Greetings.
I think I have finally caught up with myself now. It’s been nearly a week since the Spoonbread Festival ended (it wasn’t over until 5pm), and I woke up this morning feeling fairly rested, a feeling I haven’t had for weeks.
This was the first time I ever purchased a booth at any kind of festival such as the one here, the biggest one of a year of festivals, in my festival town. In fact, signs for the October festival are already strung across the main drag through town.
For my booth, I had four helium-filled neon green and pink mylar, star-shaped balloons fluttering beside my table. Behind me hung a neon green and pink banner telling everyone what kind of journalism The Edge (Reporting from the edge of Appalachia in Berea, Kentucky) does, and on the table next to three clipboards, each with a pen and a stack of surveys beneath the clip, was a massive jack o’lantern-themed bucket of various chocolates and assorted candy with which to reward people who completed the surveys I’d made to gather information on what news means to them.
There were more than 20,000 people who came to the festival, if the tallies are to be believed, since admission is always free to Spoonbread, and no ticket sales reveal the total number of folks who passed the gates. Thankfully, I did not talk to all of these people, as it turned out.
More likely, some of my board members and I, probably spoke to around a thousand folks, all told. Of that, we managed to convince about 10 percent of them to fill out the surveys, and I shall now keep what I have learned from them in mind as I sally forth in a world that hates reporters.
It was early on Sunday that a man wearing suspenders over his t-shirt to hold up his dungarees, slowed his pace as he read my sign and contemplated what I offer. He was nearly past the booth, and still walking when he called out to me over his shoulder, his lips caved slightly inward, indicating he has no top teeth: He said, You’re gonna get fired from that paper. I called back, I’m the boss. I ain’t firing me. He replied, now walking backwards so as to make progress while putting me in my place: You’re gonna git shut down. By who? I asked. Trump’s coming for you, he said, then turned to face the direction he was headed, and so, ended our cozy repartée.