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I am writing a novel this month, a nanowrimo novel. A nanowirmo novel is a collection of at least 50,000 words (approximately 175 book pages), written during the month of November, National Novel Writing Month. It does not have to be a great novel. It is unlikely that it will be, given the time constraints; it is more an excuse to write toward a novel, to experiment with writing, to force oneself to put aside a couple of hours a day to write, to explore writing a novel.

It is a time to liberate oneself from one’s inner critic and inner copyeditor, and freely explore writing, instead of putting it off until you have “time.” It is also a social endeavor, a competitive venture with friends and strangers down the street and around the world, thanks to the nanowrimo website (conveniently at nanowrimo.org)

Some people are better at this than others. There is always someone (or a whole slew of people, often, I think, college student writing fantasy fiction) who has finished his or her 50,000 words by the 5th day of the month (today), some who will go on to write, perhaps, half a million words during the course of a month. Others will barely get started before the month is over. Hard to say whether any of the novels or bits of novels produced are any good. Occasionally one will be published (there is a list of published nanowrimo novels on the web site), but I haven’t read any of them. I have read some snippets (you can post excerpts from your novel online), many of which show promise. Ultimately, though, it is about quantity, not quality. There is a national novel editing month to deal with the quality aspect.

Over 120,000 people participated last year, and there are probably even more than that this year. This is my third year. I won my first year, but producing 50,000 words by November 25, scrupulously writing 2,000 words a day. Then I put the novel aside and haven’t looked at it since. Last year, I barely got above the 5,000 word mark. This year, I am already way behind, and I still don’t really have a plot. For now, I am writing about a woman writing a nanowrimo novel, exploring novel topics. I’m sure it will lead somewhere.

I “met” Scottish folk cellist Seylan Baxter through another blog I write about my cello-playing adventures a couple of years ago when she commented on my posts about attending Scottish fiddle camp. She sent me a copy of her cello and harp CD, “2:40″ (with harpist Cheyenne Brown, originally from Alaska, but now living in Scotland), and I was an immediate fan. The name of the CD refers to the 2 performers, and the 40 strings they play.

So, when I learned they would be relatively close, at the Blackstone River Theatre in Cumberland, Rhode Island, on their first U.S. tour, I drove the 70 miles to see them. It was a dark and stormy night, and I could barely find my way home through the torrential rains after the show, but it was a concert well worth seeing; I loved every minute of it.

I find it hard to describe Scottish folk music; it is fiddle music, Celtic music, but with an earthiness to it (perhaps the cello), a solidness and rustic flavor that appeals to me. The cello and harp are not a traditional instrumental duo, and the cello is not traditionally a solo instrument in Scottish music, but Seylan and Cheyenne make you believe that these two instruments, and Scottish music, belong together, and that the cello clearly deserves a starring role. The two instruments, the two young women, share the musical spotlight, and they were quite amiable and congenial as performers. In addition to playing the cello, Seylan sings; she has a wonderful voice, especially good for ballads.

Seylan uses many contemporary techniques in her cello playing, chopping, rhythmic slapping of the wood, sliding up and down the string, pizzicato, and more. Seylan started out as a classical cellist, switching to Scottish folk music while in college.

The first think you notice about her playing is, of course, that she plays standing up, her cello balanced on a chair. Cheyenne stands as well, her harp elevated a few inches to make this possible. I talked to Seylan about the standing, and asked why she played that way, and whether it was difficult. She said she started doing it because she was often the only one sitting. She experimented with different methods, including strapping on an electric cello, but using a chair turned out to be the easiest thing to do. Some other fiddlers use a longer end-pin or other methods.

It was great to hear Seylan and Cheyenne in person, and I am glad to have discovered the Blackstone River Theatre, a small 100-seat theater that offers a folk concert series, mostly Celtic music. I hope to go back again on December 5, when the Jeremy Kittel Band is playing. I have actually never heard of them, but cellist Tristan Clarridge plays with this group. (He is also in Crooked Still, another alternative folk, bluegrass group I enjoy.)

