Getting Out of the House

Whew! We just returned from the Herb Festival, a bustling plant fair and crafts/flea market exhibit by vendors, gardeners, artists and crafts people from all over the state and beyond. Hundreds of people milled about Cann Gardens, the perfect setting for the annual event. The veranda of the historic home was shaded by ancient trees, making it the coolest spot to relax and take in one of the scheduled shows, speeches, demonstrations on the use of herbs, or other entertainment.

The winding walkways led us past antique yard furniture, artists stalls, hanging baskets overflowing with lush greenery or colorful flowers, and of course, herbs of every description offered for sale in small containers and pots. We spotted an airy, green, hanging basket, an asparagus fern, and made a note to pick one up on our trek back. We are having company later in the month, and I wanted to spruce up our front screened porch.

“Let’s call Greg,” I suggested to my husband. Our son, Greg’s family was here somewhere, and we wanted to meet up with them. We were near the fish pool, so they met us there. Sitting under an arbor with them, we decided to look for a place selling snow cones. Howard was hungry, though, so we found a food stand where he got a Chicago hot dog, and a cold drink for me.

The Herb festival, held on the first Saturday in June, is always a highlight for our daughter-in-law, Joanna, whose birthday on June 6 often coincides with the event. A celebration ritual for them is to enjoy a generous serving of fruit cobbler and homemade ice cream from one of the booths, and often a one-of-a-kind gift, such as handmade porch furniture one year, sold at the fair. Since we were no longer hungry, we continued our stroll, stopping to talk to friends old and new that we happened to bump into.

Strains of beautiful, haunting music made us peer into a gazebo with signs identifying the mysterious sounds as “Andes Music” and “Music from Ecuador”. A bronze-skin man inside was playing an instrument made of what looked like bamboo canes cut into graduated lengths and fastened together in an angular shape, I think called a pan flute. I have hazy memories of seeing such in story books played by mythical creatures. After several fascinating minutes, we moved on.

“Look at that statue,” I pointed out to Howard. It was old, cast in rough concrete, and was of a smiling little girl that reminded me of our four-year-old granddaughter. We had bought one many years ago that was reminiscent of her father when he was four. “Let’s get it,” I said, “we can put it by Jamie’s ‘statue’ in the back yard.” Greg offered to bring it home for us and loaded it into his truck. I’m sure he’s glad we didn’t get the 8-foot antique architectural column we considered for our dining room. The heat may have been getting to us, so it’s a good thing we headed home, carrying our asparagus fern.