Sunday, August 29, 2004
A hot day toward the tail end of the summer
I’m still on the East Coast, reading about the protest march in NY, but staying put in Connecticut, not having the time to do much beyond helping others move (my back retaliated against my blog put-down of laughter as the cure-all and is now acting finicky again, but there are things to do and one can not be wimpy about one’s infirmities).
I did note the summer jazz festival on the New Haven Green last night. It was loud and filled with townspeople who set up blankets for the evening of music, much in the way that Madisonians set up blankets for summer Concerts on the Square. [The analogy ends here. The event could not have been more different in all respects.]
IT WAS REALLY LOUD MUSIC! Isaac Hayes was the guest artist and he certainly drew the crowds.
In truth, it was an insane mixture of happenings. On the one hand, a thousand parent-types lugged bookshelves (no, I do not know why Yale does not provide bookshelves in dorm rooms, it makes absolutely no sense to me) and boxes and milled around campus, while the “band played on” on the Green, with the rowdy townfolk having the time of their lives. I wish I could replay the night. I wish I had spent more time milling around the Green, watching the hundreds and hundreds of families enjoy the free night of music. I was past lugging shelves by then, but my pernicious back made me retire early. But not so early that I would miss the exuberance, the smells of grilled foods, the sticky feel of melting popsicles and rousing sounds coming from the speakers on the Green.
I did note the summer jazz festival on the New Haven Green last night. It was loud and filled with townspeople who set up blankets for the evening of music, much in the way that Madisonians set up blankets for summer Concerts on the Square. [The analogy ends here. The event could not have been more different in all respects.]
IT WAS REALLY LOUD MUSIC! Isaac Hayes was the guest artist and he certainly drew the crowds.
In truth, it was an insane mixture of happenings. On the one hand, a thousand parent-types lugged bookshelves (no, I do not know why Yale does not provide bookshelves in dorm rooms, it makes absolutely no sense to me) and boxes and milled around campus, while the “band played on” on the Green, with the rowdy townfolk having the time of their lives. I wish I could replay the night. I wish I had spent more time milling around the Green, watching the hundreds and hundreds of families enjoy the free night of music. I was past lugging shelves by then, but my pernicious back made me retire early. But not so early that I would miss the exuberance, the smells of grilled foods, the sticky feel of melting popsicles and rousing sounds coming from the speakers on the Green.
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