Bob Clayton reminds me of the time I watched two burly New York State Policemen walk down the path from the parking field, casting suspicious glances to left and to right, sniffing the air as though expecting to detect the lovely fragrance generally associated with such outrageous gatherings as "folk festivals." They reached the upper edge of the natural amphitheater that was the "hollow" and peered down toward the stage. At that moment, Chicago's Armstrongs and Triers, with the Nudelmans and the Dildines (I think) were doing an original musical rendition of "Rumpelstiltskin" (spelling?) for the kids. The two cops looked at one another, shrugged, and walked back up the path to their car. Never saw 'em again. In fact, that was the only time I ever saw a policeman at the festival, and I was at them all. Sandy Sandy