$23,000 Worth of Fun in Sunny Pennsylvania!

I am arrived! I made it back from the wilds of Christiana, Pennsylvania after doing more singing in two days than I've ever done in my whole life put together. That isn't a mathematically (I just typed "mametically" and "methamatically" before getting it right. That is very indicative of my current mental and physical state.) sound statement, but that's what it feels like.

I left on Friday after work and met up with Jesse, Lauren, and Rachel to depart in Jesse's resurrected car for PA. The journey was swift and painless, accompanied by a bag of tortilla chips and a half-eaten box of "Pop'ems," a variety of wax-covered donut balls brought by Lauren. We meowed all the way through Easter Anthem...probably some of the best five minutes of my life. It was obviously super dark by the time we got to PA, but the stars were bright and the sky was clear and everyone suddenly looked more healthy and hale and hearty. We got to the Densmore residence, our hotel for the weekend, around 9:00 or something to find a huge crowd of people singing in the living room. We feasted on weird things like, well, tongue, and reunited with part two of the NYC contingent, Greg, Jen, Meredith, and Zeke. After the singers departed, Greg, Zeke and Lauren broke out their banjo, guitar, and autoharp, respectively, and played some old-time stuff that they're hoping to play at some gig they've gotten themselves. They sounded really great and I stepped in to sing when it got too high for Jesse. ;) Zeke has a beautiful steel guitar and he plays it really wonderfully. Lauren's autoharp was suffering from lack of strings but sounded good nonetheless. And obviously I'm a big fan of Greg and his banjo-playing prowess.

It seems an appropriate time to introduce you, faithful reader, to the character of the Densmore house itself. I t was obviously built semi-recently, and is modern in shape, but was built with one eye ooking backwards-- exposed beams, brick or hardwood, wide-plank floors, etc. And the decor is all antique or faux-antique, ranging from colonial to Restoration HArdware. BUt it's realy cool-- and every inch is decked out in tchotchkes the like of which you have never seen: about 50 jaw harps nailed the wall; a program, framed, from a 1900- something medium gathering in Lily Dale, NY; and ancient beaver top hat; sins from defunct mills in Oswego; daguerreotypes; corn husk dolls; canteens; bugles....you get the idea. Basically, my eyes couldn't expand wide enough to take it all in. I just kept walking like a woman possessed from corner to corner, looking at all the great junk everywhere.

The downside of all of this is that, as one would be, Laura is very, very, VERY protective of her home and wants to make sure that no on is doing anything-- and I mean anything-- that could in any way harm it. And cost her money.

This is certainly a feeling that makes sense. I don't want anyone fucking my stuff up, either. But I also don't invite seventeen people, most of them under thirty, to stay in my house, and I don't spend tons of my own money to do so. Because I'm not that generous-- but she IS. Her generosity manifests itself in a very, very anal way, though, where it seems like she'd rather not be doing it. WEIRD.

Anyway, the catalyst for all of this behavior, apaprently, was that a few years ago a singer who-shall-not-be-named (ok, it was Voldemort) stayed over and flushed a tampon down the toilet. And, as several computer-printed, framed, signs in each bathroom reminded us, "It caused $23,000.00 worth of damage."

So.

Not only did we read those manifold signs, but Laura reminded us, oh, about three times a day. She told the men. She told the women. She told the whole group.

There was also a sign in the upstairs bathroom to this effect: "When you take a shower, you must use BOTH FANS. All six light toggles MUST BE UP. If they are not, mildew will collect on the skylight. The skylight has ALREADY BEEN REPLACED ONCE."

A later incident involving air mattresses resulted in Laura telling us "You know, those mattresses cost eighty dollars. Each." So we really, because we're very mature, took this and ran with it. We started putting a price on everything in the house AND wondering if we were allowed to flush THAT down the toilet. It doesn't really translate very well. We considered modeling our thank-you note on the MasterCard ads, something like: "Air Mattresses for Seventeen: $1,360. Replacing Mildewed Skylight: $2,500. Rebuilding Septic System Post-Tampon: $23,000. Hosting a Gang of Rambunctious, Immature Singers: Priceless." We're not sure yet if she'd find it funny or if we'd be banned forever. (People HAVE been banned. All I'm saying.)

Anyway, on to the singing. We were woken up around, oh, dawn, by Sacred Harp music blaring down at us. We feasted on bagels and coffee and chatted with the weird hippies and Mainiacs also staying at the house and then we all hightailed it to the Christiana Train Depot. This involved driving over a LOT of hills, and me and Lauren going "oh god" a lot. The building was a cute refurbished train depot with nice wood floors and a huge kitchen (of course important.) Singing was upstairs, everything else was downstairs. We were reunited with our Boston brethren, and I was so excited to see all of those people-- I haven't seen them since September! I sat with Justin all day in the tenor section. We front-benched for the last two sessions of the day, not caring if we were being rude by not moving. I led Exhortation (key words: Behold, the months come hastening on when you shall say 'My joys are gone!') and, of course, because I can NEVER resist, Schenectady. Good fun. Lunch was spectacular, as always, and I ate way too many bread products. As always. There were lots of familiar faces in the crowd and we sounded good and things moved pretty quickly and smoothly. All in all, very nice.

After the sing we headed to the Hoyt's for the social. They, too, live in an unbelievable house-- theirs is ACTUALLY old, built sometime in the late 18th century, and is just beautiful. Drama abounded, drinks flowed, banjos were played quite a bit, and I ate more. And more. As usual. Joanna pretended to slit my throat six times while I sat in an antique barber chair...Grego and I crab-walked on the heated-brick floor...Jen and Greg danced to the fiddle player and I taught Crystal my famous dance move....wonderful.

We headed back late to the Densmore's and proceeded to further erode her goodwill by building a fort out of blankets, sheets, and air mattresses. I wasn't directly involved in this, though I did take pictures. So I'm complicit. Everyone stayed up way too late, so it was particularly brutal to be woken up by the recording of the previous day's singing at around seven AM. We hurriedly restored the basement to order, ate, threw our gear in the car, and were off, once more, the to train depot. The crowd was smaller, but much was the same. The memorial lesson was very nice. I led Sweet Morning and The Great Day, pulling an Allison Schofield and stomping with my high heels. Which brings me to the fact that Lauren and I were wearing outfits that were essentially the opposite of each other, color-wise. Very sharp. Justin wore a wool jacket that, oh, he made himself, paired with a scarf that, yeah whatever, he wove himself. PLEAE. Steve Hoyt told me and Crystal and we personified something his mom told him, that "Fashion goes out of style, but style never goes out of fashion." Cute.

J and I sand treble for a few sessions, which was well and good. Lunch was delish, cleanup painless, goodbyes sad but brief and temporary. Greg and I rode home with Terry instead of going to the late-night Exeter sing....we couldn't take it anymore. As a divine reward, we saw fifteen cowboys waiting in line for Burger King at the James Fenimore Cooper rest station in Jersey. Terry dropped us off practically at our doorsteps, which was amazing. No L train for me.

Then I got an unexpected call from Ben, who happened to be down the block. I walked around Williamsburg with him for a little bit, then came home and absolutely crashed. I had no fewer than four distinct singing dreams (forgotten now, of course).

And now, I'm up. I sound like a chain smoker when I speak and my shoulder carriage aches from beating time and holding that heavy-ass book all weekend.

And you deserve a prize if you read this far.

Phew.