Nov 12
“Camp Crisis” Carol riled at Bean Blossom
3 years ago my wife, Jen and I, along with our 10-month old daughter Ava in tow, attended our first bean blossom festival. For that matter it was really our first bluegrass festival ever. From day 1, I was hooked.
My Dad had invited us to come and camp with them for 3 days. Both my step-brothers had been attending for a year or two and were going to be there. Having a daughter, and living 400 miles from home, I thought it would be a great opportunity for Grandpa and Grandma to spend some time with Ava. Even better Uncle Tom and Uncle Jeff would get to see their niece for the first time.
To go camping with my Step-mom, Carol is at the very least, an experience. She packs and thinks to bring more items camping, than anyone I know. She brings items from the kitchen so obscure I can’t even recall the more off the wall items that make there way out of the camper during Bean Blossom.
Carol is as easy going as they come and takes more than plenty of ribbing from her 3 sons during the festival. We all collectively gang up on her giving her grief about anything and everything. However, If a storm is rolling in, or a tarp over a tent back in the timber starts to sag to much, watch out. “Camp Crisis” Carol springs into action. And there’s no stopping her. She’ll re-tie tarp lines, spread straw or dig ditches around the camp-site faster than you can say “Hoosier Stubborn.” If there ever was to be a “camping” Super-Hero, “Camp Crisis” Carol would play the part hands down.
This particular evening, my Dad, Carol and I had wandered around the campgrounds listening to jam sessions and had ended up at a site straight off the main vendor alley. It was probably around 1:30 in the morning when my 2 step brothers, who had been tooling around the grounds in an old and very worn out Harley Davidson 3 wheeler golf cart, ended up at the same jam session.
Having decided to pack it in for the night and knowing the golf cart, nearly on it’s last legs, couldn’t get us all back to the campsite in one trip, we convinced Carol, after a good 20 minutes of pestering, to let Tom take her back to the camper and then he would return to pick up Dad, Jeff and myself to give us a ride. So off they go.
About 10 minutes later, Tom shows up to give the rest of us a lift. At the bottom of valley, where the road leads up into timber, the cart sputtered and died so Tom whipped it off the road and into the grass. Echoing out of the timber we could here another jam session going pretty strong.
As we came to find out, the infamous Camp Rude had a massive jam session going on back in the timber, so instead of trying to get the cart running and head back to the campsite where Carol was waiting, we walked back to have a listen.
Camp Rude is probably a hundred yards or more from civilization in terms of amenities like running water and electricity. That night it seemed like it could’ve been miles. Set back in the timber where the only light is from a smoldering campfire and a coleman lantern or two.
Instantly you could tell, these people, much like us, for one week every June, don’t have any use for utilitarian luxuries like sleep, rest or relaxation. It’s hardcore bluegrass… 24-7, during Bean Blossom. They’ll sleep later.
Not only was Camp Rude having a great Jam Session with 8 to 10 pickers that night, it was host to some 40 plus people, all having one heck of a good time.
My Brother Jeff, having noticed a banner strung between the trees and illuminated by the glow of the campfire that read “Camp Rude 1975-2005,” asks the bass player, Turbo, “So, you guys have been coming here for 30 years?” Upon hearing this the bass player screams out at the top of his lungs, “Hey Everybody, It’s our 30th damned anniversary and we didn’t even know it!” The whole hillside shook with excitement from the hoopin’, hollering and screaming at that very moment. I do believe.
Finally sometime around 3:30, maybe it was 4:00 in the morning, we decide we’d had enough. With the Camp Rude Jam Session still going full tilt, we walked back to the cart, Dad, Myself and my two Brothers, recounting the nights events and highlights to this point.
Upon arriving back where we’d last abandoned the old golf cart, my brother, Tom flips up the seat to gain access to the engine compartment. He begins wildly “fanning” the top of the carb with one hand and slamming the accelator pedal back and forth with the other to try and get this thing to fire up. The whole time he’s doing this he’s barking out orders to the rest of us, in case this thing does start, as if he’s a crew chief in the pit at the Indy 500.
Finally, after what seamed an eternity, and possibly a fair bit of mojo on Tom’s part, the old beast chugged to life as the rest of us looked on in near amazement at Tom’s ability to magically bring this thing back from the dead and spare us an uphill, all the way, walk on a chilly, foggy and dew-soaked June night.
The entire trip back to the campsite, Tom was spewin’ one-liner’s and wise-cracks, to the point the rest of us where doubled over laughing and gasping for any breath of air we could get. It’s a miracle we didn’t wake up our whole section of the campsite. Who knows? We probably did.
By this time, none of us even realized it had been better than 2 hours since Tom had first dropped off Carol and returned to bring the rest of us.
Well the next morning during breakfast, the crap hit the old Bean Blossom fan. Carol was fit to be tied. She accused Dad and the rest of us, of scheming and plotting to “dump her” so we could go out drinkin’ and carousin’ on our own.
After all 4 of us, repeatedly, trying to tell her that the cart had died on the way back to camp and the rest of the events that transpired on that fateful night, She still wouldn’t buy it. Finally my Dad, just shrugs his shoulders and says “Yeah. That’s what we did. We dumped you so I could go out …
I’ll tell you what. This June, stop by site #222. Ask for my Dad, Danny Tackett and He can tell you what he said.
(Editor’s Note - This is also posted on www.savebeanblossom.com. If you have a good story, comment or photo from Bean Blossom you’d like to share, please send them to travis.tackett @ bluegrassjournal.com (remove the space on each side of “@”) and we’ll make sure they get on the site.
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