This is a problem. My GPS takes me straight through downtown to get to the rental address.
Ahead of me, Main Street hums with activity, but the whole area is closed off to car traffic.
This explains why the carriage house I rented was the dead last place available in town after it popped up on my feed yesterday. I had no idea the Dogwood Festival was such a big deal.
It makes sense. I’ve known about the artists’ colony in Songbird Ridge for my whole life, and festivals are a good way to keep tourists flowing in to buy up everyone’s creations.
Despite the slight inconvenience and the hive of activity in front of me, I pick up on the fun, laid-back vibe of the town. I decide to get a sneak peek at the festival and, hopefully, find a local potter who can advise me on how to display my work here.
I steer my car to a nearby field that’s been roped off for festival-goers to park, and tote my crate of bowls and things through the winding main drag. Tents, booths and stalls line every square foot. There’s a musical stage at one end, and a petting zoo at the other. All along the winding main road, volunteers are working fast at setting up a craft bazaar, games, food trucks, and demonstrations of every kind of art and craft you can think of.
Banners advertise homemade ice cream, face painting, sculpting, needlecraft.
Finally, I locate the pottery tent. With my crate of precious creations starting to strain my arms, I approach one volunteer, but I’m redirected to someone else. Everyone is in matching pink and white shirts, buzzing around like pastel worker bees.
Eventually, I find someone in charge, a man in his early 70s with a long, braided gray beard and a Vietnam vet cap, and ask for directions to a nearby gallery. He misunderstands me through all the commotion.
“There’s a waiting list for vendors about a year out,” he says.
“No, I’m not trying to register. My name’s Oliver Harris from Charlotte, and I was wanting to talk to someone about displaying my work in a gallery, not at the festival,” I try, speaking up over the din.
The man tugs at his braided beard and glances at the crate. “Let me see what you got, Oliver Harris from Charlotte.”
He’s sweaty and harried and definitely has no time for me, but he’s making time. I realize this is my chance, and I don’t waste another second.
Carefully, I set down the crate and remove the paper covering the water pitcher.
He takes it from me, examines it. His face makes no expression of either appreciation or dislike.
“How much more you got in there?” he asks.
I give him a rundown of everything I have.
With zero humor, he says, “Let’s see the gnome.”
I show him the gnome.
He stares at it thoughtfully, and I can’t tell what he thinks of the gnome’s rainbow-colored hat. “Tell you what,” he says. “We don’t have anything exactly like this, so I’ll tag these for you and squeeze them into one of my personal displays, as a favor.”
“You will? That’s so kind of you.”
He nods curtly and says, “They’ll sell.”
“Do you need me to sign something, or do you want my number…?”
He puts out his hand for me to shake. “Come back to collect your money when the festival is over. Ask for Leonard.”
I don’t argue. Then, the man takes six more things out of the crate, still wrapped, and walks away.
“Are you Leonard? When is the festival over?” I call after him, but he’s gone.
What a strange little place this is.
With a now-much lighter crate in my arms, I nearly trip over the Cardinal Coffee stand and thank the gods that it’s open ahead of the official start of the festival. Here, I pause and order the strongest drink they have.
“Here you go! One Jittery Titmouse,” the barista says, handing me my drink and smiling unironically.
As I sip my coffee, I finally notice everything around here is named after birds. Bluejay Cafe. Silly Goose Gift Shop. Bald Eagle Barber. Then, there’s Four and Twenty Bakery—the name bringing to mind a vague memory of a nursery rhyme about blackbirds. Foster’s Sports and Outdoors seems to be the only holdout on the bird-name tradition.
