Oakland, MD – “ICU. URAQTπ.” -The Little Yaugh Summer Music Festival – July 28, 2000

It’s a still, gray morning, damp from the recent rain. Once again, I find myself on vocal rest. My larynx ache, like a frozen tree unable to bend. Six shows in six different towns have left me as dry and worn as an old dishrag.

We drove 90 MPH from Phili to Maryland yesterday, arriving in a quaint town called Cumberland as the day was winding down. Birdman, gracing us with his humorous, talented and generous self, treated us all to dinner at a New Orleans-style joint—think alligator tail and gumbo—a hidden gem underground and empty, except for us, the wisps of smoke from a waitress’s lipstick-stained cigarette and a James Taylor CD stuck on repeat.

We sat around the table drawing phonemic sentences on my speech pad:

• CDB? DBSAB-ZB.
  (See the bee? The bee is a busy bee.)
• AK8, TLIQ12BLON.
  (Hay Kate, tell Ike you want to be alone.)
• ICU. URAQTπ.
  (I see you. You are a cutie pie.)
• I NVU.
  (I envy you.)

After enjoying a grilled chicken salad, a glass of Chardonnay, lemon cheesecake, and a shot of espresso, we headed back to the warmth of the van to continue our journey to our promoter, Ken’s house in Oakland.

When we arrived, a misty blue fog was settling in the valleys between distant green hills and there was a party going on. For us? I couldn’t ask since I was on vocal rest. Throughout the evening, I stayed silent, furiously scribbling notes to keep up with conversations until the night’s darkness stole my words from the page of my note pad and I became just another shadow sewing together the night.

At Ken’s, we made full use of his hot tub with the special massage seat and the view of the moon as it rose and etched a silver sliver into the dark blue ripples of the universe just beyond the horizon.

The next morning, Ken’s adorable wife Nancy made us coffee before sending us off to our gig. We’d been told we’d be playing a farmer’s market type of hall but I guess I hadn’t expected the long, thin, tin roof painted with the words “Fresh Produce,” next to the train tracks which stumbled through town escorting locomotives with great roaring “yeehawws” through the adjacent neighborhoods. It reminded me of places my dad used to play when I was younger. I remember him calling me to the stage to sing with him and the pride and excitement of being in front of an outdoor audience that I could see.

Birdman and I skipped off, arm in arm, to find a leather craftsman to cut me a piece of hide to fix my watch band. We stuck out like sore thumbs in the quaint town of Oakland full of antique shops and old-time coffee shops with swivel stools. Birdman wore a shirt decorated with subway cars covered in graffiti, while I sported a panther print skirt and dark NYC shades. A shopkeeper, standing outside her wind chime store yelled after us:

“You going to the concert tonight? Starts at 7:00.”
“We’ll be there,” Eric shouted back over his shoulder. A few paces later she hollered again,
“Hey! YOU ARE the concert?!” and we laughed in recognition.

At 7:00 people started pulling up to the farmers market and pitching their families and lawn chairs on the surrounding grass. A nice young guy with a guitar and synth sampler opened for us. A train ran by with high-pitched toots and kids scampered between parent’s legs to get a look at the stage. Polish sausages, pork sandwiches with coleslaw, and baked ham stands were served in white tents; not much for a vegetarian in Maryland, unfortunately.

Halfway through our set, an Amish family pulled up on a tractor to listen to the show. A bunch of cute kids came up on stage and danced to Happy Now and Split Decisions and some even stayed to sway to Tomboy Bride.

It was a brilliant starry night. We sold CDs, I signed kids’ shirts, and Elizabeth, Amber, and Tina —three groovy little girls—helped me hand out stickers. I was taken with the honesty and beauty in people’s eyes—the children in particular, with their blue, snow-cone-stained tongues, gleefully requesting my signature on their dusty, farmer’s market T-shirts, enchanted me. Somewhere during the night, someone gave me an “I Love Oakland” pin and as the crowd dwindled and distant laughter filled the night, I looked at that pin and realized it was true—Oakland is great!