It took me about an hour and 15 minutes to drive to Cumberland, and three hours to drive home, through the rain. Still, not a bad distance to drive for a good concert.

I didn’t attend Woodstock. I recall giving it some thought at the time, but figured it was too far to drive from where I was living in Washington DC. I did, however, attend the Bath Festival of Blues and Progressive Music the following year (1970), a little farther from home, but I happened to be in England at the time, temporarily escaping from the materialistic culture of the U.S. Or, at least, I sort of attended it.

A friend and I arrived on Thursday night by train from London, and, like many others, we slept in the train station that night. At the festival site the next day, I remember big expanses of fields, and long lines for porta-potties and food. I recall waiting in line for what seemed like hours for what I still regard as one of the best meals I have ever eaten, a chunk of crusty French bread, some cheese, and an apple.

The next night, unencumbered by sleeping bags and tents, or even jackets (I was wearing my favorite long-fringed vest), we simply lay down on the field where we had been standing and went to sleep. Technical difficulties prevented the music from starting until Sunday evening, and we had to leave just as Johnny Winter was starting things off. I remember running for the train station, looking back to see as much of the performance as we could without missing the train. (Back in London, we spent the night in Chelsea, and when we woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, but that is another story.)

Wikipedia said the music started Saturday evening and continued through 6:30 AM on Monday morning and that 150,000 people attended, far smaller than Woodstock’s half a million strong, but still a sizable crowd.

Despite the lack of music at the Bath music festival, at least when I was there, I still remember it fondly. People were friendly, mellow, and patient, and it was a beautiful weekend.

I haven’t been to another rock festival since then, but for the last five years or so have been attending bluegrass festivals, notably the Grey Fox Bluegrass Festival held annually in July on a farm in upstate New York, not far from where Woodstock was held. It is in the Catskill Mountains or may just north of the Catskills, and south of the Adirondacks.

Grey Fox attracts a different crowd than Woodstock did, though there is quite an array of tie-dyed clothing, the smell of pot hangs in the air, and some of the attendees might have been at Woodstock 40 years ago. I met one woman who had been coming to Grey Fox for 33 years, ever since the festival began (it was formerly known as the Winterhawk Bluegrass Festival.)

I’m not a die-hard bluegrass fan, but I do enjoy the  genre, especially the “alternative, progressive” sound and its connections with fiddle, folk, jazz, and even classical music. It is my brother who is the real bluegrass fan in our family, and it was he who introduced me to the music. And he played “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” on his banjo at my wedding (my sister played Bach, on piano).

About 15,000 people attend the festival, and they come in huge recreational vehicles, campers, truck, and cars. They set up tents for sleeping and for picking (guitars, banjos, and mandolins, not corn); shelters from the sun, wind, and rain; elaborate cooking devices; and personal shower tents. They bring their kids, their parents, their friends, and their instruments. Most people who attend also play a bluegrass instrument or sing, and many like to do that all night long. The number of “quiet camping” spots, where campers must stop playing by 10 PM, are far fewer than the “picker’s paradise” camp spots, where musicians can gather round the clock and jam, beginners to pros, and all levels in between.

Grey Fox at night.

For those not picking, or taking a break from picking, there is lots to do. There is one bluegrass band after another on the main stage, and, in the masters tent, one can enjoy an up-close-and-personal informal concert/question-and-answer session with other bands. Bluegrass music is surprisingly diverse, including traditional old-time bluegrass, country-twangy bluegrass, gospel grass, new grass, folk grass,  rock-and-roll twinged bluegrass, progressive bluegrass, pop bluegrass, jazzy bluegrass, and even Swiss grass from one of my favorite groups, the Kruger Brothers, originally from Switzerland, but now resettled in North Carolina.

