Craft Fairs

Saturday night we were sitting in the Double T Diner waiting for our dinner. During the conversation, S- announced that her plans to attend the Maryland Christmas Craft Show the next day had fallen through. The friend she was going with had to cancel out at the last minute. S- was bitterly disappointed because the Maryland Christmas Craft Show is one of her favorites. My heartbeat quickened as I sensed trouble looming on the horizon.

Now at this point, D-, my youngest son, decided he just had to help her out. So he started suggesting the names of all of S-'s top shopping buddies who might be called upon at the very last minute to accompany her to the craft show. I prayed fervently but for a variety of reasons, none was deemed suitable.

Then D- asked her, "Why don’t you go with Daddy?" Slowly folding his hands together while interleaving his fingers for emphasis and effect he added, "You two could have a nice romantic trip together."

Even though he was sitting directly across from me I guess D- didn't see me making all the gestures that you naturally make when this kind of situation arises: a gun to the head, a single finger being drawn madly across one's throat, a head hanging limply from a noose, my hands clutching tightly around his invisible neck.

As if this thought had never occurred to her, S- turned to me and sweetly asked, "Oh, would you go with me?"

Glowering at D- as he laughed hysterically I said, "Sure. I'll take you."

So that is how I found myself at the Maryland Christmas Craft Show bright and early Sunday morning. Boy, let me tell you, what an estrogen-charged place a craft show is. Young women; middle-aged women; old women; women with strollers; women with strollers but no babies; women pulling wagons; stout women, skinny women, tall women, short women; craft shows bring out every type of woman. There were women in wheelchairs. I saw one woman walking along pulling an oxygen tank. A couple rode in Rascal scooters. I can only suppose the Maryland Christmas Craft Show will not draw Jewish women but I'd only have been mildly surprised had I met one. Of course, being the pack animals that women are, all were in groups.

A very few women had male companions. Men at craft fairs have no say, no input, no idea, really, about what is going on. Their women are in charge. Females own this arena. The men are simply beasts of burden. Men carry the bags.

Men walk around craft fairs with this dour, kind of stupefied look on their faces. It's like we can't believe we're there and now that we are, we're just mystified by everything. ("You mean there are no guns or bass boats on display?!? None!?! How about golf? None of that either? Power tools? Tell me Home Depot is here! No? HDTVs, stereos, cell phones? Anything useful at all? Please tell me there's a tractor-pull later…")

After the initial shock has worn off, a nascent craft fair curiosity takes over. Men do start looking at things. I found this one guy who makes sculptures out of old railroad spikes, nuts, bolts, car springs, and other metal effluvia. He welds this stuff together to depict humorous caricatures of various professionals. One tasteful sculpture he called "Proctologist". I feasted on dips and sauces of all kinds although at one point got my hand slapped for double dipping. I found several booths offering samples of Moravian cookies but I never did discover where Moravia is.

But the disbelief that became curiosity quickly becomes the urge to sit. Men stop looking for crafts and start looking for chairs. That's all. A simple place to sit down. Now the craft fair managers know this and provide only a few places to sit. They need to keep the men up and moving, to stay with their women, who are spending the money. So when the sit urge finally overcame me, I found all the chairs, all the benches, all the stools, in use by other men. Everywhere, all around the fair grounds, sat these poor wretches in a stultifying air of dejection, faces downcast, bags of crafts strewn at their feet, silently mouthing Kurtz's final words, "The horror. The horror."

I feared that by sitting I might become one of them but my desire for repose was strong. My brain reeled; my mind clouded; my knees started to bend.

The scent of kettle corn brought me back.

"Uh, honey? I'm ready to go now."
K-