Almost every morning right after the school drop off, Sydney and I head out to the fairgrounds to mosey around. We have been doing it for years; he’s 12 dontcha know. But, anyway, for two weeks around Memorial Day and another two weeks about Labor Day, the Bluegrass people show up for a get together of picking and strumming. The old-timers who like to gather in groups  and stay up picking until almost dawn, they park on the north side under the trees; those newer to the music, those interested in the workshops and whatever, they park on the south side down by the grandstand.

When Sydney and I drive in, we take the route through the trees and I like to look at the RV’s. Bluegrass spreads across all economic sectors and some of the RV’s are impressive with all sorts of pull-out sections. And then beside the door or stacked at the end will be a pile of firewood for those night time picking sessions. In the morning, Sydney and I see the remains of the gathering fires. Most people are sleeping, but this morning –  maybe because the official Labor Day Festival has not started –  when we drove up a rise sitting on a curve, we saw what appeared to be a very nice lady sitting in a lawn chair, watching our progress with a pleasant look on her face.

I thought, “Hey, it would be nice to be friends with her – our trailers parked side-by-side.” By then Sydney and I were almost at the point in the road where the surrounding fairground is an overgrown area not intended for camping or parking. It is here that we stop when things are crowded for his morning romp.

I opened the door; he got out. I sat in the relative warmth of the burgundy Buick and reflected that if I were to disappear into the Bluegrass community, I would have a problem faking the singing. I would stick out like a broken banjo neck. I would be a fugitive, dependent on my new and imagined friend to vouch for me.

And so I wondered if it would be possible to become a bluegrass mime.