The Kruger Brothers on the Main Stage.

I also enjoy the young bluegrass bands, including  two from Boston, Crooked Still and the Boston Boys. Crooked Still is a little folksy, but with plenty of vigor, describing themselves as a “hot young alternative bluegrass group,” and includes a cellist in their band, while the Boston Boys, all graduates of the Berklee College of Music are high-energy rockers, describing themselves as contemporary roots rock.

Crooked Still on the Main Stage.

Crooked Still (left) and the Boston Boys (right) in the Masters Tent.

There is a dance tent, where you can learn folk and traditional dances as well as freely express yourself to the tunes of the festival bands. There is yoga, dance instruction, a children’s activity tent, instruction for beginning musicians, and places for them to find each other and jam together.

The Dance Tent.

There is a Bluegrass Academy for Kids, where children and teens can learn to play fiddle, banjo, guitar, mandolin, dobro, string bass, and even cello. My role in this festival has been to bring violins, violas, and cellos for kids to try out at the Bluegrass Academy.  It  feels a bit like bringing coals to Newcastle: the place is awash with instruments of all kinds.

There is plenty of food, including organic fruits, vegetables, and meat from local farms that you can cook up on your grill. You can buy cheese, bread, and apples too, and enjoy your own festival feast, or buy food already prepared by vendors.

You can buy crafts, jewelry, clothing, hand-made soap, and camping supplies too. There are lots of tie-dye shirts and batik dresses that are so appealing at the festival, and maybe not so practical at home, when you realize that it is a little too funky, after all.

We, my daughter and I, arrived at Grey Fox on Wednesday evening, July 15, around midnight. The festival ran from 2 PM Thursday, July 16, to Sunday afternoon, the 19th. You have to get there early to secure a camping spot. Tents are pitched pretty close to one another, and it can be hard to find a spot to wedge in your tent. Especially if you arrive at midnight.

Our camping site. The large white tent in the background is the Dance Tent.

This year, we were told we could camp in the staff quiet camping area, which is, apparently not in high demand because the staff would rather jam than sleep. It worked out great for us, though. We had plenty of space for our large tent (sleeps 10! — packed like sardines), our screened in gazebo, and our shower tent, and still had room left over for friends arriving the next day.

We finished setting up by 2 AM, and, after enjoying a few snacks we had purchased at a grocery store along the way, quickly fell asleep on our comfortable air mattresses, outfitted with sheets a blankets. A far cry from the Bath music festival.

Over the next four days, we spent hours and hours listening to bluegrass music of all kinds, sampling foods of all kinds, and, occasionally, finding time to take out our instruments and attempt a tune. We (my friend’s granddaughter and I) were playing Ashokan Farewell, when a man came over to complement us on our playing. Not a musician himself, he had recognized the tune from his daughter having played it. That was fun, feeling part of the music scene there on the mountain. I bought a couple of CDs and a necklace to match the ring I had purchased at last year’s festival, and my daughter bought matching peace sign finger and toe rings.

There were some torrential rains, and the ground became very muddy and slippery. I saw a group of three mud people who had taken advantage of the situation to cover themselves in mud, Woodstock style (though they kept their clothes on), and I slipped and fell a couple of times, but the sun did come out again, thankfully, in time to dry our tents before it was time to take them down and pack them away.

It wasn’t Woodstock, but it was nice to be immersed in music for so long–and silence when there was silence, and an invigorating escape from everyday cares and responsibilities.

I’ve been picking my own vegetables at Coonamessett Farm this year. It is just down the road from where I live, and I find it both energizing and relaxing to walk through the fields and pick strawberries, peas, string beans, rhubarb, lettuce, beets, cabbage, onions, and other delights.

I’ve made lots of salads, a strawberry-rhubarb pie, and cooked vegetables I have never cooked before, like beets, and discovered vegetables I have never used before. Like Swiss chard. I’ve never cooked it before, never really noticed it before, but when I found it growing in the field, so bright and colorful, I decided to give it a try.

