The sun
shot into my eyes as we turned the corner onto one of the main dirt causeways
that led to the animals. Smells of fried food and swirling cotton candy rang in
my head while I grabbed tighter to my cousin’s hand. So many memories flood
back of the Midwest, spending summer after summer waiting for the fair to come
around and spending the last part of the year missing it, plotting our plan of
attack for the next year.
We stopped
to grab some fried pickles and fried Oreos before stopping through the
exhibits. The people move in herds without knowing it, I was almost certain
none of the people that walked close together actually knew each other but they
followed each other aimlessly none-the-less. A group of kids in their cowboy
hats and boots streaked past where we were sitting and almost knocked my
freshly squeezed lemonade out of my hand.
“Sorry
Ma’am.” The kid lurched to a halt right away to make sure that I was all right,
after seeing I was able to get a handle on the dire situation he smiled back at
me and took off again. Midwest
hospitality is engrained in their physical makeup from infancy.
The Kansas
State Fair is a massive event that brings people from everywhere in Kansas to
show off their skills and exhibits. There are animals shows, art exhibits of
all kinds, agriculture exhibits that show off the best grown produce in the
state as well as the largest, there are baked goods exhibits and science
exhibits, clothes and pottery, chili eating contests and rodeos. Pig races
during the day and concerts in the evening. There are the typical fair rides
that run all day and night, each one costs a few tickets but if you get the
wristband you have unlimited rides. Kids run wild away from their parents,
playing games and winning stuffed animals. Food is around every corner; you
most certainly won’t go hungry trying to find something to eat.
“What
first?” is the big question. My cousin, India, who I hadn’t seen in years,
hugged me as we walked towards the arts and crafts building. India and I grew
up together, our mom’s were first cousins and best friends growing up in the
same small town with the rest of our dozens of cousins. Every year for as long
as I could remember we would see our large family whether it would be with a
massive reunion that would take over a whole campground, or out at the family
farmstead in Western Kansas that has been in our family for about four
generations. We spent countless nights sleeping out under the stars in the back
of a grain truck, seeing multiple shooting stars in one sitting and wishing on
every one of them until we went to sleep.
Each
building has a different personality, there are different types of exhibits in
each one and they all take about an hour to get through if you are truly in
there to look. There was a massive building filled with all different kinds of
baked goods, and not only cookies and pastries but cakes decorated for
weddings, pies whose preserves were years old, massive bread baskets decorated
in a theme. The next building we entered was agriculture, all different kinds
of fruits and vegetables that won various prizes for different categories. The
best part about the different stands and exhibits was that there were
explanations and hints as to what it takes to grow these kinds of produce and
grains and what the judges look for when judging.
We passed the booths that talked
about farming grains and came up to a big glass cage that had some type of
white sculptures inside it.
“What’s that?” we asked at almost
the same time.
“Butter.” A young mother with her
four children pulling on her and jumping up and down as they wanted her to look
at all the different aspects of the sculpture. It was a scene that depicted
children at a hot dog stand, with animals running around with each other and
after each other. It was a comical scene that took your mind away from the fact
that it was straight butter!
Next up were the gourds, the first prize
winner was a massive pumpkin that could fit three of me inside of it. How in
the world they get them to be that big is completely beyond me. After stopping
and grabbing some food we ventured into the paintings and photography which
depicted every single mood you could think of, breathtaking oil paintings and
charcoal drawings that made you want to stare at them for hours.
“Quick, Jamie is up next!” a young
girl in a bandana dress grabbed her little friend who was looking at the
pictures on end of the wall we were at. She pulled the other girl all the way
to the door when she finally gave up and they ran away together out of sight. I
looked back at India,
“Let’s go see who Jamie is.”
The show stables were filled with
animals as we made our way between the stalls, every single cow looked the
same, and how do the judges even pick which one is the best of show? As we
entered the other building there was a whole crowd seated in the stands
watching a huge show ring as young owners led large, fluffy cows into the ring.
India and I shuffled over and sat at the end of the bleachers, not wanting to
stay long but long enough to see what was going on. The announcer introduced
the cows and their caretakers while they paraded them around the ring. They
were so fuzzy that they literally looked like they had just had a bath and had
a blow drier used on their fur. The judges poked and prodded the heifers while
being shown in an obvious fashion. Though I have no idea how, they finally
chose a winner, which seemed to me to be the fattest, ugliest one of the group.
“I will never understand farmers.”
India laughed and we continued on our way.
After grabbing a turkey leg, we
ventured into another building that was filled with sewn materials. As we
perused the quilts I really didn’t pay that much attention to them, they were sweet
to look at and seemed like they took a while to make but they were just alright
to me.
“I’ll be
right back.” My cousin left me walking between the large hangings of the
colorful sewn patches. I turned the corner but quickly backtracked to hide
behind the quilt wall where I had just been.
“It was my
last one.” An old, shaky voice managed to coo out, I caught a glimpse of her,
leaning against a younger woman’s shoulder while she gripped her handkerchief
in her right hand, dabbing her face. I tried my best not to look through the
crack, and just stood there looking at the same quilt, shamelessly eves
dropping.
“You will
have next year grandma, don’t say that.” I could picture the woman hugging her
loved grandma closer, trying not to break her fragile frame.
“Moira, I’m
not able to anymore. I cant.” I peaked through the crack and saw her raise her
hands out, shaking and maimed from growing old with arthritis. Moira kissed her
white hair and gently rubbed her shoulder. My heart broke. She stood there
looking at it for a few more moments before reaching out and touching it as if
saying goodbye to a friend she will never see again. They walked away towards
the exit and I stepped around to see the quilt.
“Ready?”
India came back at that point with her two friends who were here with their
school.
“Yea just a
moment.” I went around the corner to see the most beautiful detailed quilt of
the State of Kansas. To me, that one took the show. The fine patchwork quilt
was pieced together with what seemed steady hands that created straight
beautiful lines. It was hard to believe that those crippled, quaking hands
could have created something so beautiful, so unique and wonderful. For the
first time since walking into that exhibit I felt a sense of inspiration, not
because everything in this room was the most beautiful inspiring thing – in
retrospect they were all blankets that will end up in someone’s closet or on
their grandchildren’s bed. But these patches of fabric were works of art, there
is a mass amount of time put into these and they take effort to make beautiful.
The concentration that goes into making these has to be insanely strict;
sometimes these quilts take years to complete and multiple people to
contribute. I looked at the quilt as a painting or sculpture – it was an
artifact of culture that, though will not last more than a lifetime, will carry
on the heart and soul of the little old woman, Moira’s grandmother, for as long
as it is around.
“Kelli?”
she asked, prodding me.
“Yea, let’s
go.” I smiled as we headed out the door, feeling a little older and more
humbled by having taken for granted the immense amount of work displayed
throughout the fair.
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