Our first trip to Yellow Springs was the weekend of Street Fair. It was a happy accident. We had heard about the little village, a liberal village with a hippy aura, and went to find a little balance. We didn’t know what to expect and we didn’t really care.
Yellow Springs and Street Fair have a shared magic. Both seem wild with frantic energy, but, soothing and hypnotic. You can be swept away in the madness and still feel relaxed and at peace. We go to Street Fair twice a year, and Yellow Springs whenever our balance needs adjustment. It’s an easy reset.
After all that, though, it struck me, I don’t really understand the meaning of Street Fair. I see the glow, and the motion, the crowds, I smell the food, and hear the music, but it’s all just a façade. I wanted to see it, be in it, absorb some of the magic. So, we volunteered.
There were three different times, early, middle, late, and several different assignments. We had plans for the weekend and chose early; 8:00 until 12:00. Since we nothing about the places and tasks we said we would work anywhere. For our sins they put us at the intersection of Highway 68 and Dayton Street. The front line.
Highway 68 is the main road into Yellow Springs, it flows from Interstate 70 to the north and whisks a traveler to Xenia to the south. It is a busy street. And the first real side street off Highway 68 is Dayton Avenue, it takes you to the west, with a gentle sweep south, all the way to Dayton. There are places to park on Dayton Avenue, but not during Street Fair. There is a very popular farmer’s market on Dayton, but not during Street Fair. On a regular Saturday there is a place to pick up fresh milk by the gallon. It was not a regular Saturday. Everybody has expectations, and it was our job to quash them.
There was, in fairness, some handicapped parking and spaces for electric cars in the lot by the municipal building, which was about 75 feet from where we stood. It was in the elbow where Dayton Avenue turned south and hurried through Yellow Springs before turning west taking travelers to Dayton. During Street Fair, it only goes to the city building and it’s closed beyond that. We manned the ramparts in front of Dayton Street.
It was cold and we shivered all the way from the assembly point. When we got there a man stood, leaning against the barricade. We introduced ourselves and said we were volunteers.
He explained our assignment, and it sounded easy. I said something to that effect. He smiled, it looked suspicious and doubtful.
“It isn’t too bad most people are happy to have a little guidance. Some people aren’t. We need to be polite to them all, this is Yellow Springs.” He said. He handed us a map with vendor booth numbers and a few streets named and laid out, some handicapped placards so we knew how many spaces were left and said fare thee well. “I’ll stop back and check on you.”
Behind us was a bike valet. They were industrious, walking all over confiscating the temporary fencing that separated the walkways from the places where people drove. In many ways they epitomized the Douglas Adams quote from Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul, he “cursed and swore at him from a moral high ground that cyclists alone seem able to inhabit.” They were constantly offering advice.
“We should move this barricade over a few feet.” He said, pointing at the only official sign of traffic control in the wide opening to Dayton Avenue.
“It’s ok with me. But you need to ask that guy. He’s in charge.” I said pointing to the receding back of the man who had given us our assignment. I realized I didn’t know his name, his position in the Yellow Springs Street Fair chain of command, or his place in Yellow Springs society. His only qualification was he happened to be there when we showed up and seemed to know what he was talking about.
“Oh, I’ll ask …” He said, defiantly, adding a name that I don’t remember. He straightened his back, turned with a righteous fury, and marched off. He never moved the barricade.
It was an endless flow, people wanting to drive down Dayton.
“I always park over there, by the laundromat.” You could see the frustration, it was welling up in the corners of the eyes, their voice broke, they seemed to have a real attachment to that parking lot.
“This street is closed for street fair.”
“Well, that sucks, what am I going to do?” All the sorrow was hardening into resentment. It was a common theme of the day. Some people would attempt to drive in and swear at us when we turned them away. Some of them were so angry they drove through town, followed the detours, turned, and came back just to finish their stream of anger.
“Thanks, have a nice day.” We told them. What else was there to say?
Several kids drove up, stoned out of their mind, and wanted to park, the smell rolling from their open window. They seemed lost when you explained they couldn’t park in the city lot. For one thing it was crawling with police officers.
“Oh, man. Where am I going to park?” They asked, not really comprehending our instructions, losing the stream after turn left on Corry Street. Turning out of the opening they drove off, and we didn’t know if they ever found a parking spot. Funny things happen when you’re high.
Some people were happy to have some instructions. A smile and a little advice in the middle of the madness of finding a place to park at Street Fair. There were a few people who wanted to go to Dayton, or Xenia and almost seemed miserable when they found out the road was closed. We had been there often enough I could get them around the madness. And sometimes it helped.
One older couple seemed so sad when they found out they couldn’t get to the Methodist Church, they had been invited to a wedding, and despaired of not being able to attend.
There were a few people who weren’t going to play the game. They zoomed past us with a terrifying aggression. There was parking back there, and they knew it, we had to be lying about it, and they were going to find it. And then they would march back and tell us how they had foiled our little scheme to save the good parking for important Street Fair personalities. They drove out with a nasty look of bitter disappointment. It always brought a bike valet volunteer to ask why we let them past.
“They just sped past, I’m not throwing myself in front of them.”
After 4 and 1/2 hours, caged, between the barricade and the sidewalk, 20 feet of leash, the cold crept into our joints. We ached from our feet to our shoulders. Nobody ever came to relieve us, they probably ran out of volunteers and we were the furthest point from the check in site. They had to cut somewhere. We told the people at the entrance to the now full city building lot we were leaving. They were fresh and green and seemed ready to tackle the rabble.
After it all, I looked forward to a couple of aspirin, a cold beer and something to eat. Street Fair and Yellow Springs had opened the veil a little and I peered inside. It dawned on me the amount of work that goes into festivals. How people sacrificed to make them happen, all the hours of unpaid labor, all the planning, and dreaming, people pin their hopes on good weather, and fickle volunteers, understanding and happy shoppers. It’s more than a weekend, or in the case of Street Fair, a Saturday, it’s hours of toil, most of it unseen and thankless. It goes on, and it pays off or doesn’t in ways most people never get to see.
I plan on volunteering at festivals, helping, not because I’m any good at it. I’m probably not, not yet anyway. But somebody should, and it makes me feel needed. There are things you can see from the other side, and most of them are beautiful, even the pieces that seem a little ugly when you look at them. Time softens the memories, and everything fades into a happy blandness. Human nature covers the whole mandala of emotion, and you can see it all as a volunteer.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: Shutterstock
