Imagine a sunny afternoon. Oh sure, there are clouds, but the air smells like falling leaves. There is still time to go to the Issaquah Salmon Days if we bring Teddy and tell him that’s his walk. To Teddy, a walk means a romp with puppies in a dog park, but he was disillusioned and kept a smile on his face well into the long leash walk. Mike and I wandered, hoping to find a couple of birthday gifts and a small bowl to replace the one I broke.
It’s funny how you can do something almost every year for more than twenty years and still enjoy it. We stopped in at the Stickman Leather booth and told them the old purse with the long strap and the extra pocket is still going strong and looks even better with a little saddle soap and regular use. But I convinced Mike that I needed a black purse because I needed something to match my black shoes. And I bought a purse for my sister. How many of these purses have I bought her over the years? I have no idea, now that I think of it. She would forgive me. I know she would.
We leaned over the bridge and looked at the salmon swimming up the narrow stream. I swear that if you lined up four salmon nose to tail, you’d span the stream, so it’s odd to see so much happening in such a shallow and narrow place. As usual, I tried to take pictures. From this year, I have a gorgeous shot of half a salmon breaching the water in his enthusiasm. A guy leaning over to look with his girlfriend said, “Look at how they’re killing themselves for sex. I get it, but wow!”
On the other side of her, I laughed.
“I’m sorry if that was too crude,” he said.
“No worries,” I said. “It’s funny and so true.”
Then, because I was never going to get a better photo than the half of a salmon breaching the water, Mike dragged me away to look for a bowl and a birthday gift for his sister.
Oh, some of the booths are just so hopeful. There are dozens of artists with paintings and supersaturated photographs of various quality. So many artists with their art. I loved it, even the ones who were just a little too hopeful for their craft.
And the guy selling his book. Oh, no one manages to sell books at an art festival. No one. But I applaud his courage and hope he made enough to pay for the booth if not the time he spent sitting behind his piles of newly-printed books.
Am I just a little bit jaded?
Yes, yes, I am.
Then we bought roasted corn and sprinkled it with Johnny’s seasoning and were almost ready to go. I like to do that at the end because my hands and face are always greasy after and I have corn silks in my teeth. I always feel like a toddler who’s just eaten a fudge bar though Mike tells me every time that he doesn’t see anything on my face.
Then, I heard some music down a street we hadn’t traveled.
“That sounds like Pearl Jango<“ I said and dragged at his hand to walk that way.
When Nick was small enough to twirl around by his hands, we’d gone to an outdoor concert in Seward Park not even knowing who would be playing that day. We brought a picnic and a blanket and set up. Nick spent the first half of the concert making friends and mooching food from a neighborly picnic party. Then, Mike got to swinging him around. He was almost too tall for me to swing, almost. I tried a few times and his gravity made for a wobbly go of it.
“Again,” he said over and over until Dad had to step in. I sat on the blanket and watched as Mike twirled him around and around and around. There was the sun, an occasional cloud, the music, and the joy on Nick’s face.
The perfect day.
At the end, we bought a CD of the music and we still listen in the kitchen, the only place in the house that still plays CDs.
So, I wanted to go listen to the music.
It was Pearl Jango, even after all these years. These guys play with joy and precision. An accordion, two guitars, a violin, and a bass. I can never explain music and its effects on me. It’s the other side of the brain, the one that’s all feeling and no logic.
Tears came to my eyes and I pressed my face into Mike’s shirt, butter smears and all. For years, this music had been the soundtrack to the happiest days of our lives.
And thankfully, they’re still playing. Those days aren’t over.
“When I get old,” I said to Mike, “I want to walk through the streets of Paris listening to this music.”
“Maybe Wendy will go with you,” he said.
That man.
Thank you for listening, jules