So, I picked four multi-colored leaves, not quite sure what I would do with them. I checked some recipes when I got home and settled on a variation of simple one, sauteing the leaves with mushrooms, red peppers, and onions.

It was as tasty as it was colorful. Swiss chard, it turns out, is used much like spinach, though the leaves seem more substantial. My husband loved it too, so it is likely we will be heading back to the fields for more Swiss chard soon.

The new Falmouth Music and Arts Pavilion was dedicated today, and the Falmouth Town Band performed there tonight. It is a wonderful new stage, and the band looks good and sounds good on their new platform. Linda Whitehead, the band’s director, and also head of the Falmouth Public School’s music department, worked for years to raise money for the new structure, and it is nice to see that it is finally a reality.

The roof of the new structure is dramatic, and the design, with its warm colors and Cape style shingling, is very attractive. The shrubbery in front of the old band stand is gone, the stage is lower, and somehow friendlier.

The old bandshell was too small and crowded. I know–I played flute in the Town Band for 9 years, and I can tell you that it is especially difficult to play the flute in close quarters because of the way you have to hold it off to the side, and yet avoid poking anyone with it.

There are over 100 musicians in the Town Band, ranging in age from junior high school students to a saxophone player who will turn 90 next month. Several, like him, and Lin and her husband Jack, have played in the band since it began in 1972. Whole families play together. For a time, my son Nate played saxophone, my daughter Gabbe played either clarinet or oboe, I played flute, and my husband Glenn served as announcer. Glenn still does the announcing, but none of the rest of us currently play in the band.

The band plays an assortment of popular music, marches, jazz tunes, show tunes, and even some classical music, surely something for everyone, and, in between musical selections, Glenn offers interesting information on the music and what’s happening in Falmouth and surrounding towns.

When we first moved to the Cape, I used to take my then-little kids to the free concerts every Thursday night. It is a nice, casual evening of summer entertainment for residents and tourists alike.

It is also a great opportunity for local musicians to play, whether they are pros, young students, or people who are coming back to making music after having not picked up their instruments for 20 or 30 years. Lin is welcoming of  musicians of all ages and skill levels. It can be a challenging to learn all the music (14 different pieces are performed every week, for ten weeks throughout the summer), after a ten-week rehearsal season, but it can be very satisfying to participate.

Concerts begin at 7:30 every Thursday evenings throughout the summer.

It took us two days to drive home from Washington DC because we stopped a lot on the way: at rest stops, to see places I used to live or go to school, to stay over with my in-laws in Connecticut, and to visit my son in Rhode Island.

My father-in-law told me about the day he drove my husband and his two brothers down to Washington to look at American University. Not only did they tour the school, they visited various sites downtown–and did it all in one day, leaving at 5 AM and returning around 2 AM. And he did all the driving. This, after we arrived at his home at about 11 PM, taking all day and evening to make one trip between DC and CT. I was impressed.

But, I explained, we did stop and tour my old hometown in Pennsylvania, and that was fun, since my daughter had not seen it before. “Aw, pshaw,” he said, or something like that. “You can see your old house on the Internet–just type in the address.”

Though I couldn’t find a photo of my old house in Pennsylvania, I did find two old addresses  in New York state, including an apartment building where we live in White Plains for a year, when I was in third grade. I had been telling my daughter how intimidating that school was. It housed graded K through 12, and, as a little kid, I was terrified of the big 12th graders roaming the halls. In my mind the building was six stories high.

I found the apartment on Google Maps, and followed the little arrows down the street (to the left) and found the school. It is only 3 stories high, but it extends back for what seems like two blocks, rising to 4 stories. Amazing. A whole lot easier than driving to White Plains (if not quite the same).

I found another of my old addresses (we moved around a lot) in upstate New York, but none in other states. But, it is only a matter of time.