Sunday is the day when you awake (or maybe just stay awake) and are unsure about, well, everything. It is the morning you sit up in bed and realize you had pajama pants on when you climbed in, but you woke up without them (or your underwear) on, and you have no idea how that happened. But you find your pants and amble to the shower, starting the coffee pot along the way. You rummage around and dress in the last of your clean clothes, round up some breakfast, and have a mumbled conversation with your roommates about the logistics of packing out of the room. Then you pick up the cash box, grab coffee, and slowly make your way to the dealers room, where we all look at each other, silently agree not to ask too many questions,
and go about the business of opening our tables before the first wave of customers arrive. Someone volunteers to go get coffee, which makes them Hero of the Revolution.
But then something happens. Maybe it’s the coffee and monster drinks. Maybe it’s the infectious energy of the convention and all the members. Maybe it is the comradely and the knowledge that we are all in this together. Suddenly, the energy comes up and we start wandering to each other’s tables, hawking each other’s wares, trading stories about conventions and lives. The table next to you gets swamped 
and everyone else helps get the line formed, makes sure everyone has drinks, then settles in to heckle and harass the con artist (Convention Artist!). We laugh, we joke, we connect on a personal level with each other and every single person who stops long enough to say hello and look at what we are selling. Exhausted, tingling with energy, and running on empty, we keep each other up and buoyant until it is time to close.
Then Sherry, Kevin, and I closed down the table, and I was off to my last programming item, “Advice for Writers.”
I took questions from the audience, hopefully gave them some good advice. I tried to be personable and helpful. I wanted to give them clear-eyed advice, but not be too discouraging. They seemed receptive and there were several good questions.
Then it was time to wrap up the convention: Closing Ceremonies.
We found ourselves in a place surrounded by all our new friends, people we had come to adore in just a few short days.
We laughed and applauded, and afterward, Sherry and I went around and shook hands with and hugged all the amazing people who make CoreCon happen. We said our good-byes, stopped to eat some hot food, and got on the road, leaving CoreCon behind. 
The drive was quiet and uneventful, which was perfect. We arrived home, unloaded the car, and then recovered our Kitty, who was pleased to be home indeed. 
Oh, CoreCon, I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed you. You made me so welcome. Everyone was so filled with energy that it spilled over onto everything. The people were amazing, friendly, and funny. The rooms were welcoming and warm, filled with good food, good drink, and good conversation. I made so many new friends; people who I want to celebrate our shared passion for all things geek and nerdy with again and again.
It was a fantastic experience.
That was vividly written. I feel as though I shared the experience with you.
When he was a boy, my grandfather’s family left their prairie home in rural Kansas and spent the year working the Chicago World’s Fair. I never heard the stories first hand from him about what it was like to live in a carnival type atmosphere for a year. Your story gave me some insight to that.