Fair Time

September is fair time.  The animals have been bathed, brushed and groomed to the nines. They are the pride and joy of the owners who are hoping for a ribbon as a reward for the year of tender loving care they have lavished on their stock. Some of these animals will return home riding in their trailers behind pickup trucks--back to the familiarity of their barns and pens. Others that have been sold move on to unknown adventures which we will not discuss here due to the unhappy fate that awaits some.


Fairs are a tradition that go back centuries. They provide an opportunity to sell, buy, and show off everything from bottled fruit, to your great grandmother's quilt. When I was a child the fair was a magical place full of sound, color and flamboyant people. The carnival workers always seemed a little sinister to me.  Perhaps it was their loud calls encouraging you to try your luck at the penny toss, or the ball toss; their insistence --the in your face approach made it difficult to walk away. It could also have been the fact that my parents told me they were gypsies and gypsies steal children. More than likely it was my mother who threw in the part about taking children.


The prizes are more sophisticated at today's fair:  no more cu pie dolls with pink feathers and bright red lips or wooden batons painted red and blue with gold glitter on the ends. They disappeared along with the pony rides. Through much begging and coaxing  I managed to convince my dad, not my mom, that I desperately needed a cu pie doll. I'm sure the vendor calling out to my dad helped. "Come on buy it for the little girl make her happy."  She was so exotic swinging on the end of a stick to which she was attached with small elastic bands. The one and only pony ride satisfied my fantasy of being Annie Oakley.  It all became clear years later as I walked the same fair grounds with my own children that going to a state fair is no cheap adventure. Thanks Dad I value the memory.



A few new additions have been added to the deep fried menu:  oreoes, twinkies, kangaroo and alligator are now part of the fair food experience. Corn dogs, hamburgers, carmel apples, and cotton candy, or as my Australian daughter- in- law calls it fairy floss, have not been tampered with. Many people see the fair as a feeding frenzy. They eat and eat and eat some more. They leave with cholesterol surging through their arteries for days. My weakness is the carmel apple. I would never think of passing the vendor stand without making a purchase.  Never mind the fact that I pay $4.25 for a 50 cent apple and 50 cents worth of carmel. I am being fleeced and I know it. 


I go to the fair for two reasons:  the heavenly sugared apple and the Indian relay races.  The excitement begins to move through the crowd as the horses and teams approach the grandstands. The horses jump and dance nervously in anticipate of their run around the track. No saddles are used in the event which makes it even  more fun to watch. The team of riders and handlers are extremely skilled horsemen. They have trained and honed their skills through hours of hard work. This is an event where spectators become participants. You feel as well as watch.  Everyone senses the power and strength in the horses and  the ability and training it takes to handle them.  It is impossible to sit passively and watch.You are aware of the pride of each rider and the intensity with which he approaches his sport. The crowd rises as one and shouts and cheers for each rider. There is no picking a favorite. Everyone yells and hollers as the riders pull up to change horses. Maybe part of the draw for this event stems from growing up on cowboy and Indian movies. Perhaps, I am the only one in this category since I always wanted to be the Indian.  Once you have seen an Indian relay you will return because you have tasted the adventure and are now hooked. The cholesterol along with the sugar is now mixed with adrenalin. You will return.




We all go to the fair for one reason--to be entertained and how we choose to find the entertainment doesn't matter just as long as we find it and go home satisfied.

There is such a small window of summer in south eastern Idaho. August rolls around much too fast--I'm not ready for it. It sneaks in with light winds that  rustle the leaves and it pushes the sun lower in the sky. August wind sounds different and the sun shines a little less direct on your face. I remember a time when I welcomed this month and the month that followed behind it.  That was a time of childhood excitement driven by the starting of a new school year. Fall meant new clothes, a box of bright sharp crayons, new and old friends coming together and the hope of getting the teacher you wanted.

I am reluctant to give up the bold splashes of summer color to the oranges and yellows of fall. The pots I have tended and nurtured are full and brilliant and the flower beds are filled in with ever blooming perennials. The birds have scattered random sunflower seeds from the feeder that have added an unexpected bonus.

Life is a series of changes which adds to its richness. Nothing should stay the same: not the flowers, the color of the sky, smells in the seasonal air or the sun on our face. Change is good; without it we would forget to be grateful.

I Raised My Children Without Helmets

I raised  my children without helmets, which I now understand is not acceptable. According to today's standards of parenting I fall short. I did it with very little equipment and without government safety standards. There was no Barnes and Noble with shelves full of early childhood development books and psychologist had not yet termed the catch phrase 'Good Job.'

I did know that you needed a crib, stroller and high chair. If we'd had more money I might have added a playpen to the list. We were living on. a tight budget while Nolan finished his last two years of college. We were both working and paying for school without taking out loans.  It never occurred to us that we couldn't afford a baby. I don't know if that was due to stupidity or lack the of seeing reality..

