 For Authors: June 05, 2013 Issue [#5713] |
  For Authors
This week: Observations during Art in the Park Edited by: Fyn  
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“A faint smell of lilac filled the air. There was always lilac in this part of town. Where there were grandmothers, there was always lilac.”
― Laura Miller, Butterfly Weeds
“This town of churches and dreams; this town I thought I would lose myself in, with its backward ways and winding roads leading to nowhere; but, I found myself instead. -Magic in the Backyard (excerpt from American Honey)”
“I wish I could show you the little village where I was born. It's so lovely there...I used to think it too small to spend a life in, but now I'm not so sure.”
― Mary Kelly
“The wisest follow their own direction." ~Euripides~” |
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I live in a very small town, Pinckney, Mi with a population of 2437 people give or take a few. We have one stop light, fields of wheat or corn within a quarter mile of downtown and a park smack in the middle of town. Church spires peak up, the hardware store has a wooden floor from the 1800s and pretty much everyone stops in at the donut shop to catch up on the goings on about town. This weekend 35,000 people came into town for Art in the Park. Our little town park in the square was filled with white tented booths showcasing art, photography, metalworking, woodworking, crafts, a publisher and her authors (in my case) and lots more cool 'stuff.'
The predicted horrendous weather went somewhere else and the people came in droves. Seemed like well over half brought their kids, their dogs and their strollers. Campers filled the lot to the west of the library. It was crazy and fun and everybody was there. Very different to be a part of it rather than going to it.
One odd-ball thing I saw was dog strollers. Just like a baby stroller, but for the four-legged set. Tiny ones with Bichons or Shih Tzus and I saw one designed for a child on the 'upper' level and a dog down below! Then I saw folks using strollers for the stuff they bought and Dad carrying the sleeping child. Too funny.
An elderly couple were walking around hand in hand. She started sentences, he finished them. They were wandering the booth next to mine. She saw and pointed to a framed photo of a swan. That's (he says). Us! (She finishes.) It was one of my favorites the woman had out there. A swan looking down as if at its reflection in the still water, both the swan and its reflection were in the sunlight and looked luminous. The photo's title was, "My Better Half."
The couple wandered around, eventually buying that photo. They came into my tent. He says, "Your booth is absolutely..." "Magical!" She finishes. They proceeded to buy a set of my books for their great-grandchildren.
Wood ducks. Do you know about them? They nest in trees. When the ducklings are ready, they leap out of the tree to the ground fifteen or twenty feet below, bounce a few times and then waddle after Momma Duck. Except when there is an event with tents and lots and lots of people. Then the ducklings get lost, separated, and scared. Momma Duck gets frantic. She managed to corral several of her little ones and went off seeking calmer surroundings. The police got them and transported the lot to the nearby Conservation club pond. Oh, should I say they thought they had them all as they had five babies. I missed all of that excitement.
During the afternoon, I lifted a tablecloth covering some book boxes and there, nestled into the tablecloth, was a sleeping wood duck. I got it into a basket, handed it off to one of the Boy Scouts who were handing out water bottles and it was hustled off to join Momma duck at the pond. An hour later, still not realizing that the tree they'd made that mighty leap from was the one next to my tent, I moved another box and found two more sleeping ducks. There was yet another curled up inside my purse which was on the ground behind the coolers. Eventually, all the ducklings made it to mom and were happily swimming in the pond in a nice, straight line as Momma quacked her sermon about staying together!
Folks at these events, the ones running the booths and selling their wares have much in common. We are all creative types, eking out a living from books or baubles, candles or what-nots. Yet we can appreciate the cleverness that goes into construction, the imagination that sparks the muse and the determination to make something of a living off our efforts. We 'get' it. We understand all the time, effort, materials and sweat that goes into our work. The general public--not as much. We have our prices set to reflect the work, time, etc and when our efforts are discounted, it hurts. Funny how the 'them' and the 'us' divide. We vendors are a community of strangers linked by what we do, and I met some awesome folks while we helped each other battle the wind, communed over baby ducks, watched each others booths and sometimes handled sales for the people across the way. Total trust. VERY nice.
Seven in the morning we arrive, watching the sky as weather reports of foul weather still echoed in our heads. We eagerly accepted coffee from the wonderful soul who wandered around offering steaming mugs to all takers. We borrowed tape and exchanged experience. We shared tent-weights and smiles through bleary eyes. We hung signs, retaped prices and reorganized tables depending upon the vagaries of the winds blowing through. We avoided the tornado threats, everyone's tents survived the night and one lady three rows over bought about four dozen doughnuts and handed them out to us. Sunday night we packed up, tore down and disappeared into the sunset like carnies decamping for the next county, headlights disappearing down the road, leaving the park behind as pristine as when we'd first arrived. Goodbyes, hails and farewells until next year or the next event where will smile in recognition, make new friends and hopefully, make some money.
Many times over the course of the two day event I'd think that there was a poem in something I saw. Now, all I have are faint semi-recollections or guesses as to what those specific instances were. No time to scribble down a thought, but I'd remember it, I told myself. Sure. Nope. My notebook does me no good stuck in a box. Hopefully some of the phrases or wisps of words comes back.
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Calling Attention to ALL TEEN WdC WRITERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Teen being defined as 13-18 year old WdC writers.
Submissions are now open for the 2013 TEEN Writing.Com Anthology.
Information can be found at
Deadline for all TEEN submissions is July 30, 2013 11:59 WDC Time
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blunderbus writes: What a cheering newsletter! Spring and a bit of sunshine make all the difference. We were looking at camellias (never knew there were so many varieties) at a chateau last month and now it's the turn of the rhododendrons.
Marci Missing Everyone  says: I just finished reading your newsletter and enjoyed the picture of your lovely day in May. As I read down the featured titles to see what I would like to read, imagine my surprise to find out that I had a piece that was featured. I just want to say 'thanks'!
Creeper Of The Realm  comments: I want to live in your neighborhood!  Great NL as usual! Thank you for adding my story to your picks (I fixed the ending a bit) and of course, Happy Birthday!!
There's an empty house a couple of doors down :)
Thank you
Thanking you for your comments! Please help spread the word to any teen writer on WdC that you know. I believe that teen writing is so important. Tell your favorite teen writers about the anthology!!!
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