Main Street Festival

Sunshine, live music spilling out onto the streets, and the smell of grilled meat and fried dough weaving through a crowd that felt like a small town on its best behavior. The Franklin Main Street Festival is what happens when Americana gets a little buzzed—families, bikers, tourists, and folks in Carhartt all rubbing shoulders, bound by brat grease and nostalgia.

I grabbed a bratwurst, split open on the grill just enough to get that perfect snap, tucked into a bun and slathered with mustard. A pretzel followed—salt-crusted, doughy in the middle, and pulled apart while wandering between stalls of handmade soaps and someone selling birdhouses shaped like whiskey barrels. A cold grapefruit radler in hand, bright and citrusy, perfect for sipping while trying not to spill mustard on a band t-shirt. Then a Zwickel lager, unfiltered and smooth—one of those beers that disappears before you realize how much you liked it.

When the crowd thinned and the music faded into background noise, we slipped into the Irish pub down the street for a couple of Guinness pints. Cool, creamy, familiar. The kind of finish that makes a day like that feel complete—just enough bite to the air outside, just enough foam left on the glass to make you linger a little longer.