When our first born arrived we brought him home to a one bed room basement apartment and a crib purchased at a garage sale. He didn't know the difference and was put to bed on his stomach each nigh because that was how babies slept best and woke happy in the morning. His playpen was a plastic clothes basket.  He had no idea what a real play pen was so he was content to sit in the basket while I folded laundry or washed the dishes.

As he was almost ready to go out of diapers another boy arrived to take over the used crib.  Both babies had to survive cloth diapers and bouts of diaper rash, which babies today have never experienced. Vaseline and corn starch were the remedies for sore little bottoms. Pampers was a new frontier just being explored and development. When the last two babies arrived we were rich and Nolan had a real job.  Cloth diapers were on their way out by then. I would have crawled across a desert without water to buy disposable diapers to avoid never have to smell another diaper pail. The last two also had a new crib, but sadly no playpen--not that rich.

Looking back I felt my kids were safe and I was doing a pretty good job of giving them rich experiences. The two oldest spent hours in the field behind our house exploring, utilizing their army gear they bought at the Army Surplus store and cooking hot dogs on a shortening can with sterno. Never once did they star a fire in the dry weeds.

All four were tough and had to walk to school through deep snow during the Idaho winters. They crossed a street without a crossing guard and cut through the junior high school grounds to get to the grade school. They had good warm coats, moon boots to keep their feet dry and hand knit hats to fight against frost bite. They had to complete homework assignments and hand them in. I naively assumed teachers had the welfare of their students as their top priority. It never once entered my mind that a missed assignment or bad test score was the fault of the teacher. I in my ignorance, put the blame on the child and there was a heart to heart talk where their Dad and I both came together as enforcers. Undoubtedly their spirits were broken and deep wounds probably remain today.

When it came time to learn to ride a two wheeler there was little concern about safety and injures.  It was assumed that knees would be blooded and the body bruised.  It was just part of life and being a kid. Running behind the bike and holding on to the seat became wearisome after several trips up and down the sidewalk. It was just best to let them go and figure it out on their own.  One was very ingenious and rode his bike down a construction pit and stopped when he hit the concrete chunks at the bottom. He could ride by the end of the day. No one had yet thought of a bike helmet.  Soldiers wore helmets when going into battle where they encountered dangerous situations.  Bicycling at that point was still considered to be a safe. activity

Some many things we did as parents were wrong.  We allowed the kids to ride in the back of a subaru station wagon with blankets and pillows on long trips and gave them even more room to roam when we bought a volkswagon van. They were happy and we were happy. Ignorance is bliss.

Seeds of Spring

I remember my mother's sweet peas.  She planted them each spring on the fence facing the driveway.  She soaked the seeds in a bowl of water which she left on the kitchen counter over night.  The seeds were hard and had to be soften in order to sprout.  By mid July the fence was a riot of color and covered with sweet pea vines.  Their fragrance hung heavy in the air. The more you picked the blooms the more the plants produced.   Mom had an old pair of scissors she used as flower shears.  It was my job or rather my pleasure to clip the sweet peas.  The stems had to be clipped to the very bottom to encourage longer stem growth.  There was always a bouquet on the end table or kitchen table filling the house with a heady perfume.


 Never have I been able to duplicate the sweet peas my mother grew.  Perhaps I don't have that magic touch just meant for sweet peas.  But when spring comes the flower fever always grabs me and makes me think I can perform miracles in the yard.  Pots I swear I will never fill again are drug out and bags of dirt purchased to refresh last years over worked dirt.  I buy annuals to fill in the empty spots between the perennials.  This year, In a moment of weakness, I planted seeds.  I know our growing season is short and the seeds with struggle to  reach maturity.  In spite of all my negativity, I have been rewarded with small green sprouts pushing up through the dirt.



The pots are hosting a variety of flowers and eating up the sunshine and copious amounts of fertilizer.  There are no sweet peas, but hopefully I will have asters, zinnias, marigolds, black eyed Susan's and other surprises in the mixture to pick for my table.  Whatever I reap is a gift and meant to be enjoyed.  Big harvest or small I'll be ready to do it all over again next spring.


   

How Many Steps Forward

I grew up in the 1950's and 60's.  People from that era are now called baby boomers.  My grandchildren see that period as the olden days: the days of station wagons with rear facing seats, transistor radios and dial telephones all of which pale against today's technology.

My transistor radio was my most prized possession. What a marvelous, magical device it was. You could take it anywhere tucked in a pocket or purse. The nine volt battery provided hours of entertainment. The reception was best at night because the AM signal was stronger. Numerous stations could be picked up from cities strung across the country.  KOMA was the favorite rock station. The radios came with a small pair of earphones another WOW invention. Long after I should have been asleep I burrowed under a layer of blankets and listened in secretive darkness undetected. Kids in thousands of homes were doing the same thing. KOMA rocked long after lights out. the next day school my friends and I talked about the songs we listened to and what were our favorites. We were innocent junior high kids just beginning to find our way around the various bumps in the road.

