Over the weekend, each of seven stages off the cobbled streets of the Whaling Museum district grew packed to overflowing. Newly appointed chair police at the main Custom House stage prevented attendees from saving seats for hours at a time. to check into the hotel, nap, drive halfway up Cape Cod for sightseeing and dinner, back to Fall River Friday, visit friends in R.I., get dinner in Massachusetts, then head back to the hotel.īy Saturday, I should’ve been caught up on sleep, but struggled to find the energy for the game of musical chairs at Summerfest. Wednesday night, finish the July issue, then get two hours of sleep Thursday, pedal-to-the-metal from NYC to Fall River, Mass. We had rolled into New Bedford, Mass., for the annual Summerfest on Saturday morning, July 2nd, spit out of a twister. We were caught off-guard, mesmerized and caught in a thrill. Then, with breathtaking suddenness it darted upward, taking the hollow in my chest along with it. At times it seemed to hover, held aloft by an unseen fast air current. The voice soared overhead like a gull caught in an updraft.

Holding onto you piano notes