Music in the Mountains

I skipped my English class yesterday. My dad picked me up and we drove to Grand Targhee Resort. On the drive, I told him about my teacher who sounds like Kermit. He told me about the flooding in Omaha. We talked about insurance and levees. Then we talked about capital punishment and marijuana. We talked about mountains and how they feed our souls and which trails we're backpacking this summer. We talked about my brothers, how Morgan works like a man, how Seth loves comedy. We talked about dating. I told about my goals. He told me about the marathon he's running in October.

Then we rolled into the resort. Music was playing somewhere in the sea of tents and camp trailers. The breeze smelled like pine and dirt and I could feel the sun on the top of my head. We remembered that we forgot camp chairs. I teased him about being too old to sit on the ground. He scoffed. Vendors' canopies made a tiny village of granola people selling organic hippie wear. We didn't buy anything.

Food vendors had their own village. A Thai food booth smelled the best, so we both got green curry. I nearly died it was so good. We sat on the grass in the sun and compared our white legs. He won.

The first band, Chamberlin, started playing. I lay down in the grass and felt the sun and the music. I watched people. There were old people in straw hats and khaki shorts, hicks in Wranglers and vests, kids without shirts, girls without shoes or bras, hairy hairy hairy people, mini skirts and cowboy boots, and Chacos -lots of Chacos. People walked around and talked and listened and drank and got sunburned.

Sharon Jones played next. That lady could sing and dance like nobody's business. She was tiny, under 5 feet. But she had more energy than the whole audience put together. Not a person in the audience could hold still while she sang. We danced like white people. But we danced. Sharon sang because she couldn't hold it in. The music just pored out of her. She had three sax players, two drummer, three guitars, and two back up singers, but she out-sang them all. We laughed and clapped and danced with her. There in the pines and the rocks, we danced.

The sun was setting when Grace Potter and the Nocturnals came on. By now the sober people in the audience were a minority (We were among them, thank you). A stuffed tiger was on the stage and a full moon was in the sky. Grace was all legs and hair and voice and awesome. She played and played and played. After a while, my head was pounding from the volume and the pervasive smoky haze, so I moved away. I sat on the grass and listened and clapped and watched the stars. The mountains are cold at night, but no one cared. We were there and the music was there. Grace said something in between songs. She said, "I look at you guys and I realize that most of you know each other. You are a small town, but you come together and make something incredible." It was true. Then she wanted everyone to make a pact to come next year and bring a friend. The audience cheered. It's easy to make drunk people promise things. Then she played more music. The trees swayed and the people swayed and the music carried into the mountains.