Saturday morning. The kitchen staff are the first to rise, already harvesting lettuce from the garden for that night’s meal. Each piece needs to be washed and then torn in a way so that no leaf is crushed by the weight of it all. There is an art and a science to feeding three meals to 300 people and it takes an army all day to prepare...After breakfast the parachute goes up, with a body posted at each tree and two on the roof, it rises, only briefly getting caught on the apple tree. Granny Smiths rain down...Drum circle, tie-dye, weaving on the loom. Jeffery’s post is on the road to assist with parking, though most people have already arrived...The day settles into a relaxing trance as the first band begins to play. Bluegrass during the day, Dead songs at night...Teenagers more talented than anyone thought possible given their short existence pick up their instruments and own the crowd...Washing and dicing, singing and dancing, continue into the evening.
I lost about 250 images during the dinner hour/ the golden hour that can only be imagined. They must have been too magical for the world to see.