I had been here before, a long time ago… and within those woods we had played, and drank water from a spring. In those fields my Great Grandfather had plowed, and worked the land, and I imagine as well my Grandmother and her brother and sisters must have played in those same woods that formed the backdrop for the stage. And just over the horizon you could just see the venting spires of the barn rising above the hill, and I knew beside still stood the old farmhouse.
Across the field, towards the fenced in pasture lands where this fledgling festival was to be held, we made our way. It was a cloud covered sky that muted the line of trees and the fields of corn, but no rain was called for. A slight breeze stirred the tree tops, and overhead kites made lazy circles in the sky.
Local vendors lined the fences, leaving the centre open for the many music lovers who had travelled down those gravel roads this Sunday afternoon. Lawn chairs had began to fill in the middle way, and off to the west stood the stage.
Somewhere lost to time, within that forest, Grandma years ago told us there is an ancient Native burial ground. It could be said this area has a significance, both sacred and familiar, that goes back hundreds of years.
Today that sense of magic arose up through the ground, and bounced off the cornfields and forested backdrop, and sweet vibrations met our eager ears, this late summer afternoon.