I promised myself one country fair every year. We have our own big exhibition in the city, but that isn't the kind of fair I mean. I like to visit one of those real country type of affairs that are so rich with sights and sounds and smells that city folks rarely enjoy. I like to visit the livestock barns and watch old men and young girls as they come and bathe the fat Herefords. I like to stand and listen to the auctioneers chant as they try for the best price on a good bull. I love to visit the tent where the ladies have preserves and cakes and quilts on display. I enjoy engaging in some speculation on which chocolate cake will take the red ribbon and which jar of calves foot jelly will win top prize. I love to wander along the small midway and watch the young men squeeze their giggling, pigtailed companions as they hang on for dear life and ride The Big Dipper. I like to watch the faces of the good farm folks as they listen to the barker in front of the tent, not believing a word he says, but listening intently anyhow. I like the smell of hotdogs and hamburgers and sawdust and the sight of pink floss candy. I like the dust and dirt and sound and confusion that for three days every year takes over the rural fairground. You can have all your world's fairs and international expositions. I'm just a country boy at heart so just give me the 1964 Grovers Corner Annual Livestock Show and Fair.
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