Beech Tree News Network

I remember going to the Kentucky State Fair only once as a child.  I was probably about ten years old.  My dad and stepmom took my two younger sisters, Rhonda and Lorrie, and me.  I don’t remember my older sisters or my half-brother being there, but that might have been because the three of us younger ones were assigned to stick together, and it was the one time we got along, because we were excited to be there, and because we didn’t want to put Mom or Dad in a foul mood, because if they were in a foul mood, it would mean leaving early.

                The atmosphere at the fair was intoxicating.  The sounds and smells and sights hit you immediately upon entering the grounds through those metal turn stalls, where you handed a real person your ticket.  I felt so grown up handing the ticket taker my ticket then getting my hand stamped.  I advised my younger sisters to get their left hands stamped, because we were all right-handed, and we didn’t want the stamp to wear off prematurely or we might not be able to prove that we had really paid, and they might kick us out.  I was always that kind of kid, planning for the worst-case scenario.  In some ways I still am.

                My sisters and I focused first on souvenirs, something to mark the occasion.  We knew by the time we’d ridden rides and looked at all the things that interested my parents, they would be ready to go home and wouldn’t want to take the time or spend any more money on trinkets.  We were smart little kids. 

                We bought necklaces for a dollar, the chains made from metal that would later turn our necks green—just like our stepmom said they would, but she gave us our dollars to spend on them anyway.  I always looked for my birthstone, the sapphire.  I knew it wasn’t a real stone, but it identified me as being born in September, and that was an important part of my identity.  I don’t know why, but it always has been.  I barely remember what my sisters bought, except for the rubber shrunken head on a key chain that Rhonda was fascinated with.

                After we bought our souvenirs, we rode a few rides, each got a cotton candy, then it was my parents turn.  We went to look at cows and pigs.  Stalls and stalls of them.  I sneaked a peek at a horse show when a door opened into the arena.  I wanted to go in and watch, but Mom and Dad weren’t interested.  Horses couldn’t feed your family, so they were of little worth in their view.  We just kept walking through rows and rows of farm animals.

                We walked through pavilions of blue-ribbon produce, jams and jellies, and quilts.  None of that interested me at the time, but it wasn’t my turn, it was my mom’s turn, and I understood those things were important to her.  It seems like Dad played a shooting game or two.  He was always a good shot, and he won a prize for Mom.  I think it was a doll.  Dad would buy dolls for Mom sometimes when they were out together.  I always thought that was odd until I considered the fact that, in view of Mom’s hard upbringing, she probably didn’t get many dolls as a little girl.

                We never took our daughters to the state fair, Kentucky or Alabama (Garey’s home).  We took them to the Catfish Festival and to Disney World, and on vacations to Florida, where we always let them get souvenirs.   Nikki would get things that reminded her of the ocean—shells, dolphin bracelets, whale tail necklaces.  Natalie would get things with light house themes.  I still have them.  They remind me so much of when they were kids that I can’t get rid of them.

                I wish I still had my “sapphire necklace” from the state fair.  I would hold it in my hands and remember there were some good times in my childhood.  And that would be worth more than a real sapphire in my book.