Summerfest 2009: Utah

I once owned a book dedicated to boosting the imagination and encouraging bored children to constructively pass the time. The projects contained within its pages, though by no means great, were explained and illustrated with such enthusiasm that even the hardened ten-year-old could believe he was in for some serious fun.
"Why not construct ghosts out of leftover gift wrap?" the book would suggest. "Why not decorate your desktop with a school bus made from a brick!"
I thought of this book when I recently attended the annual Logan Summerfest. Here was an event that answered every "Why?" with a resounding, "Why not!"
"Why not grab a hot glue gun and attach seashells to flowerpots?" asked the industrious grandmothers at the craft booths. "Why not crochet a bib for both your puppy and your baby?"

The festival is held each year on a large stretch of green grass near the town's tabernacle. A small stage decorates the middle of the square, which is then in turn surrounded by tents selling funnel cakes, crepes, and roasted corn. Small bands and musical groups would step onto the stage from time to time to sing a country rendition of 'Danny Boy' or display any sort of local talent, such as playing the spoons or tap dancing.
Perhaps the most amazing part of a small fair such as Summerfest is the sheer devotion of the people. From what I've heard, every year is just as dull as the last-- and yet every year, the locals put forth countless hours of effort to ensure the fair keeps coming back.
There is some good to be had from this event. Though I used to feel it was stifling, I like the storybook quality intrinsic of small town life. As I joined the audience sitting on metal folding chairs, I realized that these people are my neighbors; they are the people I see standing in line at the bakery and walking their dogs in the park. The sheriff breezed past me as I sat, followed by the postman and the train conductor. All politely tipped their hats and stepped over Abilene, my pet bunny, whose leash was attached to the leg of my chair.
I returned to the festival later in the evening for the fireworks display. It wasn't much in terms of a spectacle; I've seen more advanced pyrotechnics at the opening of grocery stores. Over the puny pops of Roman candles and the faint hiss of falling rockets, I looked out over my small audience of neighbors and decided if living in a small town like Logan has taught me nothing else, it has taught me to appreciate the small and simple things. I am, at last, happy to be here.
Why not?

Midsummer Festival: New York

We'd just climbed out of the underground train station when a gaggle of blue-eyed, flower-wreathed girls rushed past us, giggling and excitedly chatting in some foreign tongue. They wore richly adorned pinafore dresses that skirted their slim bodies and billowed out at the shoulders. Some wore clogs, some sneakers. One girl, who looked to be the oldest of the group, wore red stilettos. They were the picture of summer, carefree and young. I eyed the girls serenely as they passed. The scent of fresh flowers lingered and all I wanted was to be with them, free, happy, beautiful, and...

And Scandinavian.

We followed. Tracing zig-zag sidewalks and tree-lined paths we followed until there, in the grassy meadow of Battery Park, with a clear view of the Statue of Liberty and the the waves, we saw hundreds of picnicking Swedes, children and adults merrily laughing and catching up with old friends. It was like the most beautiful people in Scandinavia were hand-picked and plucked from Europe, tossed on the East Coast, and they had somehow snuggled together on the the tip of Manhattan, oblivious that they were the picture of communal perfection. We were frumpy Americans who had haphazardly happened upon Swedish Zion(Swion?) with a true, but simple desire to absorb and emulate what these svelte Swedes were effortlessly exuding.

And what was it?

We started with the food. We got in line. We ordered crisp waffles smothered in lingonberry jam, crowned with a sweetened cloud of cream. We begged for meatballs, salmon, gravy, hot dogs, and potatoes and basked in their tantalizing flavor, all the while gazing at the beautiful people around us. How were they so beautiful? What was this etheral peace? They moved like Rosaline and Edward, but truth told us they ate and some were old.

We watched the yachts' rhythm at the dock.

The night filled itself with laughter, fiddling, and lapping waves. We settled into our own small circle as the night progressed, awed but rather relaxed. The sun we'd felt was the first in three weeks and the cheese we nibbled not cheap. There was magic.