Fair Enough

Spent the late morning/early afternoon in the nearby village of Lucketts at the first in a series of local fairs that continue throughout the early fall. Lucketts is only 10 miles away from the farm, but it took me about an hour to get there. Thought I was being impossibly clever in taking the back roads, only to find them swarming with annoying cyclists. One poor guy was apparently hit by a car (not mine, thank God!) so traffic was stopped for half an hour while they put him in an ambulance. Must say I’m glad I finally made it since the Lucketts Fair is one of my favorite events of this kind, the main attraction being a lineup of first-rate bluegrass bands. The arts and crafts vendors pretty much suck, which is okay with me since I’m not really into that foolishness. For me it’s about the music and, of course, the food. One of the local service clubs dishes up some decent barbecue, sweet potato fries and fresh limeade (unbelievably refreshing on an August afternoon).

Christian was MIA (in the studio with the band), but my sister and her family (two little girls and husband Ron who is this thoroughly modern, bjorn-wearing, meal-preparing hipster superdad)came out from DC. My mother and stepfather also showed up so there were some extra hands to help me wrangle Henry. I hesitate to take the kids to something like this on my own because Henry’s a total bolter, and I’m always afraid he’s going to escape and get up to no good whenever I need a break to nurse the baby.
Anyway, we had, overall, a fine afternoon. Heard some good music. The preschoolers rode ponies. Henry pooped his pants (good lord!). My niece was terrified of a clown on stilts. We ate ice cream. Finally, I felt like I was going to wilt, and it was time to go home.

While hanging around at the bluegrass pavilion, I ran into BP, my old boss at one of the local papers around here, where I interned in high school and had my first real job after college. He sold the newspaper a few years ago and retired to South Carolina so I’ve only seen him a handful of times since I moved back to Virginia. He was kind of blown away to see me with a baby hanging off my neck, messing with a stroller. (Let’s just say that my lifestyle/attitude as a young reporter were in sharp contrast to the picture of domestic tranquility my world has become.) Anyway, BP’s an interesting guy--kind of a cowboy intellectual and the subject of one of my all-time most memorable dreams (a dozen years ago), in which he was the chef in a sushi restaurant and I was the only waitress. In the dream, he was wearing a bandana (samurai style), swearing and madly chopping sushi, which I was struggling to deliver to the clamoring throngs. Guess that’s pretty much how it felt in the newsroom most of the time. I learned a lot from old BP though. He says he’s had enough of writing and spends as little time as possible at the keyboard these days. Well, I’ve had enough writing, too. At least for this evening.