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I first told this story on Sunday, May 30th, 2010, during the Strawberry Music Festival’s Revival at Birch Lake for the Spring 2010 Festival.
So, a while back I flew north to see my mom…to Seattle. On this trip I decided I’d take the Light Rail into downtown Seattle, then wend my way through busy streets to the Ferry. Now, I am a veteran traveler, so I knew that this would be a cinch…No problem! Veteran Traveler, ha?
After half a million miles of flying I still cannot figure out what to pack! What if need those four extra pair of socks? No matter how hard I try to pare down, I end up looking like a pack mule. A bag flung over my shoulder, one on my right hip, and another dragging from behind.
Once I landed I lugged my way to the SEA-TAC Light Rail Station, and eased in. No problem! When I debarked from the train in downtown Seattle, and started walking to the Ferry, I was amazed! I had my gear adjusted perfectly! After a few blocks I stopped to ask one of Seattle’s street people for directions to the Ferry Terminal. He gladly helped guide me. I thought I’d slip him a few bucks, so I reached for my wall–No wallet! No computer bag where my wallet was resting! No computer! What to do? Run 6 blocks uphill back to the train? Why? It was gone…all gone!
I was stranded in downtown Seattle with no money and plenty of worry. Fortunately I did have my handy dandy cell phone. Who to call first? I chose my niece, who was supposed to pick me up at the Bainbridge Island Ferry Terminal. What a smart cookie, she figured out a way to pay for my Ferry Ticket on her side of the water. “Just get there and get on!” Tears flowing, I hurried to the Terminal, all the while recounting what was in that bag, that wallet. My heart racing, first I called the Credit Card folks, sobbing! Next the bank, wailing! A nice guy at the Ferry Info Desk gave me other phone numbers, like the Light Rail Lost and Found…Fat Chance! At least my niece was able to come through. With my pre-paid Ferry ticket in hand, I boarded the Wenatchee to bound across the seas for B.I.
Then just as I stepped aboard, tears staining my cheeks, my cell phone rang. Area 206? Seattle! A woman’s voice kindly asked, “Is this B.Z. Smith? I found your computer bag on the Light Rail. I hope you don’t mind, but I checked your wallet. There’s a credit card, a bank card, and plenty of cash. I think everything is OK.”
My heart soared as we sailed over the water! And in no time at all a reunion was planned. After a few deep breaths, I called my guy, and told him the whole story.
“Angels on the Ground,” was his reply.
Now elated with joy, I told everyone I met the story of my Angel on the Ground. And each person was amazed, thrilled at my good fortune. “Lucky woman,” they all said.
The next day I borrowed a car and headed back to Seattle to the University of Washington Medical Center where my new Angel worked. And along the way, those angels continued to appear: A man who helped with directions to the University; a woman who helped me find a flower stand to buy a bouquet for my Angel. The flowergirl who made that gorgeous early Spring bouquet, a man who guided me to the hospital parking garage…Every one another Angel on the Ground. I practically flew through the air as I strolled into the huge “You-Dub” Med Center with my lovely bouquet in hand.
But as I entered this huge hospital, it hit me where I was. People in wheelchairs, people pushing I.V. poles, wearing hospital gowns, face masks, surgery caps. Husbands and wives, families sitting together with worried faces. Doctors and nurses huddled together in deep, intense conversation. A chaplain with her arm on a husband’s shoulder, his hands cradling his face. Orderlies gently shuffling patients to and from offices, elevators, hallways. Like a clock ticking too slowly, my body seemed to drag through this foreign land of pain and suffering as my gaze shifted from one tragedy to another.
I crammed my way into the “up” elevator with a little boy, his mother and a nurse. I tried to smile, but I could feel my throat closing, my eyes welling with tears. The mother looked up, and saw my bouquet. She forced a little smile, then caught her breath. For a moment she rested in the peace of a garden…a garden that I held in my hand. There I was surrounded by people who stood on mountains of pain and fear, suffering and worry. And in that instant my drama, my wallet and computer bag tragedy, shrank into a little speck of dust.
A few minutes later I saw her striding down the hall, carrying my little black bag…my Angel.
