Darkness Before Two Dawns Part I

This will be a photo-heavy post. Enough for me to add that "Part I" to it, and maybe cut-tag part of what is here, especially if anyone here wants me to.

It was certainly a memorable weekend for me, much of it for both of us,  but it began with an experience for somebody else that will probably be much more memorable for much longer, and probably not in a good way. I had a weekend of music planned, driving to the Southern Tier to meet friends and see Natalie Merchant on Saturday night; then going with Eleanor to a more intimate venue to see Eilen Jewell, a performer I’d supported with her brother four years ago and whose recordings we both much loved.

On Saturday, I planned an early afternoon departure and planned on a morning of a little work around the house, which I ultimately got accomplished. Sometime in the mid morning, though, I saw a couple of fire department vans and an ambulance going past our house, followed by a police car. No big fire truck, though, so at least nothing was burning. When I went out to walk the dog soon after that, I saw that the parade had ended across the street and three doors down from us. I knew their last name and had met Lori a few times when she was out with Bentley their aging pup. I could not remember her husband’s  name, though, and I don’t think in all these years he and I had ever exchanged more than a wave as one of us went by the other’s  driveway on a dog walk.

The fire guys and EMTs left quickly. The ambulance and the cop did not. The latter, in fact, was still outside the house writing up a report at least an hour later. We now believe that means what you think it means. Another neighbor, also named Lori, walked past our house while I was out mowing. His name was Ron, she told me, and he'd had heart troubles. I have not confirmed his passing through an obituary or a widow's-mouth report, but that’s enough for now. So he probably died, and I probably never said a word to him in almost 30 years. Both of those things are definitely sad.

ETA. And, there it is:

PRINGLE - RONALD R.

July 8, 2023, age 69.

Beloved husband of 24 years to Lori L. (nee Hilliker) Pringle; dear son of the late Frank and Ester (nee Barron) Pringle; caring brother of Donna (late Ken) Thomas and David (Sue) Pringle; adored uncle of Megan Thomas; also survived by nieces and nephews. Ron was a retired City of Buffalo Fire Fighter retiring in 2015 after 35 years of service. There will be no prior visitation. Arrangements by the AMIGONE FUNERAL HOME, INC. Services will be held at the convenience of the family. If desired, memorials may be made to Buffalo Fire Fighters Local 282. Please share condolences at www.AMIGONE.com.

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I then got another, but fortunately unrepeated, moment of bad juju before the drive to Jamestown. I'd run a few errands in JARVIS before getting on the road, and when I pulled into the driveway, his front end didn't look so good:



No biggie, right? It screwed right back in to the frame. Except this car did the same damn thing on my last voyage in it to Chautauqua County just over a year ago. There, too, I saw it and quickly fixed it, but that was the night the car's possession proceeded to set off the panic button on its own and then caused my keys to disappear.  I'd been leaning toward taking Eleanor's car anyway, and this sight sealed the deal. After mowing the front and getting in a shower and change, I was on the 90 in the unusual direction around 1:30. The gates at Chautauqua Institution open at 4 to concertgoing visitors, so this gave me plenty of time for a detour to the bottom of its namesake Lake, back within the city limits I explored so thoroughly in May of 22:



I don't think that sign was up for them last time, but I'd seen pictures of it, and now had one of my own. One of the friends I was meeting had stayed in Jamestown that night and was visiting the stops on the 10K Tour I took with Steve the co-founding Maniac the last time, but she'd already headed up the west shore by the time I got there. So my main goal was to take one last shot at finding a rather conspicuous key ring from 14 months earlier.

First stop: El Jarocho, the Mexican place I last remember having them. I parked around the corner and walked in to see an UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT sign. But the manager was the same delightful if overworked young woman who served us last time, and couldn't find the keys after we left. The "new management" was above her pay grade, but so was any recollection of where my year-old missing merch might be.  But she wished me well on my journey of the day and suggested I try back at the concert venue from '22.

It was closed, not surprising for a Saturday afternoon, but it was still worth the stop:



That was in the theater's window, a memento from Harry's amazing effort to help save this downtown former movie palace from the wrecking ball- as he did with the Landmark Theatre in Syracuse and probably others.  I'd forgotten the connection. They hadn't.

