I realized this morning that today was December 5th and Lights on The River was taking place this evening. It seemed like the kind of thing a local ought to crawl out from under her rock to attend, so when quittin' time arrived at 6, off I went.
I had sugerplum visions of some Christmas shopping, coffee from a vendor on the street, dinner at one of the restaurants (expecting a long wait or perhaps being turned away due to crowds), and watching the fireworks from the bridge.
However, the devil on my shoulder whispered nagging fears of parking problems, heavy crowds, and me being a shivering wimp as I stood waiting above the shining but deadly cold river.
Parking was indeed a bit of a problem, but while it was cold, it wasn't windy, so after a few passes around downtown, I found an outlying parking spot and strode about five blocks to the village center. Not so bad.
The event was bustling, but it was clear I had a case of the grumps and the street jugglers and delighted children were wasted on me. There were too many people, and it seemed while I wanted to browse, people kept bumping into friends and stopping in the store aisles to talk, blocking the way.
How could you get angry, seeing people do what people ought to do on such a night? Nonetheless, for a person alone it was frustrating. I gave up on stores and strode down to the The Jailhouse hoping a single person might be able to get squeezed in. But this single person couldn't even get a host to acknowledge her presence for 15 minutes, even after practically waiving her hand in front of three faces, hoping to at least be told whether there was a chance in hell of getting a seat. Watching the young staff was almost amusing, seeing how they ran hither and yon, faster than any 45 year-old could go, but getting only half as much done. I finally turned and left, with understanding resignation more than bitterness.
I stopped over at the Parkview but there I couldn't even see a host or figure out if the line was for dinner or the bathroom. By then I was certain dinner in Owego was a lost cause, but decided to leave town by way of The Cellar.
At last I found a place where the staff would meet my eye, and luckily, a patron was abdicating the bar, leaving the end seat (where the staff picked up drinks) available. The 40ish female bartenders were kind, efficient, and neatly choreographed as they addressed both the bar traffic and the restaurant orders, and their art stacked up glass after glass before me, to be whisked away by table staff. The entire bar was drinking red wine (it was a bit Twilight-Zonish to see all those identical glasses the entire length of oak) so I ordered merlot, and a dinner of tapas. A new group came in and sat at my left, and my nearest seatmate was polite enough to share an engaging line or two with me throughout the evening, but was wise enough to leave me be most of the time.
Carolers came in and performed to bend-over laughter and much applause. I never did leave to see the fireworks. It was a warm and comfortable evening.
It was 9:30 when I left. The streets had been teeming when I came in at 8. They were nearly desolate just over an hour later. The stores were closed. The lights still twinkled. The streetside candles flickered alone.
Except...the Riverrow Bookstore. The lights were still blazing. I tentatively pushed at the door, and it opened. It was warm, and there was music.
I wandered, and enjoyed, and made my purchases just as the music was turned off for the evening. Ah, contentment.
As I walked back to my truck through the quiet streets, I passed by a few more die-hard shops with welcoming lights, and several restaurants filled to capacity--not a common sight in Owego. The street was dead quiet, yet when you looked through the glass you saw flights of diners filling every table, engaged in soundless conversation. It was a beautiful night.
So next year I think I'll leave the bustle and the fireworks to the people who love the jostle of crowds, and wander in a bit later.
And now, I think I'll read my handsome and familiar used book. I used to snitch this one repeatedly from my sister's room when I was a kid in Earlville, reading it in bed and then sneaking it back.
Yes, Linda, just like your "Bambi" book (private joke)!
No need to sneak now.
Kitty to the left of me; kitty to the right, and a fleece throw around us all. With a good book, what more could you ask for? I even changed into my jammies.
It's beginning to look a bit like Christmas.
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