“I’m a medical researcher,” she told me. “Oh, we get lots of cancer patients here, and brain trauma, and unexplainable diseases. We’re just trying to figure things out.” She loved the flowers! We hugged. I thanked her over and over. Then I turned back to the elevator to go down.
When the elevator doors slid open, twenty people were waiting to go up: Women, men and children, every age and color…but all Frail and pail. But no one was alone. Beside each one stood someone, who loved and cared for them, someone who was there to walk that road…Each person had his or her Angel on the Ground.
As I stepped out of the elevator, my eyes locked with one husband. He stood by his tiny sick wife. His eyes flooded with fear, sorrow. “Bless you,” I whispered. “Thank you,” his lips said silently.
As I walked away, my chest heaved heavily. My eyes filled with tears. I felt that swell of sorrow growing in my core. I sat down for a moment, clutching my silly bag. Yep. It was all there. Disaster dodged! But around me, I saw them…those Angels: Mothers, fathers, children, friends, nurses, doctors, even the receptionist who calls out their names.
In this life we all take our turn to walk a road of sorrow, of fear. And in those times we each yearn for someone to stand by us so we don’t have to go alone. And so it is that each one of us is also given the chance to hold and stand by someone we love, to help someone we love step out onto that road of hope…
In this life, we all get a chance to be an Angel on the Ground.
My name is B.Z. Smith…I tell stories…Here’s one.
Piles of laundry, clothes to put away, get the car washed…Yep, we’re home from Strawberry. Even four days later the phone rings, and friends ask, “How was Strawberry?”
Well, how is life? How is going to church and feeling filled with spirit? How is standing in pure, stunning sunlight, watching leaves dance in mountain breezes?How is music flowing, circling all around you from dawn until dawn? How is listening to giggles and gleeful laughter from little kids having such a grand time? How is listening to a mom soothe a crying kid who is on complete overload from just too much Strawberry Kid fun? How is striking up deep conversations with someone you just met…A Strawberry Virgin–like Becky and Ed from LA, first timers? How is standing in line in a filthy, dusty bathroom, laughing with other women about the showers, the hot water, sharing soap, toothpaste, passing TP with strangers…No! There are no strangers at Strawberry! How is holding and loving almost 30 years of friendships born and nurtured in this one beautiful, natural place?
A backwards journey goes something like this:
Pulling onto Highway 120 from Evergreen Road, I can no longer tune in Hog Ranch Radio on my car radio. The station has a short range, just a few miles. By now I’m more than five miles from Strawberry’s Epicenter, Music Meadow. Just a few moments before I could catch it!
88.1 FM on the dial, Hog Ranch is the Festival’s official Radio Station, broadcasting Mainstage Music, Workshop Broadcasts, camp news, history, special announcements, the Sunday Morning Revival Show from Birch Lake. From Festival Day #1 when it roars over the airways until noon on Festival Day #5 when Bix Beeman and the whole Hog Ranch Team sign off, our camp radio station offers a unifying voice pulling 5,000 people together. The Hog’s history at Strawberry is rich, highly textured, and is a vital part of Strawberry’s Story….more about The Hog in the future.
As I pull out of my campsite, The Hog is playing “The Breakfast Club,” which is aired from the Dining Hall each morning. Sign up and sing for your breakfast…That’s the basic idea. Anyone can give it a try. Just rehearse, plan and prepare. Some groups are incredibly tight and professional, the sort you’d expect to see on the Strawberry Stage; others are just coming out of the box. In my own camp, I’ve sat around listening in, eaves-dropping, on a group or two as they rehearsed one more song before trekking off to the Dining Hall to play for their “supper.” Back in camp we listen in on the Radio. Every “decent” Strawberry Camp brings a radio to tune in to The Hog. You can even go home with the semi-annual Hog Ranch Radio T-Shirt, a real collector’s item!
This morning a group from Anywhere West Coast is singing and playing “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” Normally this song would sort of, well, bore me. But Camp is closing down for the winter. All of the Strawberry Revelers ARE leaving, saying goodbye, packing their bags. This time the song touches my heart; tears trickle down my cheek.
I drive under the big wooden Camp Mather sign. Goodbye Waves come my way from everyone along the trail. I bid adieu to my summer home, my heart of hearts…The Strawberry Music Festival.
