So, you’re curious about what it’s like, being the “owner of Crown Royal,” eh? Well, let me tell you, it’s not always the fancy bottle of whisky you might be thinking of. Sometimes, it’s a crown you never asked for, or one that’s a heck of a lot heavier than it looks.
For me, this whole “owner of Crown Royal” thing kicked off a few years back. Old Man Hemlock, who’d run our town’s annual ‘Founder’s Day Picnic’ for like, twenty years, finally decided to hang up his apron. Now, that picnic gig? That was the real Crown Royal in our little community. Whoever ran it was king for the summer, or so it seemed. Everyone looked up to them, talked about how great they were. And me, like a dope, I actually stuck my hand up when they asked for a new organizer. Thought it’d be a breeze, a bit of fun. Yeah, right.
The Grand Plan Takes Shape (or so I thought)
I started off all fired up. Got Hemlock’s old binder of notes. Looked simple enough on paper. I booked the park, no problem. I even sketched out a new layout for the stalls and the games. Felt pretty chuffed with myself, I won’t lie. I sent out a cheerful email calling for volunteers and vendors. Easy peasy.
Then the real “fun” began. First, the calls. I rang up the tent guy Hemlock always used. Turns out, his prices had shot up by nearly double. Just like that. I spent a solid week, maybe more, scrambling, calling every rental place within fifty miles. Finally found one that wouldn’t completely break the tiny budget I’d been given. Stress level one, achieved.
The Joy of Managing People
Then came the volunteers. Oh, the volunteers.
- I put up sign-up sheets at the community center and the library. Got a decent list of names.
- A week before the picnic, I started calling them to confirm duties. Suddenly, everyone was “super busy that weekend” or had a “sudden family emergency.”
- I ended up practically blackmailing my brother-in-law into handling the barbecue, and roped my teenage daughter into running the kids’ craft table.
And vendors? Some pulled out last minute. Others tried to haggle for better spots on the day itself. I was constantly on my phone, smoothing ruffled feathers, making new arrangements. I even had to design and print the event programs myself the night before because the person who volunteered for that just… vanished.
The Royal Experience Itself
The day of the picnic? Pure chaos. I was there at dawn, helping the few reliable folks set up. The generator for the band sputtered and died twice. I had to sweet-talk a local mechanic to come take a look, mid-sausage sizzle. Mrs. Periwinkle complained that the port-a-potties were too far away. Mr. Henderson (a different one) complained they were too close to his prize-winning petunias display. I ran around putting out metaphorical fires all day. I think I ate a single cold hotdog, standing up, sometime around 3 PM.
That “Crown Royal”? It felt like it was lined with jagged rocks. Everyone’s enjoying themselves, music’s playing, kids are laughing. And there’s me, the “owner,” sweating buckets, dealing with a lost kid one minute and a blocked drain the next. I got the smiles and the “great job” comments at the end, sure. But inside, I was just exhausted.
So, yeah, I wore that crown for one glorious, stressful Founder’s Day. I learned a lot, mostly about how much work goes on behind the scenes of anything that looks effortless. That Crown Royal, it comes with a hefty dose of responsibility and not nearly enough actual whisky.
The next year, when they asked for an organizer? I nominated Brenda from the bakery, real quick. Told everyone how organized she was. She took it on. And you know what? I went to that picnic, bought a plate of food, sat on the grass, and just enjoyed it. Tasted a whole lot better not being the one wearing the crown, let me tell you. That, my friends, was my stint as the “owner of Crown Royal.” Never again.
