Groves of Olives: Fairy Land

After making two pilgrimages to the fairgrounds in the past two weeks, I began to wonder, "What is it about the fair that I really like?" In so many ways it opposes my personality. But in others it is like Marshville (home of Randy Travis and Country Livin') blown up on a huge scale. I am momentarily able to spiral back down the slide - like Alice in her wonderland - back to a world of commoners and their strollers, silver belt-buckled cowboys, tractor aficionados, and grease. It's a microcosm celebrating a sticky, smelly, smoky reality.

So we paid the entry fee and dressed the part, contended with the crowds and partook in the harkening of fall festivity. On two separate occasions, I navigated the grounds with familiarity and served a sort of shameless tour guide for the first-timers that were with me. Sharing is central to the experience: you share your bench, your food, your time and your worn out-ness when you leave.

By the end we are as tenuously attached to the campaigns as the adhesive with which the stickers cling to our shirts. "Got milk?" Sure. "Got Steve Troxler for the NC Agriculture Commissioner?" Sure.

It's a valuable thing: to spend time with friends in an arena where anything goes and you can laugh as loud as you'd like. So we did. And we endorsed our childish tendencies to skip, to hold hands, to pocket as many samples as you can, to eat until you're bursting at the seams, to ignore dietary boundaries, to twirl and spin until you can't walk down the exit stairs and to love the not-so-idyllic representation of a good time.

In all its overabundance, it was a bumper crop of fun.