Just minutes before I was still parked at my camp, getting ready to pull out, saying those usual “See Ya Later, Alligators” to my camp pals. Lots of hugs, a few camera snaps, email address exchanges. Wait! One more story about the guy who stopped by camp the other night to play a new song he’d written, how poignant it was, bringing tears to our eyes.
And just before that: Wash the windows. All that camp dust obscures my view of the road. I’m kind of short, so one of my Strawberry pals hops over to help me. Helping each other all through the festival….”It’s The Strawberry Way.”
You hear that phrase a lot at The Strawberry Music Festival. It goes back to the earliest days of the festival when a tradition, a culture formed that has stayed with us ever since. At Strawberry no one is in a hurry, no one is pushy. There is a lot of respect, kindness and generosity among these merry revelers. And so many people bring their kids! This festival has a huge commitment to the Strawberry Kids…for them to have fun and to be safe. For five days we all come together to create a Utopia of Artistic Bliss right in the middle of the forest.
On Sunday night, our last night, we strolled from one camp to another, listening to music. You see, Strawberry isn’t just a place to go to hear (and see) professional musicians play on a stage. It is a musicians’ music festival. Every camp is filled with guitar players, mando players, fiddle and banjo players. Lots of these campers are professionals themselves, gigging all around their neighborhoods.
The nighttime drift of tune upon tune upon tune fills the soul with real food. Communion, it is. Where two or more people gather to share the joy, the ecstasy and grace of music…That’s the Strawberry Way. Little kids, learning to play fiddle sit and jam with virtuosos…That’s the Strawberry Way. And Sunday night is especially Holy because it is our last night together as a family, as a community. We all know the show is about to pack up and we will soon spill back into our daily lives. So, let’s hold it and love it before we go…That’s the Strawberry Way, too.
Stayed tuned. There’s more.
I’m B.Z. Smith. I tell stories. This is one.
Is NOT in Strawberry, CA. A lot of folks who do NOT attend The Strawberry Music Festival get this wrong. Here’s a bit of Strawberry History…
The very first Strawberry Fest was held at Leland Meadows on CA’s Hwy 108…Address: Strawberry, CA. Hence, the name Strawberry was adopted for the fest. But at the end of Year 1 the team of producers decided that Leland Meadows was not the best venue for the event. They went hunting for a perfect spot, and found it at Camp Mather, Evergreen Rd. off of Hwy 120. As the crow flies, the two sites are incredibly close–less than 16 miles. Of course, DRIVING the distance is a whole different story…It’s more like 65 miles.
What was different about Camp Mather? Owned by the city of San Francisco, Mather provided a paradise for this Love Fest. Plenty of tall pines provided shade. Little cabins, tucked in the woods, housed performers, crew bosses and the occasional “camper” who wanted to pay the extra dough. A big dininghall, an amphitheatre for workshops, horseback riding, bike trails, a little camp store, tennis courts, a swimming pool, a big baseball field to serve as the Main Music Meadow…and my favorite: Birch Lake! And all of this sitting right on the border of Yosemite National Park. Sweet!
Here we were at a “luxury” campground where everyone could spread out, relax and learn how to live The Strawberry Way!
Speaking of which, it’s time for me to pile in the car and hit the road. My guy has our tent pitched, our campsite ready. His guitar is tuned and already “working,” I’m sure. I’ve got the house buttoned down for the house-sitter and the kitties. The ukulele and concertina are in the car. I’m looking forward to a little jamming with my friends from Blue Shoes Ukulele Auxiliary Orchestra. I’ve got a list of stories, old and new. Cynthia Restivo will be joining me on Saturday & Sunday for tandem stories. The baby plants that I planted this week? I hope they’ll survive with “Mom” gone. Kitties, be happy until we return.
When I return, I’ll tell you more about The Strawberry Way…
In the meantime, get out to watch LIVE MUSIC this Labor Day Weekend. If you’re close enough, call Strawberry at (209)984-8630 to find out if you can still get a ticket. It’ll be worth the trip…and it’s a beautiful drive. Maybe I’ll see you there. I’ll be at Birch Lake telling stories.
I’m B.Z. Smith. I tell stories. This is one of them.
On the Mother Lode 