by Diane Morlan
“Wow! I never thought of that. It sounds like a great idea. Do you think people would buy them?”
“Of course. People love new and unusual things, especially in fashion. You should try it.”
“Would you help me with getting booths and pricing and all that stuff?”
“I’d be glad to, Sally. Why don’t you start by getting some inventory ready. Make some vests with matching earrings. We’ll price them separately but display them together and most people will buy both. They do that in stores all the time because most people don’t trust their fashion sense and aren’t sure what goes with what.”
“Wow, that sounds great. How will I know what to charge?”
“Check out what the going price is in a store for earrings and vest that are made in factories. You’ll charge more but it will give you a baseline. Then when you make the items keep track of how much you spend. We’ll figure the price from that information.”
“Jennifer, you’re so smart. Thank you.”
“No problem. Let me know when you’re ready and we’ll get together to price your items and find the right events for you to sell them at.”
I gave Sally some last minute instructions, grabbed my purse and headed for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Trudy. Have a nice evening.”
“Oh, I will. Ya’ know, even after all these years, I still enjoy listening to Ray’s band. I also like to have a beer or two.” She began to hum while she swung the bobbins, twisting them around little pins stuck in a pillow.
Tomorrow would be another big day for sales so I needed to have at least fifty pounds of coffee roasted and bagged for the day. And Saturday and Sunday would be even busier days. I made a quick phone call to Mark Jensen, another part-time worker and asked him to be available this weekend to roast coffee or fill in here at the Fest.
I started coffee roasting as a hobby when I lived in Illinois. I’d come across a book in the library and thought I’d try it. The first time I roasted the coffee beans in an old popcorn popper over the stove in my kitchen, Edwin Heinz, my soon-to-be-ex-husband had a fit. Okay, so it did get smoky and the house smelled like coffee for a week, but, hey, I happen to like the smell of coffee. After that, Edwin reluctantly agreed to allow me to roast the coffee on our patio over a Coleman stove. I hadn’t thought about selling it. I just gave it to family and friends as gifts.
It was my friend, Megan who suggested that I try to sell the coffee to area restaurants. She had also set up my internet website.
I was really enjoying working the booth at this festival. There are so many festivals in Minnesota, western South Dakota and northern Iowa that I had chosen only the best ones to attend this year. It had taken some research but so far this summer the four shows I’d worked had been surprisingly profitable and fun. And some customers from previous craft shows had already put in orders through my website.
By far the best part was meeting people face to face. The coffee I sold to restaurants and over the internet didn’t allow me to see people enjoying my brew and I didn’t get to talk to them personally.
Polka Daze was turning out to be the most profitable of all of them, probably because it runs for four days—Thursday through Sunday, one or two days longer than most other events. And it had a huge turnout. German-Americans from across the Midwest eagerly wait each year for Polka Daze. And Germans love their coffee.
It’s also convenient for me, as it’s held in the town where I live. I’m able to roast fresh coffee daily instead of trying to estimate how much I need before I leave for a festival. I like to roast beans daily to be certain my coffee is the freshest it can be for my customers at these events.
When I left the exhibit hall, I fully expected to go to Primo Gusto and roast coffee for tomorrow. Best laid plans... and all that.
4
Thursday evening
I strolled toward the parking lot, thinking about my business options. Soon after we moved to Minnesota from the Chicago suburbs six years ago, I continued to give away my coffee to friends and neighbors. When they began calling to put in orders for coffee, I took my business to the next level, contacting local eateries and giving out samples.
Within a few months, I had negotiated contracts with some of the best restaurants in southwestern Minnesota. Soon coffee orders filled my kitchen counter and supplies in boxes ringed the room, leaving no space to cook or eat.
One day Edwin crashed into a box as he entered the kitchen through the attached garage.
“Get this crap out of the house. Now!” he bellowed. “I’ve had enough. There isn’t even room for you to cook a meal. Not that you’ve cooked anything besides pizza lately.”