I found a snug, comforting sense of security deep within the blankets. I was untouchable and far removed from the bits of news that also accompanied the music. The technology of today makes the transistor radio a silly unsophisticated dinosaur. The inventions in commutation we take for granted in this century were things of science fiction when I was a child. Even with all the advances that have transpired over my life time there is still one thing that has not changed. We have not learned how to get along and live together.

I lived through the cold war era with Russia as the arch enemy. We practiced diving under our school desks in preparation for a nuclear attack. The Korean war had escalated in the 50's resulting in the creation of two countries which provided no long term solution. Vietnam finally exploded in the 60's and continued on into the 70's. I watched former high classmates enter the military as their draft numbers were called up and hoped that my husband of three years would not be one of them. From there we moved to Afghanistan and on and on.

The twenty first century has not brought us any closer to resolving conflicts nor being able to avoid them. History continues on down a repetitive road. There are no covers to crawl under, no magic in the earphones and no snug place to hide in the dark untouched.

My A-ha Moment

Sometimes you have an a-ha moment that strikes you so clear and  sharp.  Mine came while reading a book by Nichole Robertson called Paris in Color. I suddenly knew what I was missing during the long grey months of an Idaho winter--COLOR.  Her book is a picture book of Paris with brilliant photos of all the colors of Paris streets.  She chose the common rather than the unusual for her subjects,  perhaps to make us stop and look with new awareness. Paris is a city built around color and shape with a background of white--white buildings enhanced with black iron trim framing windows and balconies.  Street cafes with bright chairs and white table clothes call your name and stripped awnings above windows add a sophisticated air to what might otherwise be something ordinary.  Flower boxes overflow with brilliant blooms in stark colors.  I love color.  It makes me feel awake and eager to be a participant rather than a watcher. Winter brings earth tones and flat light that removes color. It is tiring and wearing.  I wish winter was red with yellow hues and soft gentle breezes.  Instead it roars and bangs its head incessantly.  I sometimes think winter laughs at us when we carry flowers from the super market to our cars. Paris in Color illustrates how much color adds to the quality of life.  It makes it richer, fuller and more intense.  The soul likes to bathe in hues and shades of varying colors.  Paris has its dark period of winter when its color is not as intense, but the awnings, red doors,  signage and the yellow tarts will still be there winking at winter as he roars through the streets.


                                                             

all photos by Nichole Robertson from her book  Paris in Color

Suitcase Nomads

We have been suitcase nomads for five weeks and have one week left to complete before we head home.  There are lessons to be learned from living in houses that are not your own.  You have no personal possessions except what fits in a suitcase and those things are clothes and hygiene products.
Clothes are mixed and matched to stretch the options without taking half your closet.  When the processes begins, usually the clothes are okay and work well.  After a few weeks they become less appealing and a love hate situation begins to build.  The jacket worn daily for days in the Idaho weather starts to feel not so friendly and cozy; the color, fit, style are now unappealing and you curse the cold that forces the necessity of having it accompany you everywhere you go.

We have been in two very different climates.  California was warm and sunny. Coats and heavy sweaters were not part of the wardrobe.  Two weeks and you feel like a native and pretend that it will last forever and you can stay in paradise, but suddenly reality slaps you hard.  The short airplane ride back to Idaho is part of a cruel trick.  In an hour and half how can you go from warmth to--dumping things out of the carry on in the airport to find a jacket so you can go outside and wait for a taxi.  Shocking!

You also find out that other people have nicer things than you do!

Bree and Georgia both have high end knife sets.  These knives actually cut with no effort.   The small knife slices a tomato without squashing it to a mess of seeds and pulp.  I don't have nice knives.  Mine are not meant for fine slicing and dicing.  They are made for hacking.  I have met the green eyed monster--jealousy!  I want their knives.  Nolan says I'm fine with what I have and a good set could be dangerous.  Having watched me sling knives for over forty years he says he would be nervous if I had a really sharp one.  He may be right, but that doesn't stop me from coveting them.

Moving from place to place makes you resourceful and tidy.  The house is not yours, but you are its care taker.  It must be the same when you leave as when you came.  House plants depend on you for survival.  Its a fine line deciding how much water they need and how often.  Their people would not look on you kindly if they came home to dead plants.  Most likely, you would not be invited back.  When I left Bree's her plant seemed healthy and happy.  Georgia's seem okay, although one has struggled a bit, but it appears to be doing much better--needed more water. 

This has been fun and interesting, but I think we are ready to go home to our bed, dishes, plants(which have been left untended because they are succulents), different clothes and familiar knives.  Would we do it again?  Sure we are up for almost anything out of the norm--we've had a good time. We've had two glorious weeks on our own in La Jolla and reconnected with friends and family in Boise.  Now it is time to go home and check on our Idaho friends and family.  We can't leave them on their own for too long.