Brawl at the Craft Fair
Our canyon overflows with small-town charm, but it’s charm with a razor’s edge, the kind that comes when you butt up against the stomping ground of mountain lions. A big kitty, dubbed Toro by our canyon’s Facebook page, was caught on a neighbor’s camera last week, as early as 5:15am and as late as 11:45pm. From my treehouse (yes, my treehouse—my kids promised their labor but welched, so it's mine) I could hit these cameras that spotted Toro. That’s what I mean by charm with a razor’s edge. We’ve got treehouses, but we’ve also got man-killing panthers that patrol the neighborhood.
At the mouth of our canyon, we have a general store with antique gas pumps and a sign that says “Haven’t had gas since ‘79.” The store sells propane, junk food and beer, local honey, and camping supplies for the weekenders in the park. Right next to the general store is a steakhouse—the kind that cuts your tie off and hangs it on the wall like a trophy—no putin’ on airs in the canyon. Near the restaurant host stand, there’s a framed newspaper article of Richard Nixon—maybe the stuffiest stuffed shirt of them all—getting his tie cut off in the steakhouse, his smiling cheeks bulging like a chipmunk.
The general store and steakhouse parking lots are also the site of monthly craft fairs—charming, eclectic, and teeming with small town delight. But again, there’s that razor’s edge. Not long ago, one of the craft fairs got completely out of hand—in fact, it spiraled into violence. A brawl broke out, and a few people were fit for handcuffs and read their rights. I never got the full story of what went down or who was involved, but I love fantasizing about how our craft fair devolved into the last act of The Outsiders.
The craft fair inventory includes wind chimes, ceramic bowls shaped like hearts, macramé crosses, and decorative crucifixes (which I’ve always found strange—bedazzling an instrument of death seems like a peculiar sort of fetishism…). Seasonal decorations are always popular at the craft fair, ranging from Easter lambs and bunnies fashioned from yarn to Q-tip mummies and Frankenstein flowerpots for Halloween. You’ll also find hand-poured candles with scents like “Regret,” “Trouble,” or “Sweatpants and Netflix”, right alongside mini fairy gardens (one of which might include an architectural addition that suspiciously resembles a stripper pole).
The people who craft these goods are just as intriguing. One of my neighbors, a Native guy who drives into town weekly to have his hair braided, might very well be 200 years old. He spends his days smoking pot and making dream catchers, which he sells at the craft fair. He’s kind to me, but I’ve never parked on his property—unless you’ve got thick skin, a lawyer, or a Kevlar vest, it’s best practice to steer clear of his driveway.
There’s also a canyon family down the road who gave us an eye-opening perspective on rabbits. Shortly after we moved in, the wife and husband stopped by while I was adjusting the rabbit hutch beside our chicken coop. “Oh, you have rabbits,” the wife said.
“Yeah, my kids’ pets.”
The husband looked a little disgusted, and the wife added, “Well, if you ever get sick of them, we’ll take them off your hands.” We later learned that rabbit meat is a regular staple of their household menu. Apparently, if you know what you’re doing, a pair of rabbits can yield about 600 pounds of meat per year—200 pounds more than you’d get from a cow. That’s when I realized our bunny hutch wasn’t so much a bunny hutch as it was a house of ill repute.
Speaking of houses of ill repute, our own home was apparently one of the first built in the canyon. My wife will tell you it was a dance hall, but I’ll tell you it was a bathhouse—it could have been both. Either way, “dance hall” and “bathhouse” are euphemisms for brothel. We’ve also heard that a man at the end of our street still owns a shotgun he won in a poker game played in our house when he was a teenager.
Speaking of teenagers, one year a group of future felons rented a house on our street. They tore through the neighborhood on motorcycles at 50 miles per hour, terrorizing kids, old folks, and horses alike. Their shenanigans dominated the community Facebook page until someone—a newer canyon dweller not yet callused by mountain lions or grumpy dreamcatcher craftsmen—suggested calling the police. That idea was swiftly dismissed by an old timer, a woman who said the boys would be dealt with “in-house.” The motorcycles went quiet not long after, and when it came up in conversation on a walk, the old woman said simply, “The canyon wasn’t for them.” And then she winked.
The charm of our neighborhood shines brightest during the 4th of July parade. It’s a spectacle that feels like one part Norman Rockwell’s America, one part gut rot whiskey. One year, the local Women’s Club entered the parade and choreographed a dance routine to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.” It was all good fun—except for the part where they hired a young man, dressed him in cowboy boots and skivvies, greased him up, put a collar on him, and had the lead dancer walk him down the parade route on a leash. Imagine Norman Rockwell painting that scene.
Anyhow, it doesn’t take much in the way of creative acrobatics to imagine how our craft fair could go feral. Between the dream catchers, bedazzled crucifixes, and shotgun-shaped earrings, the energy of our canyon isn’t just quaint—it’s prone to dramatics. What follows is an unofficial, completely fictionalized transcript of what led to the craft fair brawl.
“You see Alice over there? Anybody tell that hussy about the booth buffer rule?”
“Not sure.”
“Hey, Alice! I know you’re new here, but we require a 12-inch buffer between booths.”
“Oh, really? Seems a little like overkill.”
“Rules are rules, sweetie.”
“I guess some of us need a little more room to maneuver.”
“What did you say?”
“What? Did I say something?”
“That was a crack about my ass, wasn’t it?”
“Well… if the ass fits… but in this case, I guess it doesn’t fit.”
“You pulled this shit in the 4th of July parade. I won’t be upstaged twice!”
“You probably require two stages.”
“You are a sentient menstrual cramp of a human being.”
“Ladies, let’s calm down. There’s enough booth space for everyone’s backside—”
“Shut up, Otto, your birdhouses suck.”
“Well, excuse the hell out of me for trying to keep the peace.”
“If you want peace, I’m selling a handpoured soy candle. I call it ‘Sweatpants and Netflix.’ The essential oils are known relievers of anxiety.”
“Those candles smell like a gas station bathroom in Reno.”
“Yeah, well your patio furniture looks like it came from the discount Ikea bin.”
“How dare you!”
“The Swedish have done enough damage to home interiors, and here you are piling on.”
“Take it back!”
“Never!”
“Let’s deescalate everybody. This is really interfering with my aura.”
“Shove your aura up your ass!”
Auras and asses—I imagine this is when the violence ensued.
The following was likely noted in the police report and/or mentioned on social media:
The first act of violence occurred when somebody was slapped upside the head with a wicker peace sign.
Dove-shaped stained glass was thrown. One woman was choked with a tye-dyed scarf. And an octogenarian man savagely beat a young woman with a pillow upon which were stitched the words “Bless this mess.”
As he was handcuffed and placed in the paddy wagon, one of the craft fair participants shouted “Respect my macrame!”
The next day, one of the craft fair proprietors who sells supplies for Wiccans, saged the entire space. Better luck next month.
I love this canyon. Home sweet home.
And if you haven’t picked up my dark crime comedy novella Dig…
I love your magical canyon too. Just waiting for you and Andy to open your woodworking booth at the craft fair with “live love laugh” signs.
This was so good Norm. It reminded me of Prescott. Right before we moved, we saw huge mountain lion paw prints in the snow in our back yard.