The next day I started looking for a place to rent. I found a nice space in the Hermann Industrial Park on the west side of town. A building split into four spaces, the one for rent had been a business of some sort. There was a counter inside the door and a small space in the corner to set up an office. I signed a two-year lease and moved everything out within forty-eight hours of Edwin’s hissy fit. It was a month before he became aware of the fact that I hadn’t just quit but had actually moved into a business location.
After that, he mostly ignored the fact that I ran a business. He just kept telling me that he wouldn’t be responsible for any debts that I incurred. It was his suggestion that I incorporate the business to keep him out of it completely.
“I don’t want to lose my house over some silly hobby of yours,” He had complained.
My business took a huge leap when I started selling it on the Internet. My best friend, Megan Murphy developed and now takes care of my web site where customers are able to order coffee over the internet. My Primo Gusto coffee is shipped to homes all across America.
It was quite a chore to get the website set up. Megan had the know-how, but she wanted it to be a relaxed easy to use site. I agreed with the easy to use part but I wanted it to look professional. I didn’t think that pictures of Chippendale models would attract the kind of customers I was looking for.
We finally came to an agreement. The site wouldn’t have any half naked men on it but it would be casual and give the feel of a small coffee shop. Megan worked magic by using backgrounds and helping me with names for the different blends of coffee. We both wanted to get away from the look of a franchise. The result was a cozy coffee shop website. Again, Megan had the knowledge to link the website to others that would lead people to our site.
In fact, the site was so profitable that I’ve been able to pay her for her efforts. She makes a percentage of the profits from the website. This adds to her income as a realtor. She works part-time for River Valley Realtors. Megan is their top part-time seller.
On my way to the parking lot, I meandered across the Fest Grounds. I peeked into the smallest of the three tents where musicians and dancers from all over America and Europe would perform this weekend. A sign near the entrance announced the name of this tent, Edelweiss. A quartet playing a Viennese waltz lured me in. This small tent, unlike the two bigger tents had no sides, only a net cover to keep the sun off the performers and audience.
I stopped at the bar in the back of the tent and watched two young guys doing schnapps shots with beer chasers while I waited for a wine cooler. I gave the bartender three tickets, which are used as money at all the food and drink stands. Tickets are sold at little booths scattered across the Fest Grounds. Once you’ve paid for the tickets, it’s easy to forget what each one is worth and fest-goers tend to spend more tickets than they would cash. I watched as he poured the wine cooler from its glass bottle into a clear plastic keg cup.
Turning, I looked for a place to sit. About a hundred folding chairs lined up like soldiers at attention in front of the stage, with only about a third of them filled. I traipsed up the center aisle and watched one lone couple waltz on the small wooden dance floor. I needed to get off my sore feet for a few minutes.
Halfway down the aisle I spotted a slender woman wearing a short navy veil with white trim, a dead g
iveaway. I slid into the seat next to Sister Bernadine who was dressed in her usual uniform - crisp white blouse and calf length navy blue skirt.
I had known Bernie most of my life. We had been friends, along with Megan Murphy, since first grade. On our first day of school, at recess, flirty Megan had been sitting on a swing, her arms wrapped around the swing next to her.
“Can I have that swing, Megan?” I asked.
“No. I’m saving it for William. He’s going to be my boyfriend.”
“He’s playing ball with the other boys. Com’on, Megan, let me swing,” I whined.
“No.”
Little Bernie, the skinniest kid in class, walked over and grabbed the swing. “Let her have the swing or I’ll smack you. You’re so selfish.”
A classic middle child, I tried to mediate. “Let’s all be friends, okay? We can all share the swings.”
I thought I was getting through to Megan about sharing when Bernie lost patience and clocked Megan in the nose. Sister Francis De Sales came running to break up the fight. By that time, the two little girls were rolling around the playground pulling each other’s hair and shrieking. I just stood on the sidelines wringing my hands and mumbling, “Oh, dear.” Our punishment had been to play together nicely for a week. We’d been best friends ever since.
