An Outing as an Attempt to End the Malaise

Every year a fall festival called “Riverfest” takes place in this area, supposedly to honor American Cherokee Indians. My husband and I both have descendants from the tribe, by the way. Usually, however, fair attendants are treated to Civil War re-enactments (not that there’s anything wrong with that) but it’s confusing. Every year we vow to never return, but it’s become a ritual that signals the transition into the fall season.

This year when I reminded Jennifer (younger sister) of the upcoming event, she vowed not to go.

”But remember last year when we found the African water baskets and everyone kept asking us where we got them?” I queried. “That was a fine, fine day!”

“It was a fine, fine day,” she agreed. “Maybe we should go.”

By “we,” I mean Jennifer and I, and sometimes Mom. No, Jack would have to be knocked out or dead to attend, and who can blame him for such good sense? So we travel past several groups flagging us on with signs that say “No parking spaces left; go to next lot up the road” to a local high school, business, etc. Then you have your inevitable Yankees who are raising hell because they have to wait for a shuttle bus. “I don’t have time to be here!” yells a New York-accented woman to a poor booth volunteer, who has been schooled and trained in the Southern school of courtesy. “Then take your precious time and obnoxious persona and stick it up your self-righteous a--!” I murmur to present company. Sadly, my family encourages me to share such sentiments, but I know that if the police are hauling me off, they’ll just shake their heads and tisk-tisk about my lack of self-control.

Anyway, as we wait for the shuttle in front of a sign that says “Wait here for Shuttle” Mom asks, “What are we waiting for?” I respond, “We’re waiting for the festival to come to us.” She hits me. Then we pass another (probably Northern transplant) who is passed out on the pavement surrounded by 911 employees. Everyone is sympathetic, but when it’s almost 95 degrees outside, you just shouldn’t be wearing a Halloween-themed sweater and wool pants!

I’m already thirsty so I go up to a booth and ask for their advertised Sweet, Brewed, Iced Tea. (By the way folks, iced tea was invented in the South, so if you have a problem with it being sweet, go to the maker! When it’s 100-plus degrees outside, you need to rush hydration to your system!) Larger or small? the vendor asks. "Large," I answer thirstily. "We only have small," she answers. Okaay, and here we go.

In a large festival, Mom (of course) wins a door prize—a little yellow parasol painted with daisies. We decide to search the crowd for a deserving little girl, because Mom has no use for it. Not that one, too spoiled; not that one, too old; not that one, a tomboy. Jennifer and I stop to look at some jewelry and Mom says she’s going to stand over in the shade. Five minutes later she appears sans parasol. “Where is it?” we ask.

“I gave it away,” she answers.

“We have so little! How could you not understand that we wanted to see you give it away?” asks Jennifer.

“I gave it away to a Yankee family with a little girl.” She points to the ambivalent little girl whose mother is holding the gift. “They said thank-you.”

We’re incredulous. “You gave a parasol to an ungrateful little Yankee girl?” Jennifer exclaims.

“I have no regrets,” says Mom.

A little boy walks past chanting, “Jesus died on the cross.”

“I think I’ve had enough,” I say.

(Sadly, there is a part deux.)