...I guess you gotta pay the piper. I'm paying the piper with interest these days. My feet hurt. Bad.
It all started Friday, when we took in a small town festival, Braham Pie Day. Not much dancing, but a lot of walking. We went there because my 88 year old grandma wanted us to come and have a celebration of Starflower's 8th birthday (8-13) and my niece Katie's 10th birthday (7-7). My brother was leaving for Singapore on business the next day, so it was also an opportunity to see him for the last time in half a year or more.
Also, I am reminded of the John Prine song "Hello In There". My grandma is perhaps Braham's most senior resident. But she's getting on in years, starting to get perhaps a little confused and hard of hearing, but she just loves when her family comes to visit. So it's my family duty to say "hello in there" once in a while.
At least Braham had some taste in selecting music, as they hired The Whistlepigs to perform two sets. Unfortunately Chris, the guitar player, could not make this gig due to recent surgery (get better Chris!) so the band sounded about 75% or less of normal. Which is still good, but they had to cut out a lot of original songs that the fill in guitar player didn't know. And it seemed like the Braham crowd had maybe not heard of bluegrass music before. And the sound left something to be desired. Not blaming The Whistlepigs at all; they give 110% at every gig.
I have to brag about my daughter here. She got $25 in birthday money, which we allowed her to spend at the various vendors at the festival. She spent $6 buying me a T-shirt, a markdown from the 2001 festival, because she just wanted to buy me something. I wore it to bed that night. Sweet.
So...back to sore feet. Saturday Calvin and Starflower had arrangements to sleep over at friends' houses, so The Hermit and I took Mr. Attitude out for a night on the town. The town of Mahtowa, MN, population 100 or so, and home of the Highway 61 (yes, the one Dylan sang about) Folks Festival.
We listened to local musician Charlie Parr, pictured above with his excellent washboard player. We were dancing before the end of his set. Then came Pert Near Sandstone, a rootsy old timey bluegrass group with attitude. I couldn't help but dance with Mr. Attitude. And dance, and dance like a maniac.
The next morning when I hopped out of bed, my feet nearly gave way underneath me. Not only did the left ankle I had slightly sprained the week before hurt, not only did my right knee twinge with some new injury, but the soles of my feet just hurt, especially near the heels. It hardly got better all day Sunday. Today I learned that there is a name for this kind of pain, plantar fasciitis, and I'm hoping it's just a temporary thing.
Getting old sucks.