After Edwin and I separated, I’ve been making an effort to be more assertive. When I find myself shirking from a confrontation, I ask myself, “What would Sister Bernadine do?” I know it sounds silly but it works for me. I haven’t smacked anyone yet but I had stood up to Edwin a few times.
“Bernie, are you drinking beer?”
“Oh, hello Jennifer. Well, sort of, but this isn’t actually beer, it’s a Radler.”
“Radler? Yuck! Who drinks beer mixed with lemonade? How can you stand that nasty stuff?”
“You just don’t like beer. It’s more lemonade than beer anyway. My father used to give it to me when I was a girl. Besides, it’s hot and this cools me off.”
“To each his own.” I put my feet up on the empty chair in front of me. “Who did you get into an argument with this afternoon?”
“Oh, for cripes sake, Jennifer. It was a little disagreement with someone. How in the world did you hear about it?”
“Greta the Gossip stopped by my booth.” I answered, using the nickname we had called Natalie since fifth grade.
“Oh, good Lord, I suppose the whole town will hear about it. Father Werner will have me on the carpet over this. Darn it!”
“Tell me about it, maybe I can I help.”
“It was nothing. A former parishioner wanted to yell at me over things that happened years ago. It wasn’t important then and it certainly doesn’t matter now. Don’t make a big deal out of this. Look, it’s almost six o’clock. Let’s go watch the keg tapping.” She stood up, smoothed down her skirt, and adjusted her veil.
“Nice job changing the subject, Sister.” I said. We stepped out to the wide gravel road snaking through the Fest Grounds. “Okay let’s go. The Civil War re-enactors will be shooting off their noisy old cannon at six o’clock sharp.”
We glanced into one of the larger tents, as we strolled through the Fest Grounds and past the food stands. The scent of onion rings wafted toward us. A curly-haired little girl balanced a paper plate holding a funnel cake bathed in powered sugar as she shuffled toward a picnic table, her mother close behind.
We made a detour to the window in a tiny trailer where a bleached blonde woman wearing too much makeup sold me a paper cone filled with roasted sugared almonds. She snatched tickets from my outstretched hand and stuffed them in a drawer. She grabbed her paperback book and was back in another world before we left the booth.
Munching on nuts we made our way to the center of the Fest Grounds to watch the keg tapping ceremony. A man wearing lederhosen, like most of the men involved in the festival as well as many of the fest-goers, rolled out a small cart holding a wooden keg that looked old and authentic. Actually, it was a metal keg purchased at the Liquor Barrel and slid into an antique-looking wooden keg cover.
With great ceremony and much laughter, the Fest Meister tapped the keg, and drew beer into small plastic cups for everyone. We raised our miniature glasses, shouted “Proust”, and took a sip. When the Fest Meister shouted, “Eins, zwei, drei g'suffa,” everyone replied with a resounding, “Zicke, zacke, zicke, zacke, hoi, hoi, hoi!” It’s one of the favorite German toasts at these festivities. I have no idea what it means but its fun to shout. And even though I don’t care much for beer, I caught the excitement of the festival and enthusiasm of the people who stood around the little keg. I cheered, and drank the three ounces of beer in my little cup.
A deep voice murmured in my ear. “Jennifer, we meet again.”
Startled, I whipped around to look at the squat little man in green lederhosen and dribbled some beer on my t-shirt. When I saw it was Trudy’s husband, I laughed and introduced him to Bernie.
“Bernie, meet Ray Neumann. His wife has that charming lace booth next to mine. Ray is the leader of one of the local bands. Ray this is Sister Bernadine.”
Ray reached across and shook Bernie’s hand. “Leader of the Windig Sangers, the best darn polka band in Minnesota. Nice to meet you, Sister. I’ve seen you at church.”
Bernie’s head jerked up when Ray mentioned the name of his band, and then she shook her head, stuck out her hand and said sweetly. “Are you a member of St. Theresa’s Parish, Mr. Neumann?”
