Music in the air

We know it's summer here when the Symphony comes to town.

We anticipate its arrival for months. Weeks ahead, the posters go up. As the day nears, the letters on the old movie house marquee announce the event, and the time and temperature display at the savings bank flashes a reminder.

We are one of the few towns in the state lucky enough to host the Symphony. With the exception of last year, townspeople have enjoyed the music for 20 straight summers. We're a charming, historic town, but we're small, hardly the sort of place you'd think would bring this renowned orchestra summer after summer.

But we do.

We invite them -- and they come. We have a secret draw, in addition to the home-cooked supper the local symphony chapter fixes for the musicians. We have the Town Common. A greensward in the middle of a forty-five block historic district, our Common is the 2nd oldest in the country -- right there behind Boston. Commons and Pops -- two things we share with Bean-town. But I digress.

The perfect venue. The town raises a large tent for the musicians. The local chapter starts making pimento cheese, and families volunteer to get there early and spread a blanket for the picnic they will share with neighbors they haven't seen since Christmas.

The first to arrive about an hour before the concert starts are families with children old enough to behave and . . . young enough to behave. They set up camp for the evening, laying out a kitchen, a bedroom for sleepy toddlers, and a living room for watching the show -- all on a pattern of adjoining blankets. Following the young families are the elderly couples with comfortable camp chairs and a folding table for two, complete with bud vase and wine glasses --
not plastic. Finally, those of us who forgo the picnic and some of the gnats, wander onto the Common thirty minutes ahead of the curtain and wiggle our way between family and friends. Single or in pairs, we don't take up too much room, and nobody seems to mind.

At precisely 7:30, the maestro steps forth, welcomes the townspeople to their Common and thanks them, in return, for their gracious welcome. And then. . . even the children are quiet, breathless but unsuspecting.

The conductor raises his baton . . . and the air is transformed. Not only can you hear it, you taste, smell and touch it. Your skin bristles. The grass is pungent. There's a salty zest on your tongue. Not to be outdone, the cicadas' song swells and recedes, a metronome of sorts.

It is summer. . .and there's music in the air.