Grace for a Girl: Good ol' County Fair

Celebrations mark the opening of Fair. A parade marches past. Flying candy, children running almost to the middle of the streets, Miss So-and-so and Miss Queen-of-something and Miss County giving their unrealistically refined waves and trying not to overheat their gowns, fire trucks annoying and startling more than they please, bands playing snatches of tunes that nobody has the time to recognize...And then at night, the fireworks! Magical light in enchanting colors and patterns dazzle the sky and reflect excitement in wide-open eyes. (If there were like Gandalf's, though!)

"The finest rockets ever seen, They burst in stars of blue and green, Or after thunder, Golden showers, Came falling like a rain of flowers." -J. R. R. Tolkien

Mom caught these!

You ought to be gasping with me. They were so exciting! I hadn't seen fireworks forever!!!

Is this not beautiful?!

The cheese curds were gargantuan. They were not bites, they were hand fulls. You spend the first minute gazing at them and trying to pick one to eat. You can't decide whether to save the big greasy one for last, or not. So you grab one and take a nibble; a grin lights up your eyes and displays stringy cheese to a crowd of persons who don't know you, but having mozzarella draped over your chin doesn't bother you today. Your eyes bug out when you remember that you have numerable nibbles left.

In the 4-H building, scents and colors dance wildly for your attention. Homemade clothing swells proudly on it's display. Pictures of events judged earlier stand boasting in their awarded ribbons. Creativity made manifest in numerous venues; scrapbooks pull colors together in charming collages, bilboards broadcast "quickfacts" and "My Story" in alternating bursts of before-and-after pictures and short sentences or paragraphs. Ropes sag around display tables, upheld by soldier-stiff metal rods.

Outside, sterotypical heat necessitates costly water balloon fights and dunk tanks. The ferris wheel turns in it's traditional circles, lifting fairgoers to glorious hights before sinking them into noisy reality again. The subdued roar of the rides accomanies the chattering roar of the people. Every so often, someone jumps up and waves his arms, having noticed a friend he must talk to. People amble past, ignoring and ignored - all minds are on rides, food and fun. The midway streams with scantily dressed girls clinging on their shaggy haired boyfriends and mothers who've eaten to many snacks pushing strollers and searching for another dollar, rescuing an almost-dropped chili-cheese-dog, and calling after the one who graduated from stroller-hood and thinks she can go anywhere.

It is the first time I have paid attention to the stables since last years fair. The first thing to catch my attention is a flashy new sign reading "Horse Barn." Two horses, from the whithers up, are outlined. I grimace: they are not well drawn horses. The lines are smooth, but they are horrible proportionately. Almost like caricatures of horses, but bad even for that. I know my artistic and horse-loving sister will have a fit when she sees them.

Inside, things are not so dis-familiar. Stall doors all hang at the same nearly straight angle, tattooed with staples that, 363 days ago, held ribbons, posters, signs, and pictures. At one end of the barn I remember the manure pile used to be. Likely to be there this year too, I reflect, since the other end of the barn is towards the fair and people will want to keep up appearences. But right now a pretentious and self-righteously clean folding table stands, holding an assignment list of the stalls and turning up it's corners at the rustic structure behind it.

By Thursday, there is no more table. Mocking manure is chunked and heaped where the table stood. Horses fill the stalls - making friends, declaring enemies, or generally ignoring the hubbub. Older horses stand relaxed with their heads in the quietest corner of the stall. They've aquainted themselves with the hay pile and the water bucket and they know they should rest while they can. Middle aged horses turn about their stall, still hopefull that they can make it comfortable. They are mostly to proud to acknowledge bystanders. The youngest fillies and colts are too busy discovering if they love or hate their neighbor to eat immediately. One filly takes an instant dislike to the mule behind her and expresses her feelings by applying her teeth to his rump. Minature horses - always two to a stall - ignore the world and eat in silent companionship.

Well dressed chidlren clinging to slender mothers shriek with excitement or gape in awe as real-live COWGIRLS(!) walk casually past carrying grain, pitchforks, and brushes with careless ease and nachalance. The youngest ones stare as farm boys in dirty shirts - sleeves long since torn off - enter stalls and talk softly to equine friends. Anxious mothers chide their children that saddles should already be on the horses which are still only being bathed. At the riding ring, the only relaxed ones are those unrelated watchers sitting on the single bleachers. An announcer commands the attention of those on the horses, announcing the games, calling out the names and numbers of the next riders. Riders command the attention of the parents, who run around holding reins of their childrens horses, cheering when their children ride, comforting when the children lose. Riding instructers pay attention to everyone, announcers, riders and young children running annoyingly and dangerously close to the horses.