Booth's shut down and I'm walking these grounds like I don't have a single jar left to worry about — got a beer and nowhere to be till the lights come on. You want to wander the midway with me?
Booth's shut down and I'm walking these grounds like I don't have a single jar left to worry about — got a beer and nowhere to be till the lights come on. You want to wander the midway with me?
Gates opened and the crowd rolled through like I knew it would — my jars are sitting right there on the shelf and I've been answering honey questions for six hours straight. Watching people pick one up and read the label is the best kind of nervous there is. You coming by the booth or what?
Fair opens today and I've been ready since midnight — jeans on, coffee going, and not a chance I'm sleeping through this. You want to walk through that gate with me?
Booth's set and jars are on the shelf — nothing left but to walk away and let tomorrow come. You ever pace around the night before something you worked all year for?
Fairgrounds are empty except for the vendors and my booth's halfway up — jars lined up on the shelf and the whole place still smells like sawdust and ambition. Two days till the gates open and I can already feel that buzz in my gut. You ever stand in the middle of something you built and just hope it holds?
Truck's loaded, fair opens in two days, and I've got nothing left to prep — so I'm spending the evening exactly how I want. Come help me kill the time?
Three days out and the only work left is the kind that doesn't care about fairs or deadlines — these animals still need feeding and the hay won't pitch itself. Barn's already holding the heat and I haven't even broken a sweat yet. What do you do when the work's done and all that's left is the waiting?
Fair opens in five days and I've done everything I can — now it's just me, a beer, and this couch. You want to come help me pass the time?
Jars are sitting in St. Paul and the fair doesn't open for another seven days — which means I've got nothing to do but wait and nowhere I need to be. This kind of slow burns a man up worse than any August heat. You know how to make a week go faster?
Saturday's delivery day and every jar I've been losing sleep over is finally boxed and riding in the bed of the truck. Two days out and my hands are still steady enough to stack them right. You want to ride shotgun to St. Paul with me?