The Spring Festival

The Spring Festival was always my favorite event of the year. I honestly loved the Spring Festival more than I loved Christmas. Christmas was always stressful around our house because all it meant was Grandma was coming into town and she would inevitably say something horrible to mom or I and we would spend the rest of her trip trying to avoid her.  One problem with Grandma – other than she the fact that she only likes my father – is that she is not very mobile on her own. Which means she sits in my favorite recliner where she can see the television and out the front windows at the same time.  In this position she knows all and sees all. There is no way to get around her and no way to not hear her mutterings. I’m not sure if she really thinks she is whispering to herself when I walk by or if she doesn’t really care that I can hear everything she says. I think she just doesn’t care that I can hear everything she says.   

“If she doesn’t get married, everything will go to hell in a handbasket,” was one of my favorite of Grandma’s favorite quotes to ‘quietly’ hurl at me as I walk by. If I do eventually find the right partner, I’m not even sure I’ll invite her to the wedding. I know she would cause a scene if he doesn’t fit her every quality of an ideal man, especially if he was not Catholic.  Obviously.  Maybe I’ll just elope.   

Grandma never came to visit for the Spring Festival because she always wanted to stay home so she could be involved in all the Easter planning at her church. Which was fine with me because it meant I could start looking forward to the festival as soon as she left after Christmas. I spent most of my year planning what theme my paintings would have as well as what clothes I would make for the event. I tried to make it my staple that I would make my own outfit every year for the festival and every year it would be different. Most of the time I made dresses and skirts because I could put pockets in both and could also avoid zippers. 

I was hoping this year would be different. More exciting. Bigger. I wanted to become a professional artist when I graduated from college and was hoping I could get enough revenue so my father would have to take me seriously. 

“No daughter of mine will be an artist. You’ll spend too many days struggling to make ends meet. You’ll struggle to pay the rent and put food on the table for your family.” He usually then proceeded into a lecture about how he had started at the local bank interning during his high school summers and now was the bank manager. I tried not to bring it up that he also never had any fun growing up, but that would lead us back into the rant I had heard so many times before. It wasn’t much fun to not have a schedule or regular food either. I just wished he would come to my shows to see how much fun I had presenting my art as well as interacting with everyone who loved the Spring Festival just as much as I did. 

This year I had diversified my paintings a little, but not by much. Most of what I painted were mountains because I felt like the mountains were where I truly belonged. I had been accepted to the University of Denver where I was planning to study Art. I was excited to get into the mountains and already had everything planned out. Or at least as well as I could. I liked control, but knew college could throw some curve balls my way once I left the only home I had ever known.  

The University of Denver was why this Spring Festival was so important to me. My father wanted me to go into Finance or Nursing or any career other than being an artist, but I was determined and once I made my mind up about something, it was hard to let go. I knew I could have a career as an artist as most of my paintings sold every year at the Spring Festival and had sold for several years in a row.  I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but it was all I ever dreamed of.  If I could prove to my father once and for all that I could be successful, maybe he would give up the idea I had to be an accountant or a nurse. 

As the Spring Festival grew closer, I was shocked when my father started asking about my plans for the festival and what theme my paintings had for that year and what I was planning to wear. I didn’t even know he realized I picked out a different theme for my paintings or that I had spent weeks working on the dress I was going to wear. Every year I was under the impression he was completely ignorant of the amount of work I put into the festival, but the way he was talking about it made it clear he had at least paid some sort of attention. 

“Do you need any help setting up your tent for the festival this year? Or is Jeremy going to help again?” My father asked over breakfast the day before the festival. 

“Jeremy is coming, but we can always go with more help,” I responded after I recovered from almost choking on my coffee. Not once in my entire life had he ever been interested in helping set up and I again was shocked that he even knew Jeremy helped me every year. “He is coming by Friday night to help load everything into my car and then we are leaving at around seven Saturday morning to get everything set up. 

“Count me in to help,” he said starting to clear the breakfast dishes. 

I sat at the table and just stared. Dumbfounded. I began to wonder what was going on, why he was so keen to help all of a sudden. Whatever his intentions were, I was just happy he was finally interested enough to be involved with an event I loved so much. 

When the Spring Festival finally rolled around, I found myself in my element just like I had every other year.  I was hoping for a good break on selling since the weather was supposed to be seventy degrees and sunny for the majority of the weekend. What surprised me the most was the fact my father stayed for the entirety of the festival just watching and running food and drink errands. It was the only time he had ever spent more than an hour at the fair in any other year. By the time the weekend was over, I was exhausted and elated. I had sold nearly all of my paintings and was already forming plans for next year. Many of those who had bought a painting had asked about commissions and since it was not the first time, I knew I should probably give it more than a passing thought. 

The best part of the entire weekend was the one thing that surprised me most. My father. He had not only stayed for the entire Spring Festival, but I had overheard him once telling one of his friends about me and how proud he was of my success. By the time the last customer had left, I turned to find him smiling with tears in his eyes. At this moment, I knew I had made it. No matter if I was a successful artist or not, now I knew my father was proud of me and that was all that mattered.