We crammed into our Kia Soul like crayons in a box, the scent of Coppertone thick enough to prompt someone to crack a window. Music blared—Toby Keith, then Jimmy Buffett. It was that kind of early afternoon: a little rowdy and entirely summer. Headed north from Cornelia, our motley crew included two healthcare workers, two writers, and one resident Bluey aficionado, each of us chasing the promise of Ramshackle Street Festival—each with a distinct purpose.
As for me, I was in search of two things: good shopping and familiar faces—and Ramshackle delivered both in abundance. With each shop I visited, my arms (and stroller) grew heavier, filled with the items that one can only find at a festival. Along the way, I ran into just the people I’d hoped to see—Sonya Shook and Lynda Ann Price—two of the key organizers behind the event, along with the rest of the war cabinet responsible for orchestrating the street festival. Together, they pulled off a feat of logistics that emptied the surrounding counties—Rabun included—and funneled the crowds straight into this small mountain town perched just shy of the North Carolina border.
Throughout the day, thousands streamed into Clayton, where brightly colored tents lined the center of Main Street, selling everything from flowy dresses and framed artwork to permanent jewelry and handcrafted goods.
My own draw, however, lay in the boutiques—especially Idle + Wild, a shop that feels like a cross between White Lotus and Gossip Girl. As I sampled a silky skin oil, something bright pink caught my eye: a flamingo Warmie.
Maple, my toddler, has recently developed a deep affection for “amigos”—her word for flamingos. In a lapse of parental judgment, I showed it to her. She clutched it instantly, pressed it to her cheek, and declared, “I love you, Mingo.”
I looked at my husband. He looked at me. We both knew: mistake.
I tried distraction. Persuasion. Negotiation. But when it came time to leave, I did what I had to do. I pried the flamingo from her arms and placed it gently back on its shelf. Maple cried with the devastation only toddlers can muster—for about two minutes.
Then, salvation: a motorized bubble machine whirred to life in the middle of the road. Children flocked to it, drawn by the floating, iridescent orbs that filled the air. Whether placed intentionally or not, the machine struck me as a quiet tribute to the late Tyler Ratcliffe, known locally as the “Bubble Man,” who once brought music, whimsy, and joy to Clayton’s streets in vibrant costume.
It was comforting to see his legacy live on—in bubbles, in children’s laughter, and in the quiet persistence of small, thoughtful acts.
Maple, for her part, agreed.
The only force strong enough to draw shoppers from their browsing was the scent of food drifting from the sidewalks. Participating restaurants—Clayton Café, Stekoa Creek, Rabun Social, and others—offered grab-and-go lunches: chicken salad sandwiches neatly boxed, zesty rice and steak dishes served hot, and bourbon-infused cocktails or margaritas poured curbside. No lines, no fuss—just pay and enjoy. And with that, our friend Hailey’s mission was complete: a fine meal in a beautiful setting. And truly, what backdrop could be lovelier than Clayton, set within a picture frame of mountains?
We carried our picnic lunches to a nearby pocket park anchored by a charming gazebo and shaded by old-growth trees. Sunlight filtered gently through the leaves as we settled into the grass and gathered around a decorative stone table, unwrapping our lunches and passing bites between conversations. From across the street, faint strains of live music drifted over from the main stage, lending a soundtrack to our afternoon. We took turns fending off the marauding toddler, who darted from plate to plate with unmitigated greed, reminding me of Dora the Explorer as I found myself muttering, “Swiper, no swiping,” more than once. And yet, despite our best efforts, her shirt still ended up adorned with cookie crumbles and rice.
As our meal wound down, I realized something essential was missing—something that would make the afternoon complete, at least by our friend Brooke’s standards: ice cream.
We made our way to Henri’s, a hybrid sandwich shop, bakery, wine store, and purveyor of craft sodas and beers. But for our purposes, its most compelling feature lay in the freezer: rows of Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams, both in pint and single-serving sizes—ideal for anyone craving something sweet and cold without committing to indulgence.
We filled our arms with flavors, along with a few peach White Claws and Peches sodas to round out our impromptu feast. As we did, we ran into friends—fellow parents with children in tow—and invited them to join our picnic. This, after all, is what Ramshackle is all about.
We ate, sipped, and sprawled on the grass, content and sun-drenched, while the children ran wild in their painted faces and shirts stained with ice cream. Temporary tattoos from the Family Fun Zone shimmered on their arms.
At some point, my husband wandered off, claiming he needed the restroom. When he returned, he held something behind his back—a pink, fluffy flamingo Warmie. Mingo, the “amigo,” had come home after all.
I do love a happy ending.
Around this time, the children began to fade—cheers gave way to complaints, and we knew it was time to go. As it turned out, we left just in time.
Within thirty minutes of arriving home, a sudden summer squall—more suited to a Kansas prairie than our Piedmont—swept through Northeast Georgia. Gale-force winds and driving rain knocked out power across the region, toppling trees and sending lawn furniture airborne.
Ramshackle paused, but it did not end.
Even after the storm blew through downtown Clayton, the festival pressed on. In true show business fashion, the evening’s main headliner, Town Mountain, still took the stage.
Once again, I’m happy to report—another happy ending.
