The woman setting up next to me had an attractive display, with posters and clipboards, pens printed with her logo and lollipops to lure children.

"What is your goal?" she asked in her cheery voice.

I coughed. Goal? No one mentioned I was supposed to contrive one.

"I hope to sign up ten people for the Bible study program," she offered, giving me time to stall.

"Er, I guess I want to hand out ten newsletters," I followed suit. Lame but it was something. Measurable, achievable, bottom rung of the ladder type of goal. The kind that lands you a job washing cars.

My table was cluttered, as if I wanted to substitute quantity for clarity. There were back issues of the magazine, ten different stacks of handouts, brochures from past conferences, art supplies to make an anniversary card with handmade paper cast angels, a raffle quilt displayed at belly button height and held up by books and a pin, marriage friendly children's literature in a teetering pile and ten items from the lending library. These were squished into a space the size of a vanity in a half bath. 

Within minutes my friend had her first nibble. With a winning smile she engaged passersby in conversation, and enticed them to look at the colorful materials. I watched, my mouth gaped open. People seemed peripherally curious about the mishmash around me, picking up the wool felted soaps I used as paperweights in the brisk wind. 

"What is inside? Rocks?" A woman wanted to know. Her little boy had a blue tongue which he showed me. I realized the connection to marriage might seem thin and suddenly noticed there was not even a sign to identify my organization. 

"There is soap inside and as you use it the wool fibers interlock and kind of turn into a washcloth." I skipped the obvious connection to working on your relationship and keeping it clean.

One person actually bought the soap with a woman clothed with the sun felted in bright yellows and orange. I only charge eight bucks and it took me an hour of poking and four dollars worth of roving plus one for the Ivory but hey. It was a sale. Two people bought my collection of 101 Marriage Moats. No one wanted any newsletters, and only one person bought a raffle ticket. 

"I am a loser." I texted John, who was at the other end of the fair doing a magic show. 

"You didn't lose me," he texted back after the rope-through-the-sleeves-of-his-coat trick.

Probably eight hundred people walked by my table in the course of six hours, and I did not manage to give away ten newsletters. I did have a string of conversations, one with a woman whose autistic son is nonverbal . She took a newsletter but only because it has my contact information on it. Hopefully she will call. She had a look of desperation in her eyes. I chatted with people all afternoon, but my freebies seemed extraneous. People needed a human being with open eyes, not a printed page. I listened to their stories, and could not help but care. 

When I told John my pathetic stats he tried to be upbeat until I got to the raffle ticket.

"You can't give away a quilt for three dollars?!"

"I never promised her when I would pick the winning ticket."

My friend exceeded her goal by three. I took my stacks home and rewarded the failure with ice cream. There is after all life after failure.