By Kelly Babcock, Hub Staff

I broke my truck. I wore out a good pair of gloves, busted a couple of screw gun bits and tore my jeans.

I got up at 3:45AM on Saturday August 15th to start moving stage trailers from storage to the park so that we wouldn't bother anyone, wouldn't inconvenience the commuters on our already construction congested streets this year.

I worked eight and ten hour days to bring things safely across town and then assemble them. I watched as dozens more volunteers did the same things I did, worked the same odd hours I worked, made fast the things that were loose, made do with the things that could have been better, and made right the things that needed repair.

And as things came together and as things got done and as the time grew closer, little by little, the glibly painted timber frames and plywood floors took on the aura of completeness and even the appearance of strength and the look of festival.

And then Summerfolk opened and my chance to relax came. But I didn't relax. I watched the park become a festival and I watched at the corners and along the seams where it might start to fray or unravel and expose the underside, the inner workings.

But it didn't happen. Things held together. I began to watch the people. I watched for signs of disillusionment and disappointment, but there was none to be seen.

I saw the occasional person looking confused and would ask if they were looking for anything in particular. Usually they were trying to locate friends or family. Sometimes they wanted to know where this was or where that could be found. Sometimes I could help them, so I did.

In truth, I was exhausted from the week it took me and my comrades to assemble the underpinnings of the festival, but also in truth, by Sunday morning I was well rested and relaxed.

And I was enjoying myself. I'd managed to get an open mic spot on the Homemade Jam stage and performed there with my musical partner Rebecca Johnson-Morelli and found it to be a natural experience. I'm not sure I belong up there, but she so clearly does and I'm happy to be there performing with her.

And the spectrum of music, not the spectrum of quality but the spectrum of style and genre, is broad and vast at Summerfolk. And the shows were astounding. And the opportunities to participate and integrate and socialize with other folkies and even performers was unending until Summerfolk40 itself drew to an end.

And when the lights were turned off and the sound equipment was put away and the last of the instruments were returned to their homes, when the performers and the patrons had all gone home and the sun rose on a Monday morning of tatters and scraps, we again returned to the park with tools and trucks.

And we took things down and packed them up on trailers and towed them back to the storage lockers. And as we were taking things down I caught glimpses of little wisps of the magic of Summerfolk slip into boxes and climb under boards on already loaded trailers and wrap themselves up in tarps that were storage bound, contriving to sleep through the year and make thermselves ready for the next year.

I busted my back. I broke my truck, and got it fixed. I wore out a good pair of gloves, busted a couple of screw gun bits and tore my jeans. I got up at 3:45AM on a Saturday morning ... and I can't wait to do it again.