Saturday, September 11, 2010

The Blue Hill Fair-A Family Affair

“Seriously, is this the line,” screams through my head as I round the corner and almost rear end a truck. The Blue Hill Hair has come to Maine for another Labor Day weekend. Memories swamp me as I sit in the 3 mile line listening to my grandchildren in the backseat. As long as I can remember I have spent part of this weekend at the Fair and I can measure my life by the arrival of the fair.



At 7 I was the impatient child in the back of the truck making that last stretch almost unbearable for my father, as witnessed now by the incessant “Are we there yet?” from my grandchildren. I had asked that question, as had my daughter, and now her children. Looking in the rearview mirror, the faces became blurred as three generations of impatience became one.



As I turn into the entrance I see and hear all the familiar sights and sounds. The excitement from the backseat is palpable. I briefly remember that feeling, and then suddenly I watch my daughter become my father and I as she tells the boys to calm down and give us a minute to get organized. I chuckle a little as I remember being told the same thing and years later saying the same thing to her.



We make it through the front gate and 2 sets of hands are immediately stretched out for money. We both dig into our wallets for cash and I recollect Dad pulling his wallet from his back pocket and handing over seven new twenty dollars bills, one for each child. As those twenties from 1970’s become fifties in 2010, I wonder how he managed. Then as now, the first round of cash is never enough to last. Times were tough for a self-employed fisherman and the amount of money he spent at the fair came much harder than for the two career women standing there today.



We all head for the rides and I am slightly nauseated as I watch the spinning, flashing lights, and general chaos. The boys get in the line of the ride they want and I think back to a time when I eagerly awaited my turn to get tossed around inside one of those brightly painted boxes. My daughter climbs on the ride with her boys and I wonder how long it will be before she stands here where my father and I have stood and watches her legacies make the same climb.



“Can we have cotton candy; I want French fries Mimi; I have never had a deep-fried Oreo, pleeaassse?” The atrocities to the stomach are everywhere and they want one of each. My responsible adult mind screeches no, while memories of those delicious flavors won’t let me say no. As more money comes out of my wallet, I can hear my father saying “Don’t eat too much of that,” a message passed to my daughter and her children; a message none of us has heeded.



Night has fallen and two tired children and two exhausted adults exit the fair. As everyone climbs in the car, Dad smiles from home without even knowing why. The tradition of the Blue Hill Fair has been successfully passed to another generation.

2 comments:

  1. Think about offering this to the Eyrie. You and Heather are working the same street, and that street is working for you both--the generation thing; it's almost as if you both are, you know, getting older? No, I didn't say that!

    This is really strong--very very clear, no words wasted, no words too many, points made but no hammering of the points when they can be made with a gentle tap, vivid, picture-making, nice stuff all around.

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  2. Thanks. I am getting older and I embrace it. I love the freedom that comes with age.

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