Too Dead To Dance (4 page)

“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 giveaway. 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?”