I really think the Franklin Events Community needs to adjust their dates for the Main Street Festival. Last year was just like this–grey, cold, windy and blech. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I personally don’t find myself in the mood for cotton candy, corn dogs and hippie yarn crafts when it’s like November outside.
Festivals need to be hot and sticky. You need to find yourself so dying of thirst that those handsqueezed lemonades sound refreshing. Otherwise what would compell anyone to drink a beverage consisting of 1/4 cup of ice water and six lemon halves smashed down in a sludge of cane sugar?
My much-missed hometown of Fort Wayne has the monster of all festivals every year. 9 of the hottest days in the year are celebrated with fireworks, fried cheese and seemingly-dangerous carny erections on “the Three Rivers Midway.” Every year we all wait with bated breath to find out how many punk teenagers have pulled knives on their buddies in front of the Tilt-A-Whirl. It’s big news.
I miss having a local festival, and for years happily drove to Franklin for the pale imitation they have there. A stained-glass window in my house stands forever in shining testament to the years when it was bright, sunny and fun. We bought it in 1999 as an anniversary/birthday present to hang in the home we were just starting to build. That day of wandering the booths is still one of my happiest memories of my marriage.
That’s probably why my hopes are too high, and why I was so disappointed at watching two women get in a catfight over a tie-dye shirt last year. Street festivals are no good in the rain.