Over my home-cooked suppers in the evenings at our house, my family has been after me for years to enter “food, or something, or anything” in our county fair. My mother gave me the final impetus when she asserted once and for all, “You will enter your bread, at least.” So, I drug my feet to the fair Sunday to enter a toasty brown loaf of stoneground, whole wheat bread. The aroma of fresh-baked bread kept my place in line almost as well as those two feet beneath me.
But then, I couldn’t help but smile. Above me hung a magnificent quilt reminiscent of a complicated tree-of-life, already marked with the grand prize ribbon and best of show, while from behind, hung a brilliant original piece that seemed to teach the solar system in primary colors. Indeed, quilts hung as far as my eye could see and every one represented a person who labored bent over their work for hours, and now doubtless was soon to tell their grandchildren about “the quilt that won at the fair back in ‘11.” Somewhere in the distance a little train raced around an elaborately decked out track, prepping for the real show to come.
Around me in line stood the shuffling feet of the eager hands holding boxes of dried fruits, brightly-hued jellies, carefully canned uniform peaches, and a cake that looked like a paper machѐ Indian mound, topped with a sparkling lightning bolt. As I glanced over my shoulder to the long line winding out the door, I couldn’t help but notice the anticipation. It’s time for the county fair.
A rotund man with all the freckles left from childhood, contemplated his cookie entry beside me. Any number of things could have been in his mind. “This line is much too long, should I just judge these myself?” or “Perhaps, I should have left out the minced ginger this time.” or “My great aunt used to put the same fork marks on those cookies she made. That’s what makes them win, every time.” I beamed and nodded a greeting when he glanced up at my watching eyes.
But my thoughts kept darting back to the woman in front of me. Her tag was sticking up in back out of her color-blocked summer dress and it was all I could do to keep from tucking it back in along her neck. I kept reminding myself, “Girl, this is Washington State, you’re not living in the South anymore…its not Texas…its not Texas...” That kept my fingers from generously helping a neighbor in need, at the risk of causing awkward embarrassment. After all, she might have dropped that dangerous cake.
“How’s this one, Jemima?” prompted a bearded, white-haired man in spectacles and overalls, jerking his head towards his completed setup. “You did it perfectly, again, Charles.” came from a little woman with a toothy old smile as she smoothed the display cloths down. Then a very pink-shirted, bold-looking woman grinned at me as she collected an armload of newly turned-in baked goods, I assume to carry them to the mysterious place where they get judged. I think I might have winked at her.
“So, I met him last year. He’s in the Navy, and my only requirement is that he puh-lease just be my friend and love me...” That seemed sensible enough to me. A pile of yellowed tags counted from the quick fingers of the girl behind the table, while her other hand of fuchsia nails adjusted her nose ring. I couldn’t help but notice how pretty she was, but I did wonder what compelled her to volunteer at the fair. And the tow-headed young man behind the register who blushed at me when I assured I was paying as an adult, what brought him to our county fair?
The longer I stood there, the more familiar faces began to appear: in both ways. An older gentleman the 4H kids call “grandpa,” because he might be somebody’s grandpa, came over to smell my bread and regale me with his bread stories. He concluded by patting his ample belly with both hands and a hearty, “So, there’s been a lot of bread for me!” I couldn’t help but hand him the extra loaf I had brought along. He gratefully promised to “let” my sister win at bingo someday soon at the dog barn. I think I might have wrinkled my nose at him.
My sister nudged me out of my reveries nonchalantly pointing out, “Its hard to believe that’s the exact spot my dog peed last week, where you’re standing.” Though I couldn’t help glancing down at my feet despite myself, it was indeed hard to believe the transformation of the echo-ey warehouse into this tantalizing maze of treats, art, displays, homespun, and people. Suddenly, I just knew why the volunteers were there and the line was out the door. The fair starts this week and I realized right there that I just couldn’t miss it for anything either.
Great Post! Makes me wish I was standing in line with some homemade something or other to enter.
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