Jill Thomas is a rambler, traveler, and storyteller with a big laugh who believes life takes her where she needs to go, no matter the roundabout path.
I turned 55 last week, and Stormy turned 61 four days later. It's our tradition to celebrate our mutual birthdays with a road trip. This year, we went to St. Augustine, Florida. It was our first trip out and about after the pandemic lockdowns when we felt that maybe vibrancy was finally returning to the world.
A couple of months before, we went to New Orleans and felt saddened by how quiet the city was. NOLA is eternally raucous with live music from dozens of venues floating through the air at any given moment. It's loud even when the temperatures are sultry, and tourists are in meek supply. On that beautiful sunny day in December, the only music we could hear in the usually discordant and squawking Jackson Square was a solo saxophone.
So when we strolled onto St. George street in St. Augustine, I was enchanted to hear live music drifting in the air. One band, in particular, caught my attention, and I climbed up onto a bench to peer over a fence to watch. My pandemic brain didn't even consider going to the source.
I was wiggling my hips to the tunes, when an older couple tapped the back of my leg and said, "You can go watch if you want. The door is right there." I was distracted by the fact that they wore colonial pioneer costumes and mumbled thanks.
Nonetheless, I hopped down, and we went into the bar. Called the Colonial Oak Music Park, I could instantly tell it was my favorite kind of music venue. It was unpretentious and outdoors. It's the kind of place where audiences pay attention to the band, and soon-to-be-famous artists get their start.
The seating area included dozens of picnic tables strewn under a genuinely enormous Oak tree, flanked by a basic self-serve bar. Lovely colored lamps and twinkle lights hung from the tree. It was crowded with jubilant spectators, none of whom wore masks. One look around, and I was covered with full-body goosebumps.
The energy was ebullient. It felt like a celebratory awakening from pandemic restrictions. I threw myself in with gusto abandoning dinner plans without a spousal consultation or a second thought.
During the second set, it started to pour rain. Hardly anyone left. The crowd simply clustered closer, gathering under the enormous tree to avoid the drops. Pink-haired college students, middle-aged tourists in pastel fleece, young adults in logoed streetwear, aging hippies, and jet setters carrying designer bags gleefully shared the space.
The crowd was visibly thrilled. Strangers were throwing up high fives, butts were dancing in seats, and standing bodies were swaying around the edges. Strangers were smiling at each other with looks of "can you believe this is finally happening." We cheered for the band and each other because we knew that this moment, at this time, was extraordinary.
The lead singer was over the moon happy. He repeatedly exclaimed how good it felt to be playing for a live audience. Near the end, he screamed, "This is my favorite chord in the world. It's a C Minor demolished," and the crowd went nuts. We all wholeheartedly agree he struck a perfect chord. It sounded like a light shining bright at the end of a long dark tunnel.
READ MORE > JT's Tales From The Trail, Rambler Cafe Blog
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