Contributing writer
The month of September brings all kinds of exciting experiences like cool Kansas nights and turning leaves; but our favorite fall event is the Bluegrass Festival in Winfield. People come from all over the world to participate one way or another. There are performers who play old cowboy tunes, made up tunes, Celtic tunes, western tunes, bluegrass banjo pickin’s, jazz, and blues tunes from the 1930s and ‘40s.
“More?” you ask, “How could there be more?”
Well, there is!
Contests and contestants abound at Winfield. There is something so delightfully refreshing to see kids — yes, we’re talking teenagers and even younger — walking around with an instrument under their arms and playing it as you wish you could.
Audience members at this event are avid fans and as eclectic as they come. They also come from various places. I sat beside a man from Topeka who had been to 32 of the 39 years of the festival. We met a woman from New England who came for a family reunion each year.
It’s a phenomenon with hardly a minute anywhere near that you can’t hear music and we’re talking 24 hours a day for even longer than the festival runs. There are people who dive into the surrounding vegetation weeks in advance to claim their camp sites and probably don’t emerge until long after all the entertainers are gone having not heard a single set; but they had fun.
There are people of all ages and categories, from two older women with matching pink walkers to somebody’s children dancing in a mud puddle under center stage — and they all had one heck of a time. That’s the miracle of music.
We became acquainted with what is officially called The Walnut Festival in Winfield shortly after we heard the Wiyo’s — our favorite indefinable band. I’m not sure I’ve been an avid fan of anyone in my life but I am a Wiyo’s Fan, no doubt about it. We heard them first at the Smoky Hill River Festival, and liked them so well that (believe it or not) we brought them to the greater Ramona area for a concert. They’ve been here every year since. They sing. We like to listen. They need a break and a place to stay. We have a lot of room. It works. And then, we take them to Winfield. They had six shows. We saw them all. They played. We cheered.
We came home Sunday, completely satiated, after three full days of music, music, music. Even in the semi-quiet with an occasional train and the neighbor’s dog barking, our ears were still ringing with the constant twang of the banjo.
Our Aunt Anna had her 104th birthday party Saturday. We’d missed it, so we said, “Let’s go see Aunt Anna over in Herington and wish her Happy Birthday.”
We did. She’d had a wonderful party, she told us, but you know how it goes, the conversation slowed.
“Tell me your favorite song,” my sister coaxed, “we’ll sing.”
After all, we’d just returned from 80-some hours of non-stop music.
“What a Friend,” Aunt Anna said immediately and my sister started the song. By the second phrase, Aunt Anna slipped from the melody to alto and then I brought a third part to the party. At first the harmony was tentative but by the last note, we were sounding like the Andrews Sisters.
We sang song after song — all hymns; being preacher’s daughters, that’s what we knew. Aunt Anna, who had just confessed her frustration at not remembering things as she used to, said, “Did I ever tell you about the first time I sang alto? It was with my sister Clara when I was just a little girl and we sang for a Christmas program.”
Then we sang another song, the words slipping into place from the past.
You may forget a lot of things in your life, but the music lingers on. Those words you learned in your youth are with you forever. The melodies remain. We sang together for half an hour, Aunt Anna’s 104-year-old alto, strong and sweet.
This is why we came to spend another day in the country, you know, for a moment just like this.