Simplicity at the Bandshell

Editor’s Note: Although this is not the writer’s bandshell, this evening of music in the park evokes the feeling and experience she longs for.

Lately, I find my thoughts falling into the tired trope where I long for “simpler times” as a way to cope with the chaos of the present world. It is seldom that I miss my sleepy hometown in far southeastern Iowa, but when I do, the sensation only ever pertains to a few people and settings. Always first that comes to mind is my family, all of whom still live there and are daily interacting with one another. They are on the frontlines for each other’s trials and tribulations, as well as celebrations and monotony.

I often miss the short drive to my sister’s house, where we talked about everything and nothing over a glass of wine and cheap frozen pizza. I remember finding respite in my mother’s garden, looking out from a covered pergola to listen to toads croak in the pond, or catch a hummingbird flit.

Most of my memories and yearning for simpler times occur in the summer months, which is when I consider my small rivertown to be at its most redeemable. The farmer’s market, the annual street and art festivals and most notably, Sunday evenings at the bandshell to catch the weekly municipal band performance.

The bandshell is located in a city park on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River — an idyllic backdrop to listen to music by John Philip Sousa and the like. There is a road that loops behind the bandshell which is always blocked off on Sundays so cars don’t drive through during the performance. Each weekend the set list and conductor would change, but the final song never did. You knew the concert was reaching its end when the band started playing “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Within that last song, there were simple consistencies that brought me so much joy I find myself giggling at my own memories. Like when the entire crowd stood and clapped along with the final strain of the march. We were never prompted to do that by the conductor or anyone else. It’s just something we all did, every week.

Once the song ended, others would gather their folding chairs and blankets, but it was a habit of mine to stay and watch the band members pack up their instruments. In particular, I would watch one of the trumpet players — a late middle-aged gentleman with a head full of white hair who sat close to the front of the stage. As the conductor shared their thanks with the community, he would quickly and subtly pack his trumpet away in its case before any other band member even started. Once finished, he would stand adorned in a pair of work gloves and take off jogging as he pulled down on each cuff. His white hair would bounce as he steadily made his way to the road where he alone would move the plastic barricade that blocked traffic from driving behind the bandshell. Once moved, he would make the long jog to the other end of the loop to remove the second and final plastic barricade.

I quietly cheered for him as he ran, a custom that my sisters and friends started to indulge me in as they eventually quietly joined in, too. It was always disappointing when a community member, eager to leave, moved the barricade before he got there, and I created such hyperbolic tension and excitement for the “running guy,” he quickly became the top reason for me to attend concerts. I was never loud enough to draw his attention, but I prided myself in staying until he was done with his work, as I considered it to be the true end of the concert.

As I recount this time in my life, I realize that perhaps it’s not the time period itself I miss, but the brain space I had to observe and respond creatively, turning the mundane into something joyful or peaceful. Of course I long for a less chaotic world, but perhaps even more I long for a less cluttered mind, because in my heart of hearts, I know someone is still running to move those barricades, just as I know the toads still croak and croon their nightly song in my mother’s pond.