by Kate Pinkerton
It's been blisteringly hot all day but as the sun begin to set and and the stage lit up, all of the sweat and soreness and tired, aching eyes fades into nothing. The first long fiddle note fills the air and before long, the ground is covered with people dancing and swinging and singing songs that have been sung in our Commonwealth for the last hundred years. Old timers pull out their wooden boards and and began to clog. A jar of moonshine gets passed around as the rest of the world fades away, replaced by the thump of the bass and the chop of the mando and still the fiddle keeps singing it's high and lonesome song.
Afterwards, it's time to go across the creek where the bonfire celebrates summer and the song begins anew: newer, wilder, and begging to be heard. The people reach new levels of ecstasy as the past and the future meet on the porch of an old log cabin. Finally, they stumble back to their tents, readying to succumb to sleep so that they may do it all again the next day.
ROMP is a little girl covered in mud and laughter. ROMP is a lone banjo picking as the sun rises over the trees and the campers begin to stir. ROMP is midday naps in a hammock and picking around campfires. ROMP is the thousands of people who come to Yellow Creek, who's souls sing when the music dips and swells and calls everyone home.