As I read other people's memories, mainly of the music and the friends, the magic of the friendship at the Getaway wraps around me like a warm cape. Like many others, I drove into the camp and couldn't figure out where anything was. Dwayne (sp?) Thorpe got into my car with me to serve as guide. I said to him, "Do I really have to stick to the roads? I own some rural property and I'm used to driving through cow pastures, etc." Sheila gave us a very strange look as we drove by, and Dwayne said, "Oh well, let her wonder." She later explained that she was afraid that we were on a suicide mission, driving straight towards the pond. Oh shucks, I didn't even see the pond.

In keeping with years of tradition, I came to the Getaway in less than perfect health. I had an injured foot and could barely hobble along with my elegant walking stick, which had once been a tree branch with a vine wrapped around it. I stayed close to the dining hall area most of the time because I couldn't walk. I had to endure the disappointment of missing the Songs of Struggle. For me, the best part of the Getaway was getting so much help from so many people so happily, starting with Dwayne. At any hour of day or night, people were happy to walk with me over the "rough" ground and help me carry my fiddle. During the Saturday night concert, when I was lying on the floor with my foot elevated on a bench, trying to feel comfortable, Bruce Gewirz slipped a rolled up sweater (or something of that sort) under my foot to make me more comfortable. Later, I felt so good after one of his legendary massages. Several people helped me attempt to fix my fiddle. I was especially impressed with Don Nichols's collection of tools he carries around with him and his great skill in using them.

Ah, yes, the music. I particularly enjoyed Max Ochs's workshop on Mississippi John Hurt and Dick Greenhaus's playing on his new instrument (guitar with a steel resonator?) way late at night. My watch wasn't working, so the next day I asked Keith how late we had stayed up with Dick the night before, and he said, "Oh, about 3:30."

A whole weekend full of music, friends, and beautiful weather and scenery -- it just doesn't get much better than that.

This is the stuff that dreams are made of.

Pauline