Sausage

The woman behind the Chamber of Commerce food table made it perfectly clear that they had run out of sausage sandwiches. Of course, with all the hustle and bustle of the crowds in the food tent, the only people who heard her announcement were the ones who stood in front of her and ordered a sausage sandwich. Needless to say she had to repeat herself many times over and each time she did, she made her announcement a little bit louder. York's Harvestfest was once again a great success. The timing could not have been better because it allowed the people of York to take part in something that represented stability, after the horror of the September 11th attacks. My wife and I decided that we didn't want to fight the traffic this year, or to have to park somewhere in a bordering town. Driving on Route One, near the Meadowbrook Office Suites, we noticed a sign that advertised free transportation to the festivities. Deb and I quickly decided to take the bus this year even though we live less than two miles from the center of York, where the Harvestfest was taking place. We kept on following the signs down Route One until it became evident that we were almost entering Ogunquit. Finally a sign by The Cape Neddick Inn led us to make a turn and drive into York Beach. We laughed when we finally saw the station because we had just driven about six miles to go to a bus that would take us to a point that was less than two miles from where we live. Oh well, let the day begin. Before the bus arrived to take us back to where we started from, we met some people from Massachusetts and New York. They had never been to Harvestfest before and asked if it was worth the wait for the bus. Of course we told them it was well worth the wait, and that this particular festival had become a bit of a tradition for York. We didn't get to talk for long because the bus soon arrived. Both the bus driver, whose name is Joe, and a wonderful woman who handed out maps, greeted us on the bus, and gave us written descriptions of what one could find at the festival. She welcomed everyone to York and hoped that all of the visitors would have a wonderful day. My wife and I sat behind her and she started a conversation with us by asking where we were from. We told her that we lived less than two miles from the festivities. She gave us a bit of an odd look and off to the Harvestfest we flew. Halfway there, I noticed a second bus coming from the opposite direction. Both busses then started to slow down as they approached each other. I actually became a bit nervous because I did not understand why they would do this. When the buses met they slowed down to a crawl. I had no idea why they had to do this. Then the driver of the other bus opened her window and stretched her arm out with a long silver-covered cylinder in her hand. Joe, on our bus, grabbed the cylinder as if he was taking a baton from an earlier runner in some sort of a relay race. The exchange was perfect, and Joe had his lunch in the form of a submarine sandwich. My wife and I immediately smiled in the knowledge that our lives were slowly coming back to normal. We arrived at the Harvestfest a few minutes later and walked into re-enactments of what colonial life was like in York. At Jeffords Tavern, we watched as people dressed in colonial garb made cloth, using spinning wheels, and cooked their food over open fires. They were surrounded by many visitors but seemed to ignore them while doing their chores. We then walked toward the church, in the center of our town that always reminded me of Peyton Place. Many say our politics are similar to the plot line of that famous book, movie, and television show, but that is another story.

Crossing the street in front of the church, I noticed mounds of brown solids smeared and piled all over the crosswalk. As I was carefully navigating my way through the minefields of dung, I heard a young child behind me exclaiming to his mother that there was horse stuff on the road. His mother then answered, "Yes dear, but please don't pick up any to bring home." A smile immediately exploded on my face.

We arrived at the Harvestfest that was covered by white tent-like tarps, to protect the food and wares from the elements. It rained that weekend but I don't know of anyone who complained, or even thought about the poor weather. At the front of the church I noticed Chief Bracey talking to a group of people. He was smiling but seemingly wasn't totally concentrating on the conversation that was before him. He kept looking around and watched all that was going on around. If there was anyone who didn't completely enjoy the festivities I would assume Chief Bracey was one.

My Deb and I then walked through a walkway that was created from rows upon rows of tents, filled with a particular kind of craft. There were dips to try, fudge to purchase served by women who were dressed in colonial attire, hand-made dolls, some of which looked all too real, and watercolors and photos of all of our famous landmarks. One