Old Folks Weekend

      It was our time to be a dollar short and a day late.

      A show of old farm machinery was scheduled for Saturday and Sunday.  The Goodwife saw the ad Sunday morning.  It was still Sunday, so we headed for Greeley. 

     The show was to run until four.  We got there at noon.  Some machines were gone.  Others were loaded on trailers getting ready to leave.  A trailer holding a half-dozen “hit-and-miss” one-cylinder engines sat silent.

       An old New Holland bailer held an unbound compaction of corn shucks in its chute.  Several two-cylinder John Deere tractors sat silent, flanked by a collection of Allis Chalmers, a couple of IH tractors, two Cockshutts, and one 2N Ford.

       One of the Allis tractors twisted a dull circular saw.  A man fed some slabs of wood through it.  “Don’t go near there without your ear plugs,” warned the Goodwife.  For some reason, she seems to think my hearing is failing.

      The only other thing moving was an antique orange state highway truck.  Cab and engine compartment were as big as the bed.  It had a flat head straight six-cylinder engine with twelve spark plugs.

      We spoke to the owner of the Allis collection and some of the Deeres.  On Saturday, he said, they used a binder to cut a strip of wheat he had growing on the lot.  They ran the bundles through a thrash machine sitting under a canopy.  They plowed up the stubble with some of the old equipment.  They had a lawn mower pulling contest. 

     That all happened on Saturday. I drove right by it on my way to Loveland. 

     Meanwhile, the Goodwife saw in the paper that Longmont was having a jazz festival Saturday.  It was outdoors.  It was free.  We took off to take a look at that.

     We got there about six.  An eight-piece band from New Orleans was in action.  They played some good old ones in Dixieland style.  A middle-aged lady in high heels and red dress sang without relying on music.  It was outside and still rather warm.  No matter.  We danced on the pavement to two or three.

     No too many couples were dancing.  Most folks found a place in the shade and watched.  Two or three uninhibited individuals dance solo.  One was a guy in shorts capped with a panama.

     About seven, the Dixieland crew packed up and a new bunch moved in.  The lead singer started speaking Spanish, and sang in Spanish, too.  He pronounced it “coo-bah”, not “Que-bah” like we do.

     The bandleader played the bongos.  He was accompanied by a drummer on a trap set.  A trumpet, trombone, a soprano sax player (all white guys!), plus bass fiddle and rhythm guitar rounded out the combo. 

     Latin beat, Calypso rhythm.  My dancing was over for the night. 

     The guy in the shorts and Panama was having a blast.  “I’m going to ask that old guy to dance,” said the Goodwife.  She did, too.

     They danced two numbers.  They were both good.  They did cha-cha or something.  She came back tired and happy.  She and the old guy, who was from Argentina originally, retired military, exchanged cards and agreed to get together again someday.

     It was pretty much the end of the old guy’s solo dancing.  After the Goodwife was done, two or three other ladies asked him to dance.  He left before the band quit at 8:30.  Worn out?

     The whole thing was over at 8:30.  It began at eleven.  Each band played about an hour.

     Maybe it was a good thing we were late.  Nine hours of jazz through a hot day might have been too much.