We opened our lawn chairs, settled down to eat. People of all ages streamed in, mostly families, the elders looking like folks who might have attended a happening like this in the late 60s. Blankets were spread out on grassy ground, lawn chairs set up, coolers and picnic hampers opened. Sounds of conversation all around.
The performance began when monster loudspeakers lurking in the woods behind us commenced blasting music, blasting which continued for the next 90 or so minutes. The play, it developed, had no dialogue. The company acted out archetypical scenes having to do with immigration to this continent -– the thrust of the piece was what the program called 'the immigration crisis' –- the music provided the backdrop for it all.
What I'll say about the piece is this: a) the performers worked hard, exerting themselves physically in one way or another just about the entire time; b) the cast included a number of kids, one of whom looked to be about three years old -– they did a great job, maintaining focus and working hard through some complicated staging (the three-year-old was adorable); c) great soundtrack –- with the exception of one or two numbers, I'd love to have it on CD.
At the end, the entire audience got politely herded through the woods behind us to a small lake where a shell of a boat, containing a few candles, drifted slowly across the water. It slowed, drifted to a halt about halfway across. A bullfrog somewhere along the shore broke the silence with a loud, impolite sound or two. The cast, a quarter of the way around the lake from the audience, bowed. End of show.
Hmmm.
There were no lights set up around the clearing where the performance took place, so it had to be finished before darkness fell. Between the clouds, the remaining sunlight and the blue, blue heavens, the sky remained a spectacular distraction during the entire show, to the point where I often found myself with my head back, staring at it. Sizeable dragonflies put on a display throughout the proceedings, flying back and forth above the crowd, occasionally descending to make a leisurely, nonthreatening pass several feet above our heads. Nature, at times, upstaged the performance pretty effectively.
So there you have it. Vermonters carrying on in the name of art.
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I subjected myself to a haircut today. Given the mass of hair that had collected on my head, the time for shearing had clearly arrived. My 'cutter is the woman who owns Acme Hair in Montpelier. As genuine and irreverent a character as you will ever stumble across. In her late 50s, sections of her hair dyed pink and orange, with a loud voice that frequently breaks into laughter. Her shop can be found on the second floor of a building on State Street, a mere two blocks from the State House -- in a bowl hanging outside her door she keeps candy and prophylactics, both male and female, free for the taking. Inside the door, more prophylactics, along with leaflets about AIDS. Around the shop: a few hand-drawn signs ("SORRY ABOUT THE PRICE INCREASE -- PLEASE DON'T GUILT ME! IT'S THE COST OF DOING BUSINESS!"), a few shelves of hair products (heavy on the hair dye), loads of tchotchkes and photos, including a signed Bill Clinton photo and a bunch of Marilyn Monroe pix clustered together in one corner. And her big cuddly black doggie.
She says she's been dealing with physical problems, has decided to sell the business, and is actively looking for a buyer. Next March, she heads across the country to her town of origin, a small burg in the San Joaquin Valley in California, to take care of her 91-year-old mother in the family house. The house is paid for, she'll have disability income and won't have to work. This, she said, will leave her plenty of time to (a) take care of her mother and (b) give away prophylactics and clean needles.
Montpelier is going to lose some serious local color when this woman takes off.
And the haircut? Turned out pretty well. Short. Real short. That'll change -- my hair grows like a house afire. (Now there's a saying that make no sense at all.)
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A bumper sticker seen in Montpelier: THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE AREN'T THINGS