He pumped her hand and answered, “Please call me Ray and, yah, we’ve belonged to St. Theresa’s since it merged with Holy Angels’ Church last year. Meet some of the other members of the band.”
The two Catholic churches in Hermann had merged because, although there were plenty of Catholics, there weren’t enough priests. The upkeep on the two properties cost the diocese more than was taken in the collections, so the bishop had merged the two congregations. Now it didn’t matter which side of town you lived on. If you wanted to go to Mass, you went to St. Theresa’s, the oldest church in Maron County and the only one without air conditioning.
Ray then introduced us to Clara and Vic Schmidt. Both were members of the band. “Vic plays the clarinet and saxophone. Clara, here, is our drummer and you should hear her yodel. Sounds like she just came down from the Alps.”
Clara waved her chubby hands. Pink spots appeared on her cheeks.
Ray asked, “Where are Bobby and Wes?”
“Bobby headed for the bratwurst wagon,” Vic answered and pointed toward a long trailer with a sign declaring its support for the local hockey team. “He can’t get enough brats and hot German potato salad. Who knows where Wes went?”
Clara crossed her arms across her bosom and huffed. “Probably to do something illegal.”
Vic patted Clara on the back. “Now, Clara, be nice. Wes has had a tough life.”
Clara snorted. “It’s his life. He made it what it is.”
I noticed the corners of Bernie’s mouth turn up, just a tad, at Clara’s remark.
Ray coughed and said, “He’s probably in one of the tents dancing with a pretty girl. He loves to dance, that Wes.”
A second later, the cannon boomed. Everybody in our small group at the keg cart jumped, and then laughed. The Civil War re-enactors were a bunch of good old boys who loved to dress up and make noise. Like all boys, little and big, they loved speed, fire and things that go bang.
We chatted with the musicians for a while talking about past gigs and future dates. I kept looking around hoping to get a glimpse of this Wes character that had been so nasty to my friend, but he never showed up. Perhaps he saw Bernie and me with the band and kept his distance. Finally, Bernie and I left the Fest Grounds and walked to the parking lot.
5
On the way out of the Fest Grounds, we stopped for one last treat, ice cream. Tomorrow I’ll eat healthy, I promised myself.
“Let’s see, give me some vanilla ice cream in a paper cup. Add some sprinkles,” I told the teenager
behind the counter.
“I love rainbow sherbet,” Bernie said. “Put mine in a sugar cone. No sprinkles.”
“Sherbet in a sugar cone? Bernie, that’s just not right.”
“What do you know? You don’t even like Radler.”
Laughing, we strolled through the fest grounds’ exit and into the parking lot. With the music fading in the background and the evening sky on fire, the red and orange horizon ablaze, I turned to tell Bernie to look at the sunset when someone ran past us, pushing Bernie, almost knocking her down. He zigzagged between cars through the grassy parking lot. Bernie shrieked and grabbed my arm, her sherbet cone smashing into my chest.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes, did you see who it was?” Bernie, on tiptoes looked over the top of the vehicle next to her.
“No, sorry Bernie. I only got a glance at him, but he didn’t look familiar. He was really tall though.”
Bernie let out a sigh and said, “I need to get back to the church. Sorry about the mess. See you soon.” Bernie scurried off to her car. I wondered why she’d left so abruptly while I brushed the pink, green and yellow goo off my coffee, beer and now, sherbet stained shirt. I needed to buy more Tide.
I strolled toward my Civic, tired, hot, and not enthusiastic about roasting and packaging the coffee I needed for tomorrow. As I reached for the door handle, I heard my name being called from across the parking lot.
“Oh, no! Jennifer, can you come here?”
When I got to Bernie’s car, I saw at once why she needed me. Her new little Chevy Aveo sat lopsided in the grassy parking lot. She stood shaking her head, looking at the subcompact’s tires. “Well, at least they weren’t slashed. Some bozo let the air out of two of my tires.”