Timpanogos Storytelling Festival September 1-3, 2016

I think I enjoyed watching the grey-haired older people interact, some with hair pulled back in a bun, almost as much as I liked the storytellers. Their congenial smiles as they greeted each other; eyes twinkling; all those wrinkles laughing with carefree abandonment.

“It looked so good,” I say to Amy when we get home, “to see all those old people laughing out loud. You don’t see that much.”

“Do you mean you?” she reminded me. I momentarily had forgotten I’m old.

Amy complained because they had a half-hour break between each session, making it so that even though you are there all day, you only hear five storytellers. Sometimes they have two in an hour but still, in two days, you don’t get to hear them all.

I rather like the long pauses. She takes something to read or listen to. I thought about taking my iPad but hey, I can watch Amazon and play games at home. Here I have people to watch.

They did not disappoint.

Yes, lots of older people--walkers, canes, wheelchairs; unsteady, slow-moving people. I think the Senior Citizen Center or some Retirement Home dropped off a bus load or two. There seemed to be a larger percentage of blind people of all ages than you see in an average population. Handicaps of all kinds, truth be told. Like this is a perfect outing for them. Maybe they all needed to laugh or hear heart-warming stories from days gone by.

Waiting in a long line at the restroom, as usual we were all talking about how there is no line on the men’s side and who designed these confounded things, and where are the women architects? One woman offered to stand at the door, if we wanted to use the men’s side. After we got that all settled to no one’s satisfaction, I asked the woman in front of me where she’s from. “Provo.” “Oh, years ago we lived in Orem. Now we live in Kaysville.” “Do you like Kaysville?” “Yes, but it doesn’t seem like home.” “Where you grew up is the only place that feels like home,” we agreed. “Where did you grow up?” “Tropic – a little town. . .” and she started to explain where it is, like she probably has done a million times before. “I’m from Orderville,” I interrupt. We were kindred spirits. “My good friend has lived in Tropic for years,” I chat. “What is her name?” “Mary Lee Ramsay.” “Oh, I love her. Her husband taught me in school and was my advisor.” Then the stall opened up and she disappeared inside and was gone when I came out. We could have talked about Mary Lee and Clare and I could have told her she was my cousin as well as my friend and we went off to school together. I could have told her I once dated Clare. I could have asked her if she knew Alice Jolley, a pen pal that I corresponded with from elementary school on but didn’t remember meeting until we were back in Nauvoo in 1996, 60 years later. At the Visitor’s Center we were talking to Brother Allen, who said he was from Cedar City, and that his wife was a Jolley from Tropic.

“Alice?” I asked.

We were both so amazed.

But that’s another blog.

My new friend in line for the restroom looked ancient and was walking with a cane – and my friend’s husband taught her in school?

Amy’s right.

I am one of them old people.

Everyone isn't old.

I see this Davis High School track team

t-shirt coming towards and pass me;

"I wonder if he knows Isaak," I thought,

just then spying Brooke and Elizabeth

at the fountain.

Looking back I see  it is Karlton

in Isaak's team t-shirt.

Surprise!