The Bad: A few days prior to the festival, I received directions to “Performer Parking.” Unfortunately, they were incorrect, making it very difficult for me to find parking near the performance area, let alone in the designated “Performer Parking.” I’m somewhat physically challenged - bad, bad knees - so close parking was important and had been promised by the venue representative who hired me. (Later, I was gently chided for not parking where I was supposed to, even though it was impossible to get there.)

Also, I was told that there would be a stage area--some place set aside for performance. There wasn’t. Finally, I was told that I was to tell on the "lower lawn." That area was deserted; it was the only place on the festival grounds that was. I had to search for the venue rep to find out where I was to tell. Of course, I had no idea what he looked like. However, I stand out as Jack’s Mama, so I knew he would have no trouble finding me. After one of the festival volunteers called around the grounds, he came to me and told me to tell wherever I chose.

(Now, I’m defying the rules of good writing and telling the next two segments in reverse order of the above title.)

The Downright Peculiar: On the festival grounds was a lovely home - now a museum - that pre-dated the Civil War. Just lovely. Gorgeous formal gardens. Just beautiful.

Lacking, however, was a row of porta-potties anywhere on the site. One had to walk at least a city block or two to get to them and then wait (I heard from irritated guests) 10-45 minutes in line. Being one of the performers on the site, I asked if there were restrooms in the manse.

“Yes.”

“May I use it?”

“No.”

They were not for the public. But today I wasn’t actually the public, I tried to explain, and I do have a walking problem. No. I could not use the restroom there. I told the curator of the museum that it seemed to me that if there was a restroom available, it would be a courtesy to allow their performer to use it. (I was there for five hours.)

"No. We didn’t hire you. That was the festival committee, and they didn’t communicate anything with us. When we let the public us the restroom, they stop it up." Hmmmmm.

Problem: as a teller telling off and on for five hours outdoors on a windy day, I drank a lot of water.

The Good: The people. The wonderful, receptive people. Since there was no printed program, nor was there any kind of easel with a schedule posted, nor was there any indicated performance area, to get a crowd, I hollered them in. “Jack’s Mama” does that when she needs to. They gathered in - mostly adults, with a sprinkling of children - and listened.

Between sets, I roamed, sang mountain ballads, greeted people, chatted with President and Mrs. Abraham Lincoln (it was amazing; they just seemed like ever’day, hard-workin’ common folk, ’cept he’s awful concerned that the country might be going to war), and telling spontaneously to small clusters.

I saw two women sitting under a tree on a bench sized for three. They looked like good friends, so I asked if they were. Yes. I asked if I could sit between them. Yes. And I told "No News." They loved it. Others passed, paused, seemed to wonder if, in doing so, they were eavesdropping, and passed on, only to pause within earshot, again.

As I was heading for my car after telling a final set to some listeners gathered around several picnic tables, some ladies stopped me to chat about storytelling. We talked for about a half hour. One of them had told stories twice a week at a school for several years.

They asked me about the two women who were sitting next to them during the stories. "Did you know them?" I told them that I didn’t, as far as I was aware. They both wore dark glasses, and they were seated farther away from me. "Well, they were very complimentary to you, as you told. They seemed familiar with your work. Do you have groupies?" Must have been my angels.

The people today were playful. That’s the word. We all had fun playing together. Even though there was a brick walkway between me and my audience and people walked back and forth with strollers, folding camp chairs, and dogs, my audience stayed with me. Even the passersby often would pause and comment appropriate to the story. (“Jack’s Mama” likes that kind of casual interaction and banter.)