Tents wet with rain soaked songs
Vainly coax the latent sun
People speak in rhythmic rhyme
And walk the trail in 6/8 time.
Tom Smith
Memories of Fox Hollow Folk Festival
Petersburgh, NY
August 2, 1980
"This will be the 15th and final Fox Hollow Festival of Traditional Music and Arts. [...] Every time someone opens a fiddle case, tunes a guitar, puts on their dancing shoes, or just stands in the rain, Fox Hollow will be recalled with laughter and tears as we remember events that have chaged us all. For many, Fox Hollow has become a legend; that means it can never really cease. It is carried on in our hearts. 'The seeds have been sown...' ".
- Evelyne Beers, from the 1980 poster
Fox Hollow
- Heather Smith, age 14, October 16, 1994
The interminable when-are-we-going-to-get-there car ride up to Fox Hollow, New York finally ends as my Dad wheels our rusty brown Toyota into the pine needle covered clearing carved out for parking. I stretch my neck up to look out the window and blink my eyes in the bright sunlight. My parents are whispering. I hear snatches of “Is she asleep?” “Should we wake her?” and quickly squinch my eyes shut, hoping to fool them so I won’t have to get out and help set up the tent. The dark interior of the car is warm so I lie against it, dozing in the early summer sun. I dream about last year’s Fox Hollow music festival. The captivating singers and dancers, and Bill Bonyon, the old man who got sprouts caught in his snowy white beard whenever he ate.
My mom shakes me awake with an “upsy daisy, sunshine” and unbuckles my seat belt. My nap heavy feet brush against the pine needles as my parents, holding my hands, pull me up the steep path to the main stage of Fox Hollow. As we reach the crest of the hill, a vast sea of log benches and swaying people stretches down into the hollow before me.
My parents follow me down to the main stage and retrieve my hand, coaxing me down another woodland path leading to a meadow. The people in the field have been swallowed by the music. Feet stomp and hands slap. Foreheads leak beads of sweat and teeth grit as fiddlers’ bows dance across the strings. A banjo’s sharp twang pierces through the steamy haze of heating herbal concoctions and burning patchouli oil.
Overgrown hippies speak their language and sing their songs like melodious laughter. My feet are lifted by the reverberating rhythms of the people and their music. I am spun into a blur of flowing skirts and whirling handkerchiefs. Wrapped around the calves of the Morris dancers, the bells jangle and chime in response to the emphasized beats and intricate patterns of Irish step dances. Standing on the ground, the soles of my feet absorb the rhythmic pulse of the wash tub bases. Women in clogs rotate their bodies, tossing their long hair and whipping it back around so that it cascades down around their shoulders.
Stretched out on fraying ropes from tent to tent, the drying laundry snaps and curls in the cooling wind. The slow moaning notes of sorrowful ballads mix and mingle with the homemade tones of jug bands and soulful rhythms of slave work songs. Their melodies are jumbled but, all at once, I hear them like sweet harmony.
The setting sun slides silently down into the dark trees. Except for the whisper of the leaves, everything is silent. The people scan the sky eastward, soaking up the sun’s last heat and admiring the newly acquired purple clouds and bright pink sky. Dusk creeps on tip toes by the dull colored tents, extending their shadows so far they melt into one. Weary musicians head for the warmth and light of the glowing fires. The sweet sound of fingers plucking the strings of yard sale mandolins drift and fall through the night like airy clouds. Dry laundry flutters softly against the darkening sky. One by one, the brilliant stars appear. There are no harsh city lights near to insult their shimmering brightness. White bearded old men begin the night singing with their scratchy voices and lullaby lyrics. A man’s long braid trailing gracefully down his back moves in time with his gentle sway. Women’s floating voices glide sweetly between octaves, intertwining in harmony. Their subtle head movements send ripples down their straight hair like waves in the middle of the sea. The night music lulls my tired body to sleep and a quiet yawn from the breeze curls around me into a quilt of dreams.
The other performers I recall best from this festival are:
Alan Block (down home fiddler)
Cilla Fisher & Artie Trezise (great Scotish singers)
Green Grass Cloggers (great southern dance!)
David Mallett (super singer/song writer)
Bob McQuillan (ya' gotta dance)
Michael, McCreesh, Cambell (exquisite)
Nee Ningy (string band that kept us up all night)
Sally Rogers (wonderful singer, great songs)
Bob Zentz (one of the "old Fox Hollow" crew)
