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Illustration by Alex Siklos
I never imagined that in my 70s I’d be standing behind a booth at a craft fair. For most of my life, I was the shopper wandering the aisles, admiring the handiwork of local artists. Occasionally, I’d buy a few things. Now, I’m the one arranging my table, smoothing out a display cloth and carefully setting out my Happy Cat creations.
The night before my first show, I was stressed and nearly paralyzed. Should I display prices or wait until asked? Was my setup too crowded or too plain? I finally calmed myself down by remembering that this wasn’t a test. My booth was an opportunity to share my wares, and I could always rearrange things as the evening went on. I still go through this same mix of nerves and self-talk before every fair.
When the doors opened, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would anyone stop? Would they care about what I had made?
The woman beside me was selling handmade soaps and lotions, and the scents drifted over to my booth. They were wonderful. I told her so, and in return she gave me insight into what to expect, the flow of customers, how to handle questions and why showing up at many fairs helps people remember you. Her advice calmed me more than she probably realized.
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And then came my first sale. A young girl paused at my table. Her eyes fixed on a pair of black-and-white cat earrings. I told her they were inspired by my tuxedo cat. She grinned, pulled out her phone, and proudly showed me a photo of her own tuxedo cat. She promised to return with her dad. Five minutes later, there they were, and he bought her the earrings. That moment, the joy on her face, the connection over our cats, is something I’ll never forget.
I quickly realized the joy wasn’t only in selling. It was in the conversations. People leaned in to touch the materials, asked about my designs, or simply smiled and said, “How clever!” I was sharing a piece of myself, and in return, I was hearing stories from strangers who began to feel like neighbours.
One of the most surprising things about working a booth is how much connection happens in such a small space.
Visitors lingered to tell me stories. A woman remembered her grandmother stitching quilts from old curtains. A retired teacher shared how she had taken up pottery in her 60s. Others scrolled through their phones to show me photos of their cats, and sometimes their dogs, too.
And then there were the fellow vendors. We traded snacks, helped each other rearrange displays and cheered when one of us made a sale. By the second or third fair, I began to notice repeat visitors. They stopped by to say hello, to see what was new or just to chat. It felt less like “customers” and more like friends checking in.
The truth is, I don’t make much money from craft fairs. Between materials, table fees and time, the margins are slim. But what I gain is something money can’t buy: purpose.
Each fair gives me a reason to keep creating. It pushes me to finish projects and to imagine what might bring a smile to someone’s face. And because all my Happy Cat creations are made from recycled or repurposed materials, it also opens the door to conversations about sustainability and finding beauty in the unexpected.
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Every comment, every laugh, every shared story reminds me that I’m contributing something positive. I’m not just filling time in retirement. I’m filling it with meaning.
The craft fair booth has taught me lessons that reach far beyond the table.
First, purpose can be found in the smallest and most unexpected places. Who knew that a folding table covered in crafts could offer so much joy?
Second, connection doesn’t happen only through grand gestures. Sometimes it’s found in a five-minute chat or a smile exchanged with a stranger.
Finally, reinvention doesn’t have to be dramatic. It can be as simple as saying yes to something new, even if it feels uncomfortable. Setting up a booth, talking to strangers and sharing my creations was outside my comfort zone, but stepping into that space opened doors I never expected.
Retirement can sometimes feel like a blank page, and that can be daunting. Standing behind a craft fair booth has shown me that filling that page doesn’t require a master plan. Sometimes, all it takes is trying something different, putting yourself out there and letting the experience shape you.
I didn’t just sell crafts at those fairs. I found joy, connection and purpose. I discovered that community can be built one conversation at a time, even with strangers passing through a hall for an afternoon.
Perley-Ann Friedman lives in Ottawa.
