Midland Folk Music Festival

 

Summer is starting to wind down, and the sun has began its gentle descent over the rolling fields of the Midland, Michigan fairgrounds. I find myself grinning like a fool at the sheer improbability of it all. This was my third folk festival of the season, and while the previous two had been swarming with people like ants at a picnic, this one had a distinctly different vibe. The Midland Folk Festival is a hidden gem, not attended nearly as well as it deserved, but that just made it feel all the more like a secret treasure—one only the most discerning (or hopelessly lost) musicians know about.

Midland is a quaint town, nestled an hour and fifteen minutes north of our Michigan house. The drive was easy, with the late summer breeze ruffling the trees along the highway, making them wave like old friends. The fairgrounds themselves were nothing short of charming, with their neatly trimmed grass and a picturesque scattering of white tents that promised music around every corner. The place even had some surprisingly swanky restrooms and showers—luxuries unheard of at most festivals where a port-a-potty is considered a lucky find.

As I strolled past the main stage, a modest affair draped in bunting that had clearly seen better days, I marveled at the absurdity of the situation. Here we were, 500 musicians strong, gathered in this delightful, slightly out-of-the-way spot, ready to share our love of music. And yet, for reasons unknown, the crowds were sparse. It was as if the festival had been kept a secret from everyone except us musicians.

But that didn’t dampen the mood. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite effect. With fewer spectators to impress, we musicians felt free to let our hair down—figuratively for some, literally for others. The atmosphere was relaxed, almost familial. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and if you didn’t, well, it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

I quickly ran into some old friends I’d met down in West Virginia at The Appalachians String Band Festival. It was one of those serendipitous reunions where you lock eyes across a crowd and burst into laughter because, really, what were the odds? We spent the better part of the afternoon reminiscing about past festivals, swapping tall tales of missed cues and impromptu jam sessions that had taken on legendary status over the years.

But it wasn’t just about reconnecting with old friends. The beauty of the Midland Folk Festival lay in the new connections waiting to be made. I found myself surrounded by a group of fellow dulcimer enthusiasts, some of whom I’d never met before, and within minutes, we were strumming away like we’d known each other for years. That’s the magic of these gatherings—music transcends introductions, and before you know it, you’re part of an impromptu band, harmonizing with strangers who become friends by the end of the first chorus.

The fairgrounds were alive with music. There were eight locations scattered about, each dedicated to different workshops—guitar, mandolin, fiddle, banjo, dulcimer—you name it. At one point, I wandered over to a dulcimer workshop just to see what the fuss was about. The instructor, a spry man in his seventies, was demonstrating how to coax the sweetest sounds out of the instrument, but not without a few self-deprecating jokes along the way. The whole group was in stitches, and I quickly realized that here, learning was just as much about laughter as it was about music.

On Friday evening a contra dance broke out. This was my first experience witnessing this. The band "Swollen Fingers" belted out a number of old time tunes to the joy of the dancers. 

A contra dance is a lively, community-oriented social dance rooted in the folk traditions. It's a partner dance where couples form two long lines facing each other, with each couple interacting with the couples next to them as the dance progresses. The overall vibe is fun, welcoming, and full of energy, making it a favorite for dancers of all ages and experience levels.

As the evening wore on and the sun dipped lower, the crowd—such as it was—gathered for a final jam session. The air was thick with the sounds of strings and laughter, blending together in a way that only happens at festivals like this. Midland may not have drawn the biggest crowd, but what it lacked in numbers, it made up for in heart. And as I played my last note of the night, surrounded by old friends, new friends, and a whole lot of good music, I knew one thing for sure: I’d be back next year, come rain or shine, for another dose of Midland magic.

photo from: https://tacomacontradance.org/about-contra/

My Appalachian String Band Festival Experience

 

The Appalachian String Band Festival held annually at Camp George Washington Carver in Clifftop, West Virginia, is a celebration of old-time music that draws musicians and enthusiasts from across the country. Nestled in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains, this event is more than just a festival; it’s a gathering of kindred spirits who share a deep love for traditional American music. It's also within 50 miles of where I went to school in most of my elementary years, and my sophomore and junior years in high school.

The drive to Clifftop is a journey through the rugged beauty of the Appalachian landscape. Winding roads take you through dense forests, past rolling hills, and alongside crystal-clear streams. As you get closer to the camp, the air seems to hum with anticipation, as if the mountains themselves are welcoming you to the celebration.

