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Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details. There are no more sausage sandwiches by J. G. Fabiano The woman behind the Chamber of Commerce food table made it perfectly clear that they had run out of sausage sandwiches. Of course, with all the hustle and bustle of the crowds in the food tent, the only people who heard her announcement were the ones who stood in front of her and ordered a sausage sandwich. Needless to say she had to repeat herself many times over and each time she did, she made her announcement a little bit louder. York's Harvestfest was once again a great success. The timing could not have been better because it allowed the people of York to take part in something that represented stability, after the horror of the September 11th attacks. My wife and I decided that we didn't want to fight the traffic this year, or to have to park somewhere in a bordering town. Driving on Route One, near the Meadowbrook Office Suites, we noticed a sign that advertised free transportation to the festivities. Deb and I quickly decided to take the bus this year even though we live less than two miles from the center of York, where the Harvestfest was taking place. We kept on following the signs down Route One until it became evident that we were almost entering Ogunquit. Finally a sign by The Cape Neddick Inn led us to make a turn and drive into York Beach. We laughed when we finally saw the station because we had just driven about six miles to go to a bus that would take us to a point that was less than two miles from where we live. Oh well, let the day begin. Before the bus arrived to take us back to where we started from, we met some people from Massachusetts and New York. They had never been to Harvestfest before and asked if it was worth the wait for the bus. Of course we told them it was well worth the wait, and that this particular festival had become a bit of a tradition for York. We didn't get to talk for long because the bus soon arrived. Both the bus driver, whose name is Joe, and a wonderful woman who handed out maps, greeted us on the bus, and gave us written descriptions of what one could find at the festival. She welcomed everyone to York and hoped that all of the visitors would have a wonderful day. My wife and I sat behind her and she started a conversation with us by asking where we were from. We told her that we lived less than two miles from the festivities. She gave us a bit of an odd look and off to the Harvestfest we flew. Halfway there, I noticed a second bus coming from the opposite direction. Both busses then started to slow down as they approached each other. I actually became a bit nervous because I did not understand why they would do this. When the buses met they slowed down to a crawl. I had no idea why they had to do this. Then the driver of the other bus opened her window and stretched her arm out with a long silver-covered cylinder in her hand. Joe, on our bus, grabbed the cylinder as if he was taking a baton from an earlier runner in some sort of a relay race. The exchange was perfect, and Joe had his lunch in the form of a submarine sandwich. My wife and I immediately smiled in the knowledge that our lives were slowly coming back to normal. We arrived at the Harvestfest a few minutes later and walked into re-enactments of what colonial life was like in York. At Jeffords Tavern, we watched as people dressed in colonial garb made cloth, using spinning wheels, and cooked their food over open fires. They were surrounded by many visitors but seemed to ignore them while doing their chores. We then walked toward the church, in the center of our town that always reminded me of Peyton Place. Many say our politics are similar to the plot line of that famous book, movie, and television show, but that is another story. Crossing the street in front of the church, I noticed mounds of brown solids smeared and piled all over the crosswalk. As I was carefully navigating my way through the minefields of dung, I heard a young child behind me exclaiming to his mother that there was horse stuff on the road. His mother then answered, "Yes dear, but please don't pick up any to bring home." A smile immediately exploded on my face. We arrived at the Harvestfest that was covered by white tent-like tarps, to protect the food and wares from the elements. It rained that weekend but I don't know of anyone who complained, or even thought about the poor weather. At the front of the church I noticed Chief Bracey talking to a group of people. He was smiling but seemingly wasn't totally concentrating on the conversation that was before him. He kept looking around and watched all that was going on around. If there was anyone who didn't completely enjoy the festivities I would assume Chief Bracey was one. My Deb and I then walked through a walkway that was created from rows upon rows of tents, filled with a particular kind of craft. There were dips to try, fudge to purchase served by women who were dressed in colonial attire, hand-made dolls, some of which looked all too real, and watercolors and photos of all of our famous landmarks. One of the tents had hand-sown towels and rugs that had images of lighthouses and ocean scenes but, I was brought back to a reality when I saw one of these showing an image of an American Flag with September 11th, 2001 sewn into it!. In the center of all the crafts was a woman who sang songs of America with a wonderfully clear and pleasant voice. I thought to myself that at another time the ballad, "God Bless America" would not have been one of her first choices. We then made our way through the painted gourds, stuffed animals, and decorative ashtrays, to the large food tent that was in the center of the festivities. There was fresh apple pie, pulled pork sandwiches, onion rings, French fries, hot dogs, and of course no more sausage sandwiches! My wife and I ate our fill, and walked to the other side of the food tent that had more white tents filled with different crafts and oddities. In the middle of all the activity was a group of musicians playing New Age music, that included a violin and flute. The music was soothing but didn't dampen the activity of what was going on around it. The people at the Harvestfest were the most interesting to watch. I observed a couple de-ticking their German Shepherd in the middle of it all. The man took the tick off and the woman stomped it into the ground. I don't think anyone noticed this because they were too busy enjoying their time at the fair. My Debbie, on the other hand, was concerned that the newly-released tick would crawl up her leg. I loved the simplicity of her concern. Children with painted faces were running through the crowds, proud of their newly decorated faces. Old men and women walked slowly through the crowd as they were allowed to enjoy their time, at their own pace. Most women were seen inside the tents, purchasing things that they never thought they would need, as the men waited outside hoping that they brought enough money with them. Walking back to Jefford's Tavern where we were to pick up the bus that would bring us farther away from our home, I noticed Jake Weare driving the hay wagon that was filled with people who were enjoying the day. I now know where the droppings came from in the middle of the road that led to the festival! I also noticed that Mr.Weare looked exactly like he looked 25 years ago, when I rented one of his houses at a time in my life when my wife and daughter were so very young. Maybe it has something to do with that dung? Driving back to the beach I saw that one of the people from Massachusetts that I had been talking to, on our ride to the festival, was carrying a large, dried plant. As he passed me, I asked if he had found it on the side of the road. He told me he did and that he also left $25.00 there to take its place. I laughed, as did most of the other passengers on the bus. We arrived back at the beach, and, as I drove home, I felt relaxed and more content than I have felt over the past few weeks. It probably was that I became involved with some normality that has always been here. Or it could have been that I was convinced that nothing was going to stop any of us, in York, from enjoying our wonderful town. Then again, maybe it was because of the fact that there were no more sausage sandwiches. The End
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