A final thought as we look back

As a kid you look forward to it marking the beginning of summer vacation.

As an ag kid from the county or an urban kid from the city, you look forward to it all year long. You prepare for it all year long.

“The Water Festival.”

This year’s White Lake Water Festival was praised as the 46th annual event is now in the books. So many stories that we will need a few weeks of the paper just to fit them all in.

And my hat is off to the many parents, volunteers and festival workers who worked tirelessly to make our county’s biggest event one to be proud of even in the midst of a messy political year under constructioni. It was said that this year’s festival board endured more than the usual amount of adversity. When I first arrived in North Carolina just over three months ago, I had heard many great things about the towns, the people, the activities, the leadership and the heart of Bladen County.

When I asked about the festival as I passed the lake on my first trip out of town, the response was not positive. There was talk about the popularity waning and generally a kind of disappointing sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I am very much a water festival enthusiast.

I can remember as a kid my maternal grandparents always taking us to the Wisconsin Dells. Not only that vacation spot, but any festival and fair that was within driving distance, we would go. My grandparents who taught me how to do chores, milk cows, clean barns and appreciate the animals were all about agriculture and hard work, but also about enjoying the time to rest, relax, vacay and perhaps even “ooh and ahh” a little bit.

My great-grandparents, Gabriel and Mathilda Mataya immigrated to Iowa from Croatia in the late 1800s to work in the Dallas County coal mines near Des Moines. They worked and saved and bought a farm where they raised pigs and dairy cattle in addition to planting corn. In addition to the depression which began with the stock market crash of 1929, there was a farm crisis that did them in as they found that crops couldn’t grow in dust.

My great-grandparents lost everything and moved to northern Wisconsin. Farming resumed with a work ethic and a love for the lifestyle that was passed down through the generations. My grandparents made a point to take us to as many fairs and festivals as we could to make sure we would never lose touch with our agricultural roots and magical natural resources that were a part of our state.

As I close my eyes and think back to when I was a kid, it all comes back to me. The smells of my mom canning dill pickles and getting them ready for the picnic lunches. The smell of grandma’s rhubarb and apple pies being baked for after the water show.

And of course, the whole family sitting down to watch the movie “State Fair” with Dana Andrews and Dick Haymes which my grandfather always complained wasn’t realistic and cursed Hollywood. Although he would crack a smile when Charles Winninger would sing to his prize Hampshire boar in the hog pavilion.

Grandma, grandpa, mom and dad have long since passed, but going to this year’s festival mixed a tasty memory concoction of the old tender memories with the fresh new ones. Almost like a warmup on a good cup of coffee.

I had to see for myself how festive our festival was. Again, this year, it far exceeded my expectations and made me wonder as to why more people don’t get behind it? I can’t for the life of me figure why someone wouldn’t support and represent knowing that our festival draws people from all over the nation – and a few from different parts of the world.

Maybe it’s because we are small and don’t have the shiny trappings of some of the bigger areas. Maybe it’s a little jealousy. Whatever the reasons, perhaps it is a wake-up call for someone to get on board and become more involved. Whether that be with wielding a paint brush, taking a ticket or sitting in on a few festival board meetings.

It’s easy to just stay home and shake your head and say, “tsk, tsk, not worth the risk” or you can actually get up and make a difference. I challenge anyone to take one day at the festival and volunteer some time. Talk to some of the kids who are showing up. Perhaps shake the hand of a special ops service member who thought enough about us to marshal our parade. Strike up a conversation with someone sitting alone in on the pier delegated to monitor the boat traffic. Sit in the crowd on the shore and listen to some of great conversations our next generation is offering up.

How far away from “childlike” have we grown with our stress and our worries and our keeping up appearances and our striving with the Jones.’ I found as I stepped into that festival that I moved back a little closer to getting in touch with my inner child.

I found myself closing my eyes in the warm pre-summer sun or the warm summer rain and feeling as if I were 8-years-old again. Getting up early and watching an occasional boat fire up and get a little fishing in before the hectic of the day drove the fish deeper into the lake. Seeing the waves gently coming to shore as they have long before I was born and will continue long after I’m gone. The constant of the waves bringing water to the sand.

I let the sensation of cotton candy melt on my tongue and experienced a brain freeze from shaved ice with more than the standard three flavors that I had as a kid. It was a relief to put my adult brain on ice for at least a while.

And I closed my eyes again and smelled the delights that reminded me of those festivals now far gone and had me looking forward to the county fairs. The fresh hay, the unique scent of a horse, the stall chips for the sheep. That smell that wafts in every once in a while, periodically throughout the year that keeps you suspended between those precious memories of past years’ time with your family to the anticipation of the new family that would arrive in time for this year’s festival.

I moved close to the head of a gentle mare at the parade Saturday and as she nuzzled me with that long velvet nose, it reminded me of my faithful steed “Buttermilk” who I’d ridden at the pony rides, and my eyes searched the crowd for the eyes of my grandmother who was always watching with a smile as I went around and around.

Festivals are more than buildings and fresh paint and crowds of people or a lack thereof. Our festival to me this year was a lifesaver. She made me take time to stop and remember life itself and all those who I loved that are no longer with me.

A festival in that soft spring dress that made me stop in my tracks two weeks ago in my anticipation. And my grandson said, “whatcha thinkin’ about grandpa?” With a smile I said, “I have someone to introduce you to.” And as I put his tiny hand in mine, I remembered and missed my grandfather immensely, but knew that it was my time to step into the tradition of goin’ to the festival.

And finally, it was the people here at my very first White Lake Water Festival who opened their arms, took me in as one of their own and welcomed me back home to my childhood. Today the festival is but a memory and I am taken back to the melancholy of every single festival or fair that I had to said goodbye to.

But there is a joy that she’ll return and remind me just where I put that smile that I had misplaced during the seriousness of life.

Mark DeLap is a journalist, photographer and the editor and general manager of the Bladen Journal. To email him, send a message to: mdelap@bladenjournal.com