Camp George Washington Carver, where the festival is held, is a historic site with a rich cultural heritage. Established as a 4-H camp for African American youth in the 1930s, it has since become a hub for preserving and celebrating Appalachian culture. The camp’s rustic cabins and communal spaces are surrounded by towering trees and the gentle slopes of the mountains, creating a perfect backdrop for the music that fills the air day and night.

Upon arriving at Clifftop, the first thing that strikes you is the sound. The air is alive with the tunes of fiddles, banjos, guitars, mandolins, and, of course, the mountain dulcimer. Musicians of all ages gather in informal jam sessions that spring up everywhere you look—under the shade of a tree, on a porch, or around a campfire. There’s no formal stage here; the entire camp is a stage, and everyone is welcome to join in the music-making.

My mountain dulcimer, with its sweet, resonant tones, fits perfectly into this environment. I found myself gravitating toward groups that welcomed the unique voice of my instrument. As night fell, the music didn’t stop—it only grew more intense. Under a sky filled with stars, we played until the wee hours of the morning, the sound of our instruments blending together into a harmonious symphony that echoed through the night.

The camaraderie at Clifftop is something special. In those late-night sessions, I was joined by musicians from all walks of life—some professional, some hobbyists, all united by a shared passion for old-time music. Guitars strummed steady rhythms, mandolins added their bright, sharp notes, and fiddles played melodies that seemed to have been pulled from the very heart of the mountains. The dulcimer, with its distinctive voice, added a layer of depth to the music that was both haunting and beautiful.

There’s something magical about playing music in the Appalachian Mountains. The landscape seems to inspire the tunes, and the tunes, in turn, seem to resonate with the land. As we played, I couldn’t help but feel a deep connection to the musicians who have come before us, those who created and passed down these tunes over generations. It’s a living tradition, and at Clifftop, it’s very much alive.

The festival isn’t just about the music, though. It’s also about community. Everywhere you go, you’re greeted with smiles and friendly conversation. The campgrounds are filled with people sharing stories, trading tips on playing techniques, and just enjoying each other’s company. Meals are communal, and there’s always a pot of coffee brewing somewhere, ready to fuel another round of tunes.

As the festival came to a close, I felt a sense of contentment that comes from being part of something bigger than myself. The Appalachian String Band Festival at Clifftop is more than just a place to play music; it’s a place to connect—with the music, with the land, and with each other. As I packed up my dulcimer and prepared to leave, I knew I’d be back. The music of the mountains had found a permanent place in my heart, and Clifftop would always be a part of that.

photo from: https://wvculture.org/explore/camp-washington-carver/string-band-music-festival/

Telephones...Or Whatever That Thing is I Carry

 

It’s overcast and a bit breezy this morning in Clifftop, West Virginia. My phone tells me that it’s 68 degrees, but my phone tells me a lot of things. I wonder about that.

My earliest vision of a telephone was one hanging in my grandparents' kitchen. It was black and had a rotary dial. Come to think of it, I believe every phone I saw was black at that time. It was a marvel of its day, a direct line to the outside world, neatly fixed to the wall, and always within reach when needed. The rotary dial clicked and whirred as you turned it, each digit a deliberate step toward connecting with someone far away.

I recall reading the Sunday morning Dick Tracy comics. He wore a watch that doubled as a video phone. My wife has one of those on her wrist, and our son does a video call with us to watch our granddaughter, Dot, crawl across the floor.

Fast forward to today, and my phone is so much more than a device for making calls. My phone tells me the time; it’s my clock, my stopwatch, my egg timer. It’s my personal assistant, letting me "Google"—yes, it’s a verb now—an endless supply of information from the World Wide Web, whether it’s true or not. It’s my translator, making my Star Trek dreams come true, allowing me to communicate with anyone in their native tongue.

My phone keeps my calendar, which I can share with others and even let them add events to. It carries maps of the world and provides turn-by-turn directions to anywhere I want to go. It’s my camera, capable of capturing an endless supply of photos and videos of the world around me.

It’s also a television, streaming movies, shows, and short videos from this thing called the cloud (which, despite its name, has nothing to do with the weather). My phone is my stereo, playing music from satellites orbiting above us, and it connects wirelessly to Bluetooth earbuds or speakers.

Remarkably, my phone has become a wallet too. I can pay for things with a tap, using money that seems to float in the air. It even holds digital copies of my driver's license and insurance card, handy if I ever get stopped by the police.

Thinking about all this, I can't help but wonder: Is my phone really a phone anymore? It has evolved into something so much more, a multi-functional device that connects me to the world in ways that were once the stuff of science fiction.