Byron, Blues and Beer

On my refrigerator, among the photos, appointment cards and assorted magnets, hangs a letter from the current powers that be of our little town that, in a nutshell (apropos), fires me and Moondoggy from a decade long volunteer job.  That job?  Selling beer at Byronfest, our 3 day festival that ostensibly celebrates and showcases the businesses of our town and the kindness of our citizens.  Welcome to Byron, enjoy your weekend and leave LOTS of money.  And so, the powers that be, found they were losing money at the beer gardens and decided the best thing to do was FIRE all of their volunteers.  That's right,  I was fired from a volunteer position.  Does it get more pathetic than that?

Ok.  There is always an upside to the shamed.  What that did for me was release me from the obligation of having to schlepp my ass uptown, wear a ridiculous t-shirt uniform that I usually altered somehow, spend loads of money on local food that I would prefer to eat in a restaurant anyway, fight crowds of people milling about between concert stages, and lose my voice and my hearing trying to socialize and catch-up with people while yelling over the conglomeration of three concert stages with vastly different genres of music in a 1 block area.  I'm not bitter - I'm just old.

However, this past weekend, there was a shiny, brand new festival - 12 hours of Blues downtown.  One stage, all Blues, all day.  No yelling over music, well behaved mellow people, and enough shade so as not to damage my already sun dried skin.  Food was sponsored by local eateries and there were three beer stations that sold bottled beer  for a cheaper price than Byronfest.  I don't know who was contracted to sell the beer but I can tell you this. . . 3 times the cute little girl with the big gravity defying tata's and the interesting slits cut in her t-shirt forgot to charge us.  And did she not realize what the 50 something turned twelve year old men were doing when they requested she dip down deep into the cooler to get the coldest beer?  I wonder what her pouty lips will look like when she gets her letter?

She will be getting a letter, right?  

Autumn On Parade

Autumn On Parade. The first full weekend of October was long ago set aside to celebrate the beauty of our part of the Rock River Valley and showcase the hand mades, home mades and home growns of our county. The festival pulls in thousands from the suburbs as well as Iowa, Indiana and Wisconsin who come to enjoy a “quaint” celebration and take part in the weekend festivities. They come to experience a little of the “small town” life; country scenery -- the burnished reds, oranges and yellows of the color palette from which the trees paint the landscape along the river.

While thousands mill through the town square shopping the various craft booths full of seasonal decorations, hand made soaps, baked goods, food booths, apple cider and the like, I am standing in the Miz Bee Haven booth with Cindy and my “B” man Jeff or Patti offering samples of the most extraordinary creamed honey ever whipped; answering questions about the honey and selling . . . you guessed it, the honey. Over the years we have cultivated our regulars. There is the darling little Italian lady who stands around 4’ 8”. Her hair is a soft beautiful white, always worn in a bun. Her dress is straight from the old world covered by a simple cardigan and her shoes are the stereotypical black orthopedic tie shoes with a small chunky heel. So perfect are they for her diminutive size, I cannot imagine her wearing anything else. She doesn’t speak any English and always buys a full gallon, every year. She makes her way to the booth always on her way out of the festival so she doesn’t have to carry the gallon with her while she shops. She smiles at us, bows just a bit and in the most melodic of voices, utters a heartfelt, “grazie.” We love her.

There was the local attorney who, from what I knew, never really practiced law. He was a slight man with fine features who was always seen around town walking his two well groomed shelties wearing a proper wool topcoat, double buttoned and a Sherlock Holmes hat – even in the summer. Year in, year out he would stop by the booth and inquire if our honey was pasteurized. And we always, always, told him, “no” before he bought his same order every year. He has since passed, but perhaps someone will fill the void he leaves.

“Is this honey local?” Yes. “Do you make the honey yourself?” No, the bees make the honey . . . we steal it. “Do you have Orange Blossom honey?” Do we have orange trees here in Illinois? “Does the creamed honey need to be refrigerated?” No, it is simply honey that has been spun. But we smile and answer the questions and every year we sell out of stock. Miz Bee Haven honey is that good.

This year I will not be at the booth set up on the courthouse square. I will be in Michigan with all of my high school peeps marking our 30th year of surviving beyond high school. I’ll miss laughing with Cindy and Patti. I will miss watching Jeff tie the jars with raffia while kibitzing with fellow bee keepers and I will miss the little old Italian lady. But, I cannot wait to see people I have not seen in 30 years. Life is good.