County Fair!

We went to the county fair yesterday. Last day of the fair, unlike last year it did not rain. No wait, that was two years ago. Running from cattle barn to horse barn when the rain lightened trying to Create Memories amid sodden heaps of sawdust. But we do create them every year, even if those memories blur into one amalgum of experience when they are adults.

The Muralist's highlight this year seems to have been beading her own necklace. Usually in the arts and crafts building the fair have some kind of activity for the children, last year it was coloring paperbag puppets. This time they had a craft free for all outside under the trees which was really nice because the buildings can get stifling in August. They had a platfrom set up near the police child ID stand. (We got these last year too. I know I am biased: I think my kids take pretty cute pictures. These, however, looked like they ought to be holding up numbers and exposing identifying marks and tatoos.) While we were waiting for the ID kits to be finished the kids and I sidled over to the craft table and started projects. The Verbalist abandoned his to play with some other kids near by (whose parents were also waiting on ID kits I'd bet). The Muralist found a raison d'etre: the beading table. Beads with letters on them, hearts, stars, butterflies, pink, purple, gold, green, shiney - they all went on.

The Verbalist wove. In the weaving and spinning portion of the crafts building there was a woman weaving and allowed the kids to try out her loom. The Muralist's interest held long enough for a photo op but the Verbalist had a new horizon of questions and technology opened to him. Plus since he did it first he could "instruct" his sister.

We went here, we went there we wandered into the fine arts building. They paused and examined the entries with a gravity befitting curators examining Old Masters. Thier pronouncements were made in loud penetrating voices. "That one looks like somone made a mess!" intoned the Muralist, whose own booger and glitter creations makes her an authority on messy canvasses. The art judge sitting in on a chair in the corner sniffed condescendingly and the few other gazers tittered appreciatively. Art at the county fair, maybe someone should have told her hoi polloi might casually give opinions there.

At last, hot and exhausted we walked back to the boy scout's impromptu parking area. Rolling down the windows to flush out the stale air, we rolled past the entrance on our way home. A heady scents of cows, burning sugar and barbeque wafted through the air and the clackety of the arcade competed with the sea chanties sung on center stage. Turning my face away from the fair I glimpsed the shaded road ahead and hoped that the wind would be off the sea when we got home.