craft_show epitome of incomprehensibility Set-up starts 9. I get there at 9:30, but not to fret, because the 3 other artisans are only depending on me to give each of them a packet of fliers advertising the bigger fair in November. It's outside, but we're under a tent: the artisans guild and the weavers guild together. Tables are rearranged. The artisan in front has her wares already arranged - elaborate egg ornaments and hanging egg pendants on stands. Violet the Egg Lady, perennially organized. Jeweler Sara's table looks spare - she's only brought her earrings, but they're arranged on two professional-looking revolving cylinders. My table takes shape slowly. Yes, the polka dot tablecloth is big enough (I'd forgotten, since this is the first summer fair I had since 2019). The sleepy vision I had for arranging the earrings? It works! But it takes me a while. Nobody actually buys any earrings today; that is, none I've already made and arranged in neat card-paper packages with hooks on them that I saved from the socks I bought. I get a request to put two other pendants on earrings, and luckily I've brought the pliers, hooks, and jump-rings. Sometimes bringing too much can be useful. Lean, spare vs. bulky and prepared: which is better? (depends on the situation) But I haven't described the woodworker yet. Furthest back, his table still has the benefit of being visible from the outside. He shows me some butter and cheese knives. I touch the knife to see whether it's sharp. Sort of. Nathan or Norman says it helps that the wood reinforcing it is dense. He knows the name of the tree in French but not in English. Cottonwood? I guess, thinking of the tall, wide-grooved trees Dad likes to point out in parks (he has one at the end of the backyard). He doesn't know. But Dad later says it can't be, because that wood is fairly soft. See the lines in the wood, Nathan-or-Norman points out in English. These are rings for each year the tree has been alive. I know that. The closer together they are, the denser the wood. I didn't know that. Sara's mother, also in the guild, comes by with her dog. This is Gimli, like the Lord of the Rings character. She holds him while I remark that a dog at the training class my parents went to has the name Chewy like Chewbacca. That dog is apparently small but very furry. She asks me what kind it is. I say I don't know, since I wasn't at the classes. And this should be my cue to ask what kind of dog Gimli is, but I don't realize that. Or maybe she wasn't expecting me to say anything in particular. I don't know. When she isn't holding the dog, I aim remarks at her from time to time, since she's the closest to me and I generally like her, but sometimes my words come out inane: "It's hotter than it was this morning," I say, taking off my bolero that David is surprised is called a boero and thinks it should be reclassified as a small cardigan (but it doesn't have BUTTONS, David! there has to be a separate name for Its Buttonlessness). Also, when I said that it was still morning. 11 AM. But my stomach, early_to_rise with me, insists it's lunchtime. Mom stops by to check out the booths and brings me a sandwich and an orange cut in four. Thank you! The air inside the tent seems stifling, although my phone insists the temperature's only 23 C (it also says it's cloudy, and that's a lie). Anyway, my combination of mild discomfort, tiredness, and hunger makes the orange taste like paradise. My hands get sticky and I go to wash them in the basin provided for kids trying out the pottery wheel. The potters guild gets their OWN tent. I make about $70 and read two Alice Munro stories, which is a good day to me. 220813 ... e_o_i boero should be bolero 220813 ... e_o_i The woodworker's name is Norman. As in Norman French, that is, Frenchifly pronounced: nor-MÃ. Anyway. The craft show this weekend: 12-9 Friday 10-5 Saturday 1-5 Sunday Felt burnt out and lazy this morning. Started to write a blathe called dream_thesis about the part of my dream I remembered. Got sucked in by goddam YouTube and didn't finish it. I was too tired to enjoy the craft show as much as I might have, but a few impressions: A woman my age with a baby strapped to her chest exclaimed "Brown Owl!" when she came in. This was a greeting for Ginny, the quilter/knitter at the table next to mine. She had volunteered with the Brownies (junior Girl Scouts) for years and that was her leader name. I was annoyed on Ginny's behalf when she was talking about her sewing machine and someone visiting her table went, "Oh, with hand-stitching it's more authentic." Well then, be Madame Authentic and hand-stich a quilt yourself. Geez. I spent most of the time making little bead people. Which leads me to my second "what the hell, people?" moment: another woman decided to be racist against these inanimate objects, declaring to me and the friend with her, "But I don't want one with a BLACK head. Do you have a blond one with this red outfit?" (It wasn't just black hair - the one she was pointing to was made to look like a brown-skinned person. But she had an accent, Eastern European maybe, so the tone might have sounded more negative than she intended. Still.) But it wasn't all quilt-nitpickers and bead-people-discriminators. Stephanie, who took care of the kitchen - it was our first time having a "tea room" since the pandemic - gave me and my mom a free tea on Friday, even though only the artisans were entitled to a free tea or coffee each day. She set a cow-shaped mini milk jug on the table and then napkins and a plate for the tea bags. We drank the tea with the butter tarts we'd bought from another artisan. It was unexpectedly luxurious and a nice break. 231119 what's it to you? who go blather from