To Be Continued ...

Melinda took a deep breath and glanced for the hundredth time at her wrinkled notes. She could see people begin to push their lawn chairs underneath the red, white, and blue awnings, and assumed the tabernacle must be packed.

She knew this place like the back of her hand. She used to perch front, center, and spellbound for two weeks every summer when the 8 o'clock show would start. Looking back now, she wondered if it was the talent itself or just a case of idyllic peer pressure, as scads of hometown kids raced to get the best seat in the house. As they grew into their teens, tastes changed and they found other ways to occupy their evenings. Melinda used to make fun of the old-fashioned talent selection, right along with the best of them. Today, she added a pinch of guilty to her rampant emotional stew.

She tried to calm the uneasiness that kept bubbling to the surface; the pot of jambalaya soup simmering in her stomach and soul. Her list of emotional ingredients ranged from silly stage fright to a deep sadness a she recalled the reason she was backstage today.

Even when she had outgrown the evening gatherings, she made sure to check in with her grandparents. They were always in their designated spot, the aisle seat third row on the left. When the schedule said gospel music she would give some flimsy excuse to her friends and sneak in between her grandparents. She loved to see the look on grandpa's face when they sang Blessed Assurance. She could not remember a time of no tears during The Old Rugged Cross. She wasn't sure if he grabbed hers or she grabbed his, but without fail, they held hands during every rendition of I'll Fly Away.

Melinda loved the Franklin Park Chautauqua. It was only two wonderful weeks long but held some of her most cherished childhood memories. Her mom grew up spending fifteen of the hottest dog days of summer there. And in return, dragged her kids away from the lovely beaches of Lake Michigan to this circle of cabins known mostly as, Park.

To Melinda it meant playing with cousins she hadn't seen all year. It meant listening to grandparents, aunts, and uncles tell stories about the good old days. It meant riding bikes around the circle until you thought your legs would fall off. On Grandma's rare night off from cooking, it meant a stop at the concession stand where burgers repeatedly won a taste test with Culvers. It meant meeting old friends who talked kinda funny and spoke of playing baseball, the FFA and heading off to Purdue. It meant scary stories told late at night, in tents Grandpa pitched next to the cottage. It meant art projects hung by clothespins and memories stacked like a deck of cards. It meant dances on Friday night and Scrabble tournaments on rainy days. It meant watching northern lights, falling stars, boys, and fireworks. Always fireworks.

Mainly though, Melinda loved the Park stage. She practically grew up on it during those few lazy weeks each summer. Backstage was her hiding place of choice during hide-n-seek and kick-the-can. It's where her summer love blossomed and died, on more than one occasion. The Park stage is where she fell head over heels for the love of her life, singing.

Three Sundays, filled with gospel music, sandwiched the Park dates; opening and closing Sunday's were like the white bread to middle Sunday's bologna. This year, after the flag ceremony, and after Grandpa belted the National Anthem came the first family act. Their names might as well have been Soprano, Alto, Tenor, and Bass. Even though she would enter the real world this fall, she chose to sit front and center with her younger cousins and could almost feel her grandparent's approval. She knew he was directing in small rhythmic circles with his hand raised above his crossed legs. Emphasizing the downbeat.

“Four part harmony,” Grandpa Lewis began his critique while lighting the campfire, “You can’t beat good 'ole four part harmony. Why can’t more people just get up there and sing?” If he received any kind of affirmation from her Aunts or Uncles, he headed down the gospel-is-God’s-music road, leaving little room for grandkids, praise choruses, or pop music.

“Melinda,” he would say, even if she were still in the tent changing, “You could make a million bucks if you’d record a gospel album. Just sing the old faithfuls. Take Amazing Grace for example,” he continued as s’mores paraphernalia appeared.

“Git up on that stage, and sing the livin’ daylights outta that song. No need for background tracks. Sing it from your gut, just sing."

Grandpa had begged Melinda to sing Amazing Grace at Park for as long as she could remember. And she had meant to. She and the other cousins performed every year in the local talent shows. Whenever it came around to picking out a song there always seemed to be another, more popular choice. First it was the Judds, then Alicia Keyes, Lauryn Hill, and Norah Jones. Grandpa had somehow even finagled an invitation to her show choir, during Park’s centennial celebration, but that year the choir performed mostly patriotic numbers.

"That was some show," he politely said while entertaining the choir at the cottage fire pit. Later that evening, after most of the group dwindled, he would give the final critique. "I don't see the need for all the fancy costumes and such." Looking directly at Melinda he repeated his mantra, "Use the talent God gave ya, slap on some denim, and just get up there and sing. You don't even need shoes."

Every summer, as the days of Park dwindled, Melinda began to dread the separation from family and friends. Each year seemed to heighten the angst she felt at saying good-bye to her grandparents. This year seemed harder than ever to give the final hugs and promises of sporadic e-mails. Try as she might, she had not been able to conjure up Grandma's cooking smells in her tiny apartment. As the leaves turned and began to fall the mental pictures grew faint and out of focus. Park was all closed up and she was a long way from home.

Her soul was boiling over, now. For a minute she lost all track of time and space. She even forgot what song she was supposed to sing. And then as if, someone quietly took her hand and turned the flame to simmer, Grandpa's voice whispered in her ear. " Just sing."

It seemed weird to be backstage now in autumn. The whole aura of Park was gone. The mood was subdued, but Melinda felt bolstered as she made her way through the maze of flowers, which overflowed into the stage wings.

In her mind she pictured her Grandpa, with his hand over his heart singing the final notes of the Star Spangled Banner.

And as if he was directing her with his approval, she stepped out on the stage.
She could feel the love as she turned to look at her grandma, aunts, uncles, and cousins. She tried not to cry as she gave a warm welcome to all the other friends and guests that were spilling onto the Park lawn.

Without accompaniment, she began to sing,

Amazing Grace how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me,
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind but now I see.

She was barefoot.



Author Notes
Deep in America's heartland and nestled along a slice of Carpenters Creek, lies the historic grounds of The Fountain Park Chautauqua. It is one of only a handful of functioning Chautauqua’s.

The Chautauqua movement flourished in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Chautauqua assemblies expanded and spread throughout rural America until the mid-1920s. The Chautauqua brought entertainment and culture for the whole community, with speakers, teachers, musicians, entertainers, preachers and specialists of the day. Such a Chautauqua was generally built in an attractive semi-rural location a short distance outside an established town with good rail service. At the height of the Chautauqua movement in the 1920s, several hundred of these existed, but their numbers have since dwindled. Former U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt is quoted as saying that Chautauqua is "the most American thing in America.

Today, those hustling by on the ever-busy Interstate 65-the crossroads of America-are oblivious to Fountain Park. It hides behind perfectly manicured corn and soybean fields. To those automobiles and their passengers it might as well be a Google earth world away.
But to a few hundred extended families, on the edge of middle summer, in the heart of Indiana, Fountain Park is home.