It’s county fair time, and I can almost taste the funnel cakes.
The daughter is getting all of her projects ready, dusting off her ‘show clothes’ and polishing the silver on her saddle. Grandma is rifling through her recipes, trying to decide which version of her famous peach pie to bring. And we are all laying in our supplies of bug spray, sunscreen and bottled water.
We are fool enough to camp at the fair, meaning that for days on end we will consider a corndog and a snocone a well-rounded-meal. We will be sticky and sweaty and will forgo wearing make-up for almost a week. We will bathe in the nearest water hose and spend endless hours watching important-looking men with clipboards strut about in the middle of showrings, passing judgement on every form of livestock known to man. The teenagers will flirt and giggle and wiggle, and the young’uns eyes will glow as they take in the rodeo/demo derby/country music show. We will fall asleep at night to the sound of the carnival rides, and we will wake in the morning to the sound of feed pans rattling and cattle mooing.
At the end of the week, we will head for home, sunburned and exhausted, (hopefully) clutching at least one blue ribbon for our troubles. Grandma will gripe and complain about the pie that beat hers, and the daughter will no doubt be in deep, meaningful, heartfelt love with some lanky, hairy-legged creature that I can barely stand…
I can almost taste the funnel cakes. *smiles*