that he’ll never know. Meanwhile,
the Britt hill has seen a fair amount of my life beneath his shady trees. He’s
waited for me to return from extended bouts of expatriotism. He’s refrained
from commenting on a curly cowgirl hat and an anemic stint of vegetarianism.
He’s seen the few men I loved on his grassy slopes. And, like a patient and
wiser suitor, he has kept an eye on me while waiting for his moment.
And it is here. For the first time since the Rogue Valley
has been my mailing address, I love the Britt with the love that comes of
finally seeing the gift that’s been my neighbor for the better part of a dozen
years and several continents.
Dearest Britt: here’s to patience tall as your pine
trees. Here’s to the orchestral sound of
hope.
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