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Fortitude and folding chairs

Musical and meterological diversity at the 2nd Annual Pemberton Folk Festival

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Sat. June 11

8:00 a.m.

After days of unpredictable weather, it’s brilliantly sunny. Mount Currie looks like a Technicolor postcard that’s been run through Photoshop for maximum appeal. Child Number Two, the five-year-old, gets up, hoovers down his scrambled eggs and toast and declares that he’s ready for the festival.

I smile, confident that this is going to be an excellent day with the family. We’re going to the 2nd Annual Pemberton Folk Festival where the combination of music, sunshine and community will leave us with memories that will further shape our identity as a group determined to live outside the consumerist mainstream. Well, that’s the fantasy…

9:30 a.m.

The light streaming in between the bedroom blinds doesn’t seem quite as intense. In fact, the sky doesn’t seem all that blue. Propped up in bed, Spousal Equivalent sips her coffee, an open laptop on her lap and casually drops a reference to the outrageous number of emails she needs to "get to."

10:00 a.m.

Pouring myself another cup of coffee, I peer out the kitchen window and notice small circles rippling across my neighbour’s dog’s wading pool. I look to see if the dog might be skipping stones across the pool. I hear the telltale, muted thud of oversized raindrops hitting the tin roof.

10:10 a.m.

Number Two’s Favourite Friend shows up brandishing not one, but two, light sabers. They are soon immersed in what is, at last count, a fifth viewing of The Phantom Menace . Number Two looks away from the opening action sequence just long enough to tell me he’s not going to the festival.

10:15 a.m.

Spousal Equivalent peeks through the blinds out to the street covered with bouncing rain, furrows her brow and makes an ominous statement about accumulating household paperwork. There’s also the matter of the housework…I begin to understand…

11:00 a.m.

Number One, 13 and too clever by half, rolls out of bed and heads towards the kitchen speaking that special language of teens that adults only hear as a series of incoherent grunts. Realizing that in her freshly awoken stupor it is unlikely that her brain has registered that we are in the middle of a downpour, I get her to commit to accompanying me. The look of confusion and pity that spreads across her face makes me wonder just how desperate I sound.

11:45 a.m.

Number One looks skeptical as I extol the protective possibilities my Aussie cowboy hat affords. This same hat caused her endless embarrassment during last summer’s family vacation. She kindly refrains from any hat-negative comments and grabs an umbrella to keep her head dry.

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