No one would call this show "cheesy" (Well...maybe ONE person!)

That glow-in-the-dark white image
is none other than Miss Dolly Parton herself!

"I love you, Dolly!" roared a voice from the audience. "Dang it all," she hollered back, "I thought I'd told you to stay in the truck!" So it was that, with the wind whipping at that wig ("If it comes off," she instructed us, "just a-toss it back up onto the stage." We laughed appreciatively at her good humor. She glared. "Y'all think I'm foolin'," she said sternly, "I ain't kiddin'!"), Dolly Parton had us on the edge of our lawn chair seats (which wasn't very safe as we were already slanted at a 45 degree angle) as she sang her classic hits and some new songs.

Wait. New songs? How old is Dolly Parton, anyway? Well, I'm not going to tell you--it's both rude and irrelevant. Let me just tell you...that this lady is STILL writing great songs, learning instruments ("How did you like me playing this acid rock guitar," she asked. "Or, as I like to call it, my acid reflux guitar."), and telling the BEST stories EVER ("My grand-daddy was a Pentecostal preacher and didn't like the way I was dressing and how I was a-wearing my make-up. 'Dolly,' he asked me, 'Don't you want to go to heaven?' I answered, 'I sure do want to go to heaven but do I have to look like hell to get there?'").

So with my feet braced to balance the slope and my eyes shielded against the blinding sun as it slowly set, I was eagerly awaiting the beginning of the show. Sydney had disappeared into the packed crowd on a food run and I whittled away my time trying to imagine what delicious treat she was going to bring back for Brad and me. Fried dough? Mmmm. Maybe a hot dog? That would be okay. Oooo...nachos? We finally spotted her Kansas City Royals ball cap in the crowd so we could mark her careful progress toward us. Waitress skills firmly in place, she carried her concession stand selections up crowded concrete stairs, weaving among uneven rows of fold-able camp chairs, dodging the infinite wave of inebriated, aged, and/or uncoordinated as they crossed her path so that she could finally reach her destination. She still wasn't close enough for me to make out what she'd purchased. "There are food trucks down there," I pointed out to my husband, my heart ever-hopeful. Sydney's hat bobbed steadily along, triggering an accompanying growl from my tummy. "Falafel," I whispered. Bobbing...bobbing...and then suddenly, like a Northern Pike strike, she disappeared, pulled beneath the surface of this teeming sea of humanity.

I leaped up. "No..." I screamed, "not the food!" I was to Sydney's side in seconds as she lay buried beneath the rubble of a mountain of cheesy fries. I stared at her in horror. "I don't like cheesy fries," I said, disappointment dribbling from my dialogue, mirroring the cheese dribbling off of Sydney's pants. Much like a potato, Sydney appeared paralyzed, unable to move. "I think she's in some sort of spud-induced shock," I said, scooping grass, grease, and fries back onto the flimsy paper plate. I pulled my cheese-covered kid to her feet when suddenly, I heard a voice. "Mrs. Mosiman?" Sydney cringed. Of course we would be attending an event with tens of thousands of strangers and someone we know would have first row tickets to witness Sydney's show. "Tammy," I smiled, elated, embracing my friend. We exchanged pleasantries and then I hustled Sydney back to her seat. "How much did you spend," her father wondered as she tried to fold herself up in her chair. "Fourteen dollars," came the muffled reply. "Worth every penny," he grinned, opening up our cheese-covered bottle of water and taking a drink. "Delicious."

After the show, we made the long, dark walk back to our parked vehicle surrounded by hundreds of our closest friends (What else do you call people you've been shout-singing with for the last three hours?). "That was the best twenty-two dollars I have EVER spent in my whole life," I sighed happily, humming Jolene. "Well, actually you have to account for ticket and food which brings the total up to approximately thirty dollars, "my husband calculated. "So I'd say your friend actually got the best bargain," Brad grinned, watching Sydney suck cheese dejectedly off of her shirt cuff, "because she got two shows for the price of one." I switched over to the tune of Islands in the Stream, singing:

"French fries in the field, 

covered up in cheese, 

no one else to blame, 

yellow on her knees, 

should have ordered dogs, 

less chance for catastrophe, 

and we wouldn't be so hungry, right now...

I'm really really hungry...right now.