State Fair

Yesterday, we took our annual trip to the Illinois State Fair. I wouldn’t say it’s a high point of the summer, but it’s at least noteworthy. Something the kids definitely look forward to.

State Fairs strike me as a principally midwestern phenomenon (apologies to North Carolina, which is also quite pround of its Fair). Growing up in Pennsylvania, the closest approximation seemed to be the Farm Show, held every January. The Farm Show was a lot of things, most of them genuinely enjoyable, but it wasn’t a Fair. There was also the Bloomsburg Fair every autumn. I went to college not too far from Bloomsburg, and we made the pilgrimage a couple times. But even Bloomsburg wasn’t a STATE Fair.

The idea of a State Fair seems directly proportional to a state’s agriculture industry. Iowa’s is probably the most well known, as it makes the national news every four years when would-be Presidential candidates descend to show everyone how “real” and “normal” they are as they make big displays of their willingness to eat deep fried pickles and various types of meat-on-a-stick.

The other thing about State Fairs — or Illinois’ version of one, anyway — is how frozen in time they feel. Everything feels straight out of the 1950s, or even 30s. Traveling carnival rides, rigged games, farm animals on display, and a cornucopia of different foodstuffs all but guaranteed to give indigestion.

Also, the color. Nowhere is the color more vibrantly on display than in the carnival midway area, where my kids’ growth can be measured not only by the “You must be this high to ride” signs, but by the rides they are now either brave enough to try, or disdain as “for babies.”

 

 

Unknown-1This year’s highlights included the Crazy Mouse, a sort of spinning roller coaster light years more daring than any ride they’ve attempted before, as well as annual highlights like the Farmer’s Little Helpers display, and the butter cow, which made headlines this year for the misspelling of the word “Bicentennial” that no one noticed until its unveiling on the Fair’s first day.

Perfectly imperfect. Just like the Fair itself.

On Charlottesville

A year ago tonight, Heather Heyer was alive. White nationalists with torches marched on Charlottesville, chanting “Blood and soil!” They numbered in the hundreds, and menacingly surrounded a small number of University of Virginia students who had themselves encircled the statue of Thomas Jefferson in front of the famed Rotunda.

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Perhaps 100 feet east of that statue, a bench sits under an old magnolia tree. It was not quite ten years ago that my wife and I sat on that bench, weighing the pros and cons of uprooting our lives and moving from greater Boston (Somerville) to Charlottesville, or C’ville, as we came to call it.

The pros won out that afternoon. In a matter of weeks, we (she) would receive and accept a job offer. Also within weeks, we (again, she) would become pregnant with our first child. Our first two children, as luck would have it.

Over the ensuing five and a half years, C’ville was home. The pros did not win as often as we had hoped. The job she accepted turned out not to be what was promised. My eventual employment at the University was fulfilling but ultimately short-lived. We made many acquaintances, but few genuine friends.

But our children were born there. Our older son lived his entire life there, 31 days in the University hospital. The outpouring of concern and affection in the wake of his death will always be with me. The people of Charlottesville are, with very few exceptions, good people.

I often wonder what I would have done, had we lived there a year ago. I remember the rage I felt a year ago, seeing that torch-wielding mob surrounding those students. I imagine I would have felt it even more intensely had C’ville still been our home. Still been my children’s home. I feel, in my heart, I would have been on the downtown mall that Saturday, after seeing those images. I know I would have been counseled by my parents to avoid it. Perhaps even by my wife. Or perhaps I would have gone in her stead. I don’t know. But I feel I would have gone.

Maybe I would have been blocks away from where Heather Heyer stood. Maybe I would have been right next to her. It’s all conjecture, all unknowable.

There were many reasons my wife and I moved to Charlottesville. Over time, few of those reasons panned out. But for five years, it was home. It’s where I became a father. It’s a beautiful city, and will always be an important part of my life. I hope everyone there has a peaceful weekend.