Fair Day
It’s a day with the carnies with a $100 in my pocket. The unshaven desperation of the midway hawkers, the scratched paint of the Ferris wheel, could not be more different than the scrubbed wholesomeness of the 4-H competition, where even the goats are well behaved.
Syd stands and stares transfixed as the livestock is judged.
Stay in the moment. Resist the urge to move on. Imagine this existence. The woodshavings covering the floor of the show ring still look and smell fresh. The judge is exacting and slow. What is she looking for as she wades through the wood chips in blue plastic gardening shoes, rubbing the withers of the goats, caressing their legs? Who knows? It's a language as foreign as any.
Beach chairs are set up around the ring – many of the spectators are here for the long haul. Schlepping their chairs in, setting them up to get the best view, their orange or green vests emblazoned with patches proclaiming the wonders of agriculture. “Can I borrow your milk bucket?” one of them asks another.
Quaint as Quakers they appear next to the tattooed man in the white wife beater walking by.
Four hours later the $100 is gone and what am I left with? The smell of goats and roses, the laughter of Hannah as the Ferris Wheel climbs, a small stuffed animal, the taste of funnel cake, the warm glance of amused brown eyes, and a four-shot carnival photo. It is enough. In fact, it’s everything I need.
Right?
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