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February 15, 2002 - Craft Sale Junkie by Maria Harden
Welcome to 2TheHeart's Funny Friday, to start your weekend off with a chuckle!
This week's Funny Quotes:
"Men marry women with the hope they will never change. "Women marry men with the hope they will change. "Invaribly they are both disappointed." (Albert Einstein)
"She's a lovely person. She deserves a good husband. Marry her before she finds one." (Oscar Levant to Harpo Marx upon meeting Harpo's fiancee)
"In weight lifting, I don't think sudden, uncontrolled urination should automatically disqualify you." (Jack Handey ) (Sorry about
this one, but it cracked me up!)
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I like Maria's stories because she writes about stuff that most of us (especially the women) think about, but don't have the nerve to write about!
CRAFT SALE JUNKIE
by Maria harden
I love holiday craft sales, and when I see the signs posted in the neighbourhood, or see the ads for upcoming ones, I almost salivate in anticipation. The majority of these sales are generally held in school auditoriums, church halls, or malls, during November and December weekends. When I see the word "craft," I'm there in a
flash. Be still, my beating heart!
Recently I went to the "granddaddy" of all craft sales, which is held annually in a large convention center here in our city. I'm a serious craft shopper and there is a method to my madness. First I clipped a coupon for free admission from the local paper, and headed there on the opening day of this much-advertised five-day event. It was still fairly early in the afternoon so the crowds hadn't really materialized yet. Then I left my coat at the coat check, so I wouldn't get hot as I wandered around. Now I was ready to go exploring.
I took my time weaving my way through the myriad of booths, carefully examining each one's offerings. Being a little bit on the crafty side, I am always curious to see the creativity of other artisans, and appreciate the time and effort that goes into creating their unique, handmade "objets d'art." The 125 artisans and craftspeople had come together from all over Canada, and were proudly displaying a dizzying array of wares. The prices ranged from inexpensive to costly. There was something for everyone here, including the difficult-to-buy-for person who has everything.
There was pottery, glazed with a crystalline wash that shimmered in the light; folk art that ranged from saucy snowmen to adorable angels; a wide assortment of items carved from diamond willow and polished to a fine sheen. An exuberant young lady, who didn't look old enough to be running a business, showed off her hand-made whimsical hats by wearing one herself. Next was exquisite stained glass, plated in 14K gold, for those with bountiful pocketbooks. Wearable items consisted of one-of-a-kind knitted garments in the finest of mohair; beautifully sewn aprons; colourful, fleecy jackets and so much more. Then, the food. Succulent jams and quivering jellies, with names like gooseberry and Saskatoon berry, sparkling in attractively labeled jars. Moist fruitcakes that smelled so good, who could resist buying just one? There were molded chocolates in
dozens of imaginative shapes, sure to please even the most indiscriminate buyer. Sampling was encouraged, and always resulted in sales.
Although each craft booth held a plethora of treasures, the best treasure was the person who created the crafts. I chatted with several of them and they were only too willing to share their dreams and inspirations. A lady who made jewelry confided she was on the last leg of a craft show circuit, and had made a tidy profit so far.
A photographer described how he painstakingly photographed the northern lights at night, and then sold the framed prints in a very lucrative business. His work was breathtaking. I wished I could buy them all. These hard-working, artistic people all had the same goal: to share their creativity with the public, and to hopefully eke an existence out of the monetary rewards.
I continued my way, making mental notes of items I was interested in. Then I was ready to make my purchases. A pair of hand-made dinosaur puppets for my grandson. A wonderfully warm fleece pillbox hat, scarf, and mittens for my mother in her favourite colour, red, accentuated with a tartan trim. A beautiful shoe hanger that would hold a dozen pairs of shoes, for myself.
And then I saw it. An old-fashioned apple basket, lined with colourful fabric, complete with a matching ruffle and a hinged lid that could be opened from either side. It was quaint and charming, and I knew immediately that my daughter-in-law would love it for storing her needlework supplies. I chose the prettiest and largest one, and added it to my purchases. Or should I say, I added my purchases to it, as that's where I cleverly ended up storing everything else I had bought. Although it was awkward to carry around, I was thrilled with my find.
Delighted with my purchases, I headed for home, swinging the frilly basket, and feeling like Little Red Riding Hood on her way to Grandmother's house. People grinned, bemused, as they glanced at my "picnic" basket. I grinned back.
I clumsily boarded the crowded bus, and finding a seat, placed the basket in my lap. I couldn't see a thing over it, nor could I move. I was the object of curious stares, but at least no one asked to join my picnic. Upon reaching my stop, I exited the bus with considerable relief, chuckling out loud at how I must have looked. Composing myself lest anyone around think I was deficient of a few brain cells, I walked the few blocks home, swinging the basket, and singing under my breath, "Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother's house I go!"
Another successful craft sale. And that, my friends, was how I became a basket case.
Maria Harden (c) 2001
mharden@escape.ca
Maria lives in Manitboa, Canada and is this month's 2TheHeart Writer of the Month! See more of her stories along with her photo and bio on our Writers Hall of fame page!
http://www.2theheart.com/writers_hall_of_fame
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The Letter Box:
Mary Ellen's 'Gerald Terrelli' story brought back an embarrassing moment (one of many). I must have been 14 or 15 and was at a Church Dance. These were big occasions with a packed dance floor although it was to records not a band. Records! how old is that! Well, yes, it WAS a long time ago.
All the girls I knew were swooning over a certain man of about 19 or 20. He was training to be a doctor and was unobtainable! 'Shhh, hallowed ground' they would murmur as he passed. He came over and invited me to dance a quickstep with him. I wasn't a good dancer, just learning by following others steps, but I got up and we set off round the room. He was tall and handsome and we glided around well until, at a corner, my heel skidded on the polished floor and down I went - full length. Covered in confusion I apologised. 'My fault' breathed the godlike creature as he lifted me up. 'No, it was mine' I gasped honestly. 'It's always the man's fault' replied this wonderful man.
No wonder he was worshipped by all the girls. After the dance, he and another young man walked my friend and myself home, perfectly properly as you would expect from such a paragon. I never saw him again but cherish the memory.
Margaret Drysdale
Yorkshire, England
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