Our brief but eventful summertime tour in the Northeast ended as planned, yet it still felt sudden.  I'll leave the completed dates on our tour page so you can see exactly where we were, Mom.  When the week began, Brittany and I had come from a fiddle camp in the redwoods of Mount Shasta, California, while Jordan had already been in the area at Berkshire Summer Strings.  We each had a headful of tunes. With an old J45 for Brittany to play from the venerable Mr. Samuel Stambler and an illustrious merchandise seller in tow, we careened along the various parkways and interstates of New England (with a dip into New York City, where I welcomed a new decade of living and sang "Hold Watcha Got" with Sheriff Bob, The Sheriff of Good Times), just sweating in our seats and rollin with it.  In Portsmouth, across the Piscataqua from our nations oldest naval shipyard, a party of 5 year old princesses pirouetted in front of the stage as a liner drifted by.  Within the walls of a church turned Salvation Army turned art gallery in Rockland, Maine, Annie Bailey recited from memory a long story-poem about the collision of midnight fishing and vodka.  We were winding down after having played in front of scythe mic stands while Ekaterina Sknarina burlesqued inside of a snowglobe at the new Salt Stage festival.  The legendary "Brighton House" and its current tenants, our musical friends who happened to be home, offered some familiar comfort for a couple of nights.  Jordan and Brittany drove to Ossippee and I returned the rental car, hopped on a plane, and went home.

The end.

Paul

photo by Jody March

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