So I left Jamestown with only as many keys as I came with- this time, just the one to Eleanor's car. Live and learn. From there, it was a quick trip up through some small towns and past numerous lakefront properties before arriving on the once hallowed grounds of Chautauqua Institution.  It began its life as a Methodist campground used for revivals over a century ago, before morphing into the much more secular home of lectures, art and much music.

I'd never been there in all my years in and around the 716, not even driving by it on the road from Mayville.



This was one of my first-ever views of this landlocked lake from this very day.  Parking was a little tricky, and while entry to the lot was permitted by the concert ticket after 4 pm, it was not free and it was not close. I took breadcrumbs of photos to find my way back in the late dark, walked across Route 394, and then through the first of several checkpoints I would pass through during the visit, and spent the next four hours exploring.

"Checkpoint" is an apt term, for this place is a West Berlin of sanity in the MAGA (Not) Democratic Republic surrounding it from about southern Erie County on down.  On the road to Jamestown, I passed many houses sporting the trifecta of a TRUMP 2024 banner, a Stars and Bars, and a FUCK BIDEN sign; at least one displayed all three  Many mentions of Brandon would follow. Once safely inside Checkpoint Chautauqua, however, things got much more woke.  Even outside the first gate, the series of banners for upcoming headliners all had Pride brandings on them:



Our evening's event, in the Amphitheater-



- soon to be followed by a lecture by one of our favorite performers from TV and film, Edie Falco's boss in Nurse Jackie among other excellent roles-



-and this one, squaring off one of Obama's mentors against the Maker of Bush. After last summer's unpleasantness with Salman Rushdie, I was surprised they would be hosting such a celebrity throwdown, but maybe Rove will see the rainbow under his name and refuse to come in.

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I spent an hour or so getting the lay of the tightly confined land:



A fairly typical cottage among the hundreds on these small streets, many named for famed former Methodists. Perfectly painted and manicured little hobbit houses, each probably worth more than our entire street.  We knew a couple back in church days who had one, inherited, as most down here are, from generations before.  Those expressing any opinions are entirely liberal and welcoming, though I did find it weird that for the first three hours, the number of BLACK LIVES MATTER signs (1) exceeded the number of actual Black Lives I saw here (zero).  By the end of the night, the latter total was up to four, and only two of them were staff.

Other friends had made their own dinner plans with their driving companions, so I found a food truck serving Japanese noodles with street meat and a park bench bearing a Pride rock to enjoy it on:




That bench was near a square hosting the institution's administration building, post office and, this weekend at least, a bunch of artists' tents much like Emily's we saw at Allentown. I'd decided on wearing my Rochester Jazz t-shirt from last months, since Maniac gear might be construed like wearing East Coast rap colors to a West Coast rap concert.  A guy named Chris stopped and asked me about some of the performers I'd seen there; I told him all about Deanna and Mary Lou and Dizzy and the connections among them. He and his wife were not there to perform, though; their tent plied wares for the doggie world:



One guy who was performing on that square was this one:



His name, it was Arnie, he's here from Toronto, he plays ukulele and talks pretty pronto! I told him about having just read, in Dar Williams's book about songwriting, that a uke can be a good introductory string instrument to the n00b songwriter who doesn't already play an instrument. He hadn't heard of her, but he thought it was decent advice.

It was getting close to 6:30, and I could see a queue forming on the side of the amphitheater for the Great Unwashed Patrons who, like me, did not have a reserved seat on the floor. I abandoned my remaining noodles and joined it.  First sighting?

A penguin on top of some garbage! All recovered from their southern natural not-so-habitable habitat.  We were soon joined by a busker, heavy on movie themes:



I threw him a buck, which apparently wasn't enough to get him to not play. Soon after, though, the line began to move, I found a seat on the aisle partway down the upper-deck pews-



- and waited for the show to go on:)

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I just decided to make this Part I of III rather than of II, since Natalie's music and stories deserve a post all her own. That will be sometime tomorrow after returning from Rochester, or during my stay there if my 2:30 case there settles as it is now supposed to. Part III, about yesterday's story of Cane and Disable but with even more wonderful music and stories, will come after that.