Folk Fest
I'm booked at a semi-local festival this weekend, one dedicated to, of all things, the Morel Mushroom. The weather is supposed to be non-cooperative, as usual. If it's outside and I'm signed up, Mother Nature is almost guaranteed to rain, sleet, or do a great imitation of Hemingway's three day blow. I practiced putting up my handy-dandy canopy by myself, since my "chauffeur" is fishing in Canada. Should be great.
It's often a little like Seger's descriptions of being on the road: lonely, freaky, and unglamorous. Of course there are days when it's very rewarding. Someone asks if I'll speak at their library or promises to take the book to their reading group, or actually buys a copy. And there's always that celebrity feeling when someone says, "Did you really write this?" Then Ray Stevens provides the inspiration: "Yeah, I did."
It's often a little like Seger's descriptions of being on the road: lonely, freaky, and unglamorous. Of course there are days when it's very rewarding. Someone asks if I'll speak at their library or promises to take the book to their reading group, or actually buys a copy. And there's always that celebrity feeling when someone says, "Did you really write this?" Then Ray Stevens provides the inspiration: "Yeah, I did."
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