Hear me, heroes of the Florida Fiber In! The hour approaches. The Fates have woven the final week into our tapestry, and soon we shall gather — not as mere mortals, but as champions of fiber arts, blessed (or cursed) with overflowing project bags and ambitions grand enough to impress Zeus himself.
Already my kitchen table has fallen in glorious battle, buried beneath scrolls, signs, game relics, and the sacred stamps of Hermes. I prepare passports for all newcomers, for no hero shall enter our realm unrecognized. If you wonder why we carry passports instead of name tags, let me speak plainly: years ago we chose to honor distant lands with our annual theme, and thus the tradition began. Each year you return, you earn a new mark — a divine seal chronicling your epic travels through the Fiber In kingdoms. Your passport is your legend.
And now, let us speak of feasting. On Saturday eve, as the sun sinks behind the palmettos, we shall gather for our potluck banquet — a meal worthy of Olympus. I shall bring sandwich provisions for all, a humble offering to Demeter. You may bring a dish to share, or if potlucks are not your heroic destiny, simply bring your own meal and join the fellowship. No mortal shall be judged for their culinary choices.
But lo — the packing begins. Every year I swear I will not overpack, and every year the gods laugh. Something about a retreat convinces me I will suddenly transform into Athena, Artemis, and Speedy Gonzales all at once, completing a dozen projects with divine efficiency.
