Parking for the Autumn Arts Festival is a pain in the ass. Cars are lined up in the grass on both sides of the road. A few homeowners offer paid parking areas on their property, but some of those are a mile out. A few smaller paid spaces are closer in. Good luck finding an empty one.
I luck out and find a free spot maybe a quarter mile away. My afternoon arrival helped for sure; people are already walking back to their cars.
I look across the reservoir as I walk toward the festival. The trees should be stunning by now, but this is a bad year. A strong early-autumn storm stripped many of them before the leaves turned. The remaining trees noped out and dropped their leaves before the colors could show. Maybe it was the weird weather this summer. It got hot early, followed by lots of cool rain, then alternating dry heat and cool. Three solid days of windy rain was the coup de grâce. Fall foliage is a bust this season. Maybe next year.
I go past a few yard sales and reach the edge of the autumn festival. Most vendors sell their wares under ten by ten foot canopies to keep out sun and rain. They put sand or water weights on the legs to hold them down on windy days. The weather is great – partly sunny, no wind, and about 65°F – so weights and waterproofing aren’t needed today.
The event has been running for about six hours now, so the porta-potties smell like a Superfund site. They’re still stocked with TP and alcohol cleaner. Good thing, because there’s no choice when Nature calls. She can be a persistent bitch sometimes.
Next to the facilities is a vendor selling handmade American “flags”. These are fashioned from sturdy American wood and meant to be mounted on sturdy American walls. A lot of them are 9/11 anniversary commemorations. One says, “September 11th, 2021 – Never Forget.” Another has an AR-15 over the Stars and Stripes with a caption “FAFO”. One more says, “2A all the way”, with black profiles of various firearm types over the white stripes.
I’m hungry, so I check out a vendor selling fried Neapolitan pizza. It’s so over the top I must try it. For seven bucks, I get a folded doughboy (fried bread) with tomato sauce, cheese, and pesto inside. The pizza tastes good because hunger apathy is a thing. I won’t buy it again.
I walk into the art festival proper. The town closed off an entire street so pedestrians can safely stumble around and buy stuff. There’s a “Girl with a Sax” busking on the sidewalk. Her performance is a mix of noodling and cover tunes. She plays like a student who’s just reached proficiency – good for her. The song sounds familiar, so I ask if it’s Take me to Church by Hosier. She tells me it’s actually City of Stars from the movie La-La Land. I’ve neither heard the tune nor seen the film. The performer’s name is Cass – “Like Mama Cass Elliot,” she says. I doubt they were alive at the same time, so props for history awareness. I drop four bucks into the jar and wish her well. I hope she gets better.
There’s a rock band playing opposite the overpriced food area. They’re local and better than the food. The lead singer does keys and his voice isn’t terrible. The drummer is totally in the pocket. The guitar lead is understated in a way that shows talent. No one’s spitting on the bass player, so another plus. The band plays a mix of covers and original work. I show up just as they start “Joy to the World.” They tinker with the melody and bring something new to the table. It’s not jamming; it’s practice. My eardrums are grateful that these guys understand amplification doesn’t mean talent. I approach the stage and find a CD with a cover of 500 Miles on it. Five dollars later it’s mine.
I slink past the bookseller area and cry a little. I visit every year to chat with indie authors and buy their books. I want so badly to be one of them. Last year, I promised a fairly successful indie that I would be here this year with a novel to sell. I broke that promise to her and myself. I keep on walking.
There’s a vendor selling painted glass ornaments – clocks, windows, and other artsy stuff. It’s an arts festival, after all. I immediately spot a large wall ornament with a glass decorative center. It’s the purplish blue MacOS 9 used to be. There’s contrasting color bits throughout. The outside edge is painted black metal. I could tell it used to be gold coz she missed a spot. I negotiate the 72-dollar price down to 65. I hope I find a place for it on the wall before it’s forgotten in the basement.
A few minutes later I find a woman selling handmade “bookbags”. I remember her from a few years ago; she doesn’t remember me. The artist upcycles book covers into purses and clutches. The edges are adorned with stitching and embroidery so the covers won’t fray. We talk about books for a while. She jokes about the Doctor Who handbag being bigger inside than out. I needed the laugh. I imagine her selling one of my book covers in her shop someday, then walk away and cry some more.
*****
It’s late evening now. I’m home typing this and not The Blue. The art market wall ornament rests on a small futon next to me. There’s a glass of whiskey on the desk – a local indie-band CD for a coaster.
I remember how excited I felt last July about writing a novel. That eager post mocks me now. What the hell went wrong? I could rattle off what I did and didn’t do – but those are just excuses, really. And excuses don’t matter. Failure does.
I’ll type a few more words, drain the glass, and go to bed.
Maybe next year.
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