The intensity of our days at John C. Campbell Folk School was energizing. In our prior lives, the work could be heavy--its creative aspects shadowed by the pressure of earning a salary, irrational systems. A week of being in a positive environment absent competitiveness was exhilarating.
Much was offered in addition to our classes. We never made it to the 7:15 a.m. nature walk, but did get to pre-breakfast musical presentations. The first was led by Jan Davidson, Director of the School, who played his beautifully-made banjo, similar to the one here, and interwove his own life's history in Brasstown with the longer, inspirational one of the Folk School.
For some reason, I'd imagined playing the banjo in the month before we decided to come to Appalachia. Source of that urge is mysterious. Not going to happen other than in my dreams. The picture of myself playing the banjo, singing political tunes makes we smile...dressed in gauzy blouses and long skirts--dark reds and blues, heavy woven cotton, my shoes are Italian leather boots-- once had a beautiful pair saved years beyond the time they would be comfortable on aging feet. 
Connie Carringer, on the right, is truly a banjo player. She is one of two "student hosts" at the Folk School. I have a mellow CD she made but it does not include the rousing feminist declaration she'd sung just before I snapped.
Something surprising and satisfying was the range of ages and styles in participants. The other banjo player with Connie was in the Blacksmithing Workshop. With him doing this heavy lifting craft was a woman, retired guidance counselor, who volunteers with the Red Cross, spent time in the Gulf Coast after Katrina. Students in the Tin Can Art group included a young man, left in photo, from Japan. Connie, just graduated from college with a degree in Music and Political Science, plans to join her boyfriend in Brazil and teach ESL when she finishes her six-months at the Folk School.
The weather was warmer than we'd expected, made for a sweet walk from the dining hall to the house we shared with other crafters. One was a couple, older than us, who'd gone on 71 Elderhostel trips! The other was Lilian, a mother, retired, living in Taos, New Mexico, and Anne, her doctor daughter practicing in Montana. Both were in Ron's rag rug weaving class. Midweek at lunch Anne turned to me, "I have your pants in my rug!" I had to explain to startled munchers that Ron was cutting up two pairs of tie-dyed pants from my remnants--and having a good time trading fabric.

Muriel, my Book Arts classmate, came with an extraordinary collection of recyclables--particularly vintage buttons--and was generous with her equipment. For some reason, I fell into a habit of calling her by other names beginning with "M." As she reminded me, "Remember, just like the cigars." A retired librarian, accomplished in many tasks unknown to me, she was unable to advice me during an evening wreath-making. Even so, she did not achieve the distinctive squareness of my wreath. Marla, the third member of our Book class, took the photo; does not do justice to my odd style. She too brought material to share--especially someone's discarded old photo album.
True to its original 1925 commitment to goal of community involvement, the Folk School opened the wreath event to the surrounding community. Many joined in that night and we joined them at their regular clogging practice. If you're like me and want to know about idealistic ideas that have survived, read something about the history here . There's also a book I've just started, "My Journey to Appalachia" by Eleanor Lambert Wilson who went there in 1941 just after graduating from Vassar College. In some ways I'm reminded of my own entry into New York City at a settlement house on the lower east side.
Book Arts...what we were doing days and nights...
In our spa
cious studio, our tireless instructor, Sandy Webster , set a high standardl for use of time--and the found object. In moments we did not need her input, she made two books. In the picture on the left, she saws a bunch of chopsticks for the spine of a recipe book. Her inspiration: a brochure on Japanese prints at the New York Public Library that Nick, our son had dropped off a few weeks before we left. It was in my bag to remind me to see it. [On our return, Nick met me in a Starbucks at Columbus Circle where I showed photos from the trip. An artist himself, he was impressed Sandy's transformation of paper throwaway into substantial book.]
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