MAKING TIME TO SHARE TIME

Making time for this, for that, but we still run out of time.

On the run?

From a Beaverton Farmers Market morning to a Waterfront Blues Festival evening, all the different faces turned into a blur.

Some faces, not all.

One of my heroes says to always accept invitations to go places you haven’t thought of.

Why not?

If you trend toward the dull and lazy, and who doesn’t from time to time, follow another’s lead.

I did.

“Let’s hitchhike to Iowa and win national championships.”

“Okay.” (Hey Stu)

“Let’s drop out of college and join the Army on the Buddy Plan.”

“Okay.” (Hey Gary)

“Let’s get married and have kids.”

“Okay.” (Hey honey.)

 

Time speeds up and slows down, and changes when you least expect it.

Making time behave? Good luck.

The best you can do is manage what you fit into it.

 

Sharing Time

We got  to the Beaverton Farmers’ Market late, like five minutes before closing.

Two small boys walked the aisles ringing bells to let everyone know.

Oddly enough we filled two bags with farm fresh produce in five minutes what usually takes two hours.

I still haven’t figured out what that compression was all about, but it felt like a writer’s thing.

The old pack mule, (me, not my wife because calling a woman a pack mule is too close to ‘horsey’) toted two bags to the car and circled back to pick up the babes.

In the entire universe the circle back was a small thing, but it puts good vibes in motion.

With the  blues fest  coming up, good vibes were easy.

 

The Portland Woodstock

Getting to any part of the blues fest on every day is a challenge, a four day challenge in scalding heat under clear skies.

Today is the last stand and it’s got a lot of work to do after last night.

To my surprise our group has made it to the headliners two nights in a row, staying up past my bedtime.

It’s nice seeing how bands do their stuff. I like to think I know what’s going on.

Before the headliner last night on the South Stage a harmonica player lit up the North Stage.

At least I thought he lit it up, but the next band brought the whole fire.

After was seemed like a short set, the harmonica player introduced a singer.

A guitar player replaced the harmonica.

While the show was going on.

In mid-song the guy unpacked his guitar, tuned up, plugged in, and proceeded to stare a hole in the other guitar player.

He flew his fingers up and down the fret board, back and forth, with the clarity and precision gleaned from years of practice.

In pro-fashion he took over and let everyone know.

Now you know.

It seemed awkward and avoidable, but so mesmerizing and emotional.

That’s the blues in real life.