Another Harvestfest is over and here I sit on a Saturday evening stuffed to the gills from eating sausage subs, baked beans, oxen sandwiches (that tasted a lot like roast beef), home cooked pies, ice cream, and freshly popped kettle corn.
One year they ran out of sausage sandwiches at which time I was actually upset because those sausages were the best I ever had. At least this is where I sat in 2002. The beauty of Harvestfest had nothing to do with the food or the crafts even though I miss them. It had everything to do with the people.
The population at the Harvestfest was filled with people I knew, I thought I knew, and that I had no idea who they were. The primary bond between them was they were all enjoying a time in a place they called home. Many images come to mind.
I watched lovely young ladies in remarkably beautiful costumes dance to what I think was Irish music, I observed beautiful women in colonial garb show off their crafts inside an historic church I assumed had always been there.
York Village was filled with costumed young men and women demonstrating we all had a heritage we should be proud of. I especially liked the man who sat by the Emerson Wilcox House caning chairs. I never talked to him and to this day I’m sorry for this fact. Continue Reading →