The vendors were packing up early and leaving like rats from a sinking ship.

It’s like rain had been following them personally, on their special market days, ever since the end of June. It was stressing, distressing, whatever the difference.

No one was happy, and for a brief hour, when I learned there were four honey vendors in a place designed for one, I joined their ranks, stating unequivocally, to whomever would listen, someone doesn’t know what the heck they’re doing. It’s hard enough, the festival/fair market, without bad planning on the part of the hosts. A small vendor fair cannot support four honey vendors. One is plenty.

In the morning light, I left early to get set up before the rain. Having a local festival to attend is supposed to be fun because I don’t have the two-hour drive to get there before sunup and it’s amongst friends. That part worked and I was the third vendor in the lot and so early, but not really, so early that the booth numbers were not on the pavement. A shortcoming easily remedied, and I set up quickly. I then had to park my truck and take a shuttle bus back to the venue from the old stone church parking lot -- not part of anyone’s’ plan. Oh well, when in Rome.

There is something crushing to the soul to watch hopeful citizens set up their wares and stuff and crystals and trinkets and knickknacks and candles and kitsch and watch this hopefulness fade step by step to the final realization that they are not even going to make back their entry fee.

When the rain started it was right on schedule, predicted for days, and no amount of wishful thinking could change it. Community prayer does not work. Mother Nature sets her own hours. And here it came from low running clouds trapped by the mountain to the west and drowning out any sun from the south.

The tents began dripping and some leaked and merchandise needed to be wrapped and side walls were up, and traffic – attendance -- was light and getting lighter as the sky got darker like a Black and Tan. (Can you tell what I was thinking?)

Stalwart and stoic but not stupid, the mass vendor packing-up started shortly after the lunch hour. I was amongst the last to make a move, as my salesmanship is as puffy and untrammeled as my products are sterling, and once exposed to the client, in demand. I did OK, if you can consider 3/5ths of a former performance OK. But I’m not complaining, honestly! No, really, not!

A short historical review of recent events: Walden Harvest Day was cancelled; the first day of Saugerties Garlic Festival was in the rain; the first day of the Bethlehem Garlic Festival was cancelled due to a swirly hurricane remnant; and today? Well, it’s still raining, and tomorrow is the setup for the Rosendale Pickle Festival in a soggy field at the Ulster County Fairgrounds. Things are looking up. Old grey November is staring us square in the face. How did it happen? I still think it is June. I can’t complain. I’m a lucky one. Nothing really hurts me. It’s others that we have to look out for. The world is hurting a lot of people. My travails are nothing. I know a couple black dirt farmers that are so under water from the rains the best they can do is a couple straight vodkas. And if I turn on the news, I have to turn it off.