It’s been a few years since I’ve
been to Jackson, California’s Dandelion Days.
But the weather this weekend was so perfect, I just had to drive up and
check things out. While the big picture
brought back some fond memories, some of the details threw me off balance a
little.
We drove around the usual ten or
fifteen minutes looking for a parking space, settling on a hill of about a 60
degree incline. As we walked the couple
of blocks to the edge of the festivities we noticed a small Ferris wheel making
its rounds rather quickly, we thought, and looking like it could use a new coat
of paint. That made me wonder if it also
could use some new internal organs. I’ve
always been a little skittish about traveling carnival rides.
It was time for lunch, and the
choices were pretty slim. Karen settled
on a pulled pork sandwich from the Rainbow Girls’ booth. I decided to try an Indian Taco from a
different booth. The sandwich was just
an average sandwich. The taco was a
large, open-face affair, with the usual fixin’s dropped on top of a thick,
grease-soaked bread tortilla. It tasted
fine, but certainly should not have been a part of my efforts to lose a few
pounds.
We moseyed through the Wells
Fargo parking lot. I was overcome with
the feeling I was in dirty place, though everything looked clean. I was reminded of the time I worked for a carnival. It was a one-night job, helping to dismantle
the rides after the Nevada County Fair the summer of 1969. The permanent employees of carnivals are,
well…different from most of the people to whom you, my readers, and I tend to
gravitate. Personal hygiene is not a
priority, and drug use was not well hidden.
That night, however, I did find myself admiring their work ethic. They may have been working in order to
support a lifestyle of which I disapproved, but they labored hard throughout
the night. However, as I wandered
through the foothill parking lot on a crystal clear day, I thought, “I would
not allow my children to hang out here by themselves.”
We left that district of cheesy,
Chinese-made junk vendors, turned up Main Street and entered a different world
where people displayed their beautiful homemade wares without pouncing on
prospective buyers who stopped to admire their handiwork of scented candles,
silver ornaments, and pastel art.
Instead, they casually greeted us and answered questions, leaving the
decision of buying or walking on to the next booth up to us. Either way, we were blessed with smiles. I liked that world better.
We weren’t in the market for
anything particular, so we eventually ambled back to our car, delighted to see
it had not rolled down the hill on which it was parked. Our next stop was the residential care home
where my father-in-law lives. He was not
feeling up to participating in the worship service in the common area, but
Karen volunteered to play the piano for the small group of Lutherans who had volunteered to conduct the service
that Sunday.
One man, new to the facility,
was unusually boisterous. Most of the
men there talk very little or not at all.
He was the exception. And when he
spoke, he did so in such a way as to make sure everyone down the hall would be
able to hear. He looked through the song
book and observed with a laugh, “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder!” We sang it and a couple of other songs. Then we heard from him again, this time with
tears welling up in his eyes, “I think, since it is St. Patrick’s Day, we
should honor…honor that little isle…by singing,” and here he nearly broke down,
“…Danny Boy.” Karen doesn’t play well
from memory, but she found a key and we all sang our own versions of the
American perception of the Irish National Anthem.
We followed that up with Jesus
Loves Me. A woman who had just shuffled
in and sat down began to sob as we sang.
A worker at the home, a fairly new employee, got up, walked over, and
gave her a hug and a kiss. We all
finished the last line, “…the Bible tells me so,” only to hear another lady
finishing up in her own time, “…Yes, Jesus love me, the Bible tells me so.” It was an unexpected solo, two measures
behind the rest of us, but sung with gusto.
She sang that last note, then laughed without restraint. So did we all.
As soon as that song was
finished, a lady on the other side of the room wanted to know, “What church is
this?” The Lutheran minister, wearing his
black shirt and white collar, assured her it was not a particular church
service, but a worship service for all.
He began to announce the next song, but was interrupted by the same
woman with the same question. He leaned
over to reassure her again, when the man on the other side of the room yelled, “Give
‘em hell, Father!”
We managed to get in one more
song before Karen and I slipped down the hallway, holding our laughter back
until we were outside and the door was closed behind us.
It wasn’t the Sunday I had
anticipated. It was not a normal worship
service at the home. But it sure was
interesting. God has filled the world
with all sorts of people. I am ever
amazed and blessed by the variety in my life.
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