Jeez, I’m getting old.
Ignore the creaking of my rocking chair as I say, back in my day, the Fair was the highlight of the summer. Rides. Prizes. Animals. Foods one never saw the rest of the year. And it was always hotter than hell, but that made it a day a person never forgot.
Remember the time Grandma sat right down on the grass next to the Tilt-a-whirl?
(She survived.)
Remember the time the cotton candy melted in Daddy’s hand while we were on the ferris wheel?
(Liar, liar.)
Packed dirt walkways between corrals and beat up old buildings filled with bunches of stuff grown, sewn, and built while rattling swamp coolers kept the place humid.
Barns stuffed with all manner of livestock come to town.
Once I saw one of the five largest dairy bulls in the country at a county fair. The top of his tail was a clear foot above my head and his manly bullish parts were the size of a ten pound roast. And that was a lot of bull.
(Honest.)
When they paved the walkways, I figured it was the beginning of the end.
Used to be, (creak, creak) we showed we could feed and clothe ourselves. We had skills to make things and were proud of our craft. Now, there’s a few displays in one row while a couple of old souls, nostalgia gripping their hearts, wander past for a look.
The 4H kids barely keep one barn dusty with a small herd of miscellaneous critters.
This year, the fair is mostly concerts with stages, lights and seating taking up all the room that used to be filled displays and stuff you never knew you needed to buy until you wandered into the shade to prevent heat stroke.
I guess it was always so. Comfort comes from memories and routine. Nostalgia doesn’t have to be bitter if we don’t allow it to prevent the joy of new stuff.
I sat in the shade of a tractor and ate fry bread. So all was not lost.
Then I went home to dust off my rocking chair.