That’s right folks; it’s fair season. Students are returning to classrooms, and summer is heading out with a bang. Literally, when you add fireworks.
From now through Halloween, nearly every weekend has some fair or festival, somewhere in the state. One of these years, I’ll get to see the giant pumpkin boat races. But my favorite is the Blue Hill Fair. (Not to worry: the Bangor Folk Festival is a close second.)
I’ve been threatening to bring my friend K for the last couple years and in this instance, third time really was the charm. She visited from New York and I got to steal her for a couple days before handing her over to family. It was, of course, fantastic. Both the hanging out with her and the seeing the fair together.
Someone asked me last year why I love this particular fair so much, and the only thing I could think of was the fact that by the time you leave, you’re covered with a layer or five of dirt and dust. She looked at me like she wanted to call the mental hospital.
The dirt is the proof that it happened. With so much of life clean and sterile and ordered, it’s easy to get lost in what is and is not real (or maybe that’s just part of being a writer). The dirt makes it visceral to me in a way few things are, now that I’m (pretending to be) an adult. It was real. It happened.
When my dad had his log home exhibit at the fair in Blue Hill (and we didn’t have school), we were there every day from open to close. I have so many fantastic memories. Dad liked to call me a “carny bum” then — a term which never failed to instigate the urge to run off and join a circus.
I never did, though. Pity.
*The photo quality is poor because I’m conserving media space. Deal with it.