Peace, Love, and Pit Stains: My Solitary Pilgrimage to GrassRoots

If I were asked to describe my two days spent at the Finger Lakes Grassroots Festival, I’d say my experience was ledsome. Mere moments of blissful solitude, though I was surrounded by hundreds of people with an overwhelming sense of community, I found myself severely isolated. It was both captivating and dispiriting to walk in circles, kicking up dirt beneath my shoes, taking in everyone and everything while partially wishing I had someone to share my abnormal encounters with. Now reflecting on this past Thursday and Friday in Trumansburg, New York, I realize it wasn’t loneliness or ostracization I was feeling- it was peace.

Two and a half hours in the car, accompanied by the comforting narration of Anthony Bourdain’s 2010 novel, Medium Raw, sorrowfully sipping on a poorly made coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts. This is how my Thursday began, driving the familiar roads from Buffalo towards Ithaca en route to the Grassroots Festival for a work commitment. Even after a poor attempt at researching the event, I assumed what I was walking into was a quaint festival for folk to come together and listen to jam bands. I fear nothing could have prepared me for the magnitude of what awaited me when I arrived in Trumansburg.

Greeted by a sea of cars lining both sides of the road, masses of people gathered and guided their way to the main entrance of the festival. Wheeling overflowing wagons, pushing kids in their carriers. This wasn’t just camping, this was like claiming a semipermanent stake in the land. You could bring in anything with the exception of weapons and glass, coolers were packed full, hoards of oversized bags that didn’t have to be clear, pop-up tents, folding chairs, you name it, someone had it strapped to their back. The true antithesis of American concert culture. People had prepped for weeks to attend and inhabit this festival, and I just got to show up and be a part of it offhandedly. Like a pity plus one to a wedding who was invited over an even more pitiful Hinge conversation- just there to fill a chair.

I unloaded into the event somewhere around 11 am, regretfully in a pair of black pants- it was way hotter than I’d anticipated- and set up shop for the next seven or eight hours gratefully under a chilled tent. Vendors bordered the perimeter of the festival, craftsmen, jewelers, painters, retailers, resellers, and any artistic endeavor you could imagine could be found under at least one of the tents. There was an array of food vendors ranging from coffee and bagels to traditional Thai cuisine, gyros, burritos, antipasto, BBQ mac and cheese, pizza, and of course, a carnival classic, fresh-squeezed lemonade. Inside the surrounding circles of sellers were more tents; these specific pavilions were reserved for people who were purchasing. There was a giant dance tent in the center of the space with a stage and hundreds of lawn chairs set up for observation. I saw people square dancing, jiving, twisting, and shouting, the works. Henna tattoos, arts and crafts, face painting, hula hooping, limbo, and the main event- live music. Every few feet, there was some kind of communal activity to partake in, or simply watch as others did so- and so I did. I simply observed.

For a small amount of time on Thursday and even less on Friday, when I had a moment to step away from my work, I strolled outside our tent and simply observed. Taking in every gust of air, the barrels for compost and recyclables, the fleeting sounds of song, the surprising amount of bare feet walking through dirt, grass, and gravel, walking with sticks, mothers pulling their kids in wagons, kids pulling their moms by the wrist, couples holding hands, friends holding drinks. All different kinds of people in all different kinds of attire are enjoying themselves and each other. The common thread that wove its way through the festival, other than the faint combination of cigarettes and weed that blanketed the air, was an honest sense of community.

There is a beauty in community, whether found or forged, in fellowship with others, like-minded or not. A beauty in knowing that this arbitrary coalition of people from less than five to well over 50 are all here at this festival for some variation of a communal experience. Here and there were a wide variety of music and dance, displays of arts and culture, and an attitude of peace and love man. I was just astonished by my own childlike sense of curiosity and wonder that fueled me as I traipsed around in circles, feeling both accepted, welcomed, and yet detached from everyone around me- a doleful voyeur intruding on 33 years of history and tradition.

A friend and fellow musician suggested the band name of "Dawn of the Buffalo," which was misheard as "Donna the Buffalo." The name stuck, and a couple of years later, in 1991, Jeb Puryear started the GrassRoots Festival along with Donna the Buffalo, his family, and everyone else that he knew.

Now, almost 30 years later, Donna the Buffalo tours regularly and hosts multiple GrassRoots festivals. Their devoted fans, The Herd, are a self-organized "tribe" of people who met at the group's shows and travel to see them.

https://www.grassrootsfest.org/about

A doleful voyeur who sat by herself in the center of a field on Friday afternoon, my second and final day at the festival, lapping up the vanilla ice cream that slowly melted down my hand and onto the pile of napkins I carefully placed in my lap to not stain my skirt. I sat there for some time, grateful for my time spent, as a small wave of loneliness washed over me. Not because I was sitting alone surrounded by thousands of others who all seemed to know each other or blindly become friends with each other from a simple smile, but rather, I wished for someone to tell all of this to who would understand that very tug of war between feeling both accepted and out-of-place. I finished the last few licks of my ice cream and dusted off the crumbs from my cone. In a melancholic manner, I walked back towards my station when I stumbled upon something magical: an Irish folk band in the middle of sound check.

I stood before the stage for a while, hands hovering over my eyes blocking out the sun, entranced by the band- I didn’t move a muscle. I stayed for the beginning of their set, no introduction necessary, they just kicked started the song. The surrounding crowd wasted no time before breaking out into dance, and my state of melancholy washed away, as suddenly as it found me, it vanished without a trace, and I was left with pure joy, which for me manifests in tears, of course. So I cried, I cried in a crowd of people, frolicking to the sound of a fiddle with a smile spread from ear to ear as my tears turned to laughter. There it was, peace —a calming sense of bliss, followed by a weight lifted off my shoulders. I was no longer detached; I’d been pulled right back from that liminal space to where I was supposed to be, dancing with strangers, and dancing I did.

An hour later, I packed up my belongings and wheeled myself back out the way I’d come, leaving the people and perception of peace behind me. Wishing I had stumbled upon the festival on my own rather than under the umbrella of work, so I could thoroughly explore and enjoy myself, but that will just have to wait till next year. Two and a half hours back in the car, accompanied by the comforting narration of the final chapters of Medium Raw. This is how my Friday ended, driving the familiar roads from Ithaca back towards Buffalo. Reminiscing on my brief stint at Grassroots, and the expansive feelings I was left with while exiting Trumansburg. Realizing as I pulled into my driveway that the reason I felt so comfortable in a place I’d never been with people I did not know is that all are welcome in a place no one can truly claim, where weekends are folded into trunks and trailers, and the world is left far behind. Tell me, how could you not feel at home in such sweet impermanence?

Maybe peace isn’t a fixed feeling, but something we discover along the way—a feeling sparked when we step outside our routines, try something new, or dare to go somewhere unfamiliar. Like the search for home, the search for peace is less about the destination and more about the journey. I enjoy the company of others, typically strangers. I often find myself deep in conversation with elderly people, no particular reason I am drawn to them and their wisdom, in a similar fashion as I am drawn to solitude and the enlightenment it offers. My short time at the Grassroots Festival was more than just a fun story to tell my friends, it was an adventure, one I hope to potentially return to next year with a fresh set of eyes, maybe I'll even spend less time looking and more time living- but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Till next time, stay flirty, stay thirsty, and plant your roots somewhere they can grow- different plants thrive in different environments.

See you soon,

Paige B.