September 14, 2010

Unfortunately, I didn’t make it to the fair of all fairs ─ the Grange Encampment and Fair ─ this year.

If you’re not familiar with this 10 day annual event, where practically all of Centre County camps out, eats well, and mingles amongst friends, you’re missing out if you don’t, but just once, check it out: http://www.grangefair.net/.

I suspect my lack of motivation to enter through Gate C resulted from the plain and simple fact that the fair, albeit great, plainly isn’t the same place today as it was for me many moons ago.  As a child I wouldn’t have missed the fair for anything ─ Not for cross country practice, a piano recital or even the first day of school.  (And yes, that was a legitimate excuse for missing school way back when…) 

I remember moving our lambs into the sheep barns at the fair, preparing them for the “Open Show” on Monday, and then for the “4-H show” Wednesday morning.  Tuesday evening we’d participate in the “Fitting and Showmanship Contest” where we were given one hour and a 10 minute soda break to clean up a wild sheep, sheer it by hand, and prepare it for show.  Thereafter, we’d demonstrate our showmanship skills by attempting to keep the animal calm while setting its legs up in the perfect position, displaying the animal’s best qualities, for the judge’s view.  Wednesday night was the auction where we would each sell two of our lambs in hopes of bringing home a profit, and Thursday was the parade where we’d do silly things like wash our hair in buckets atop our club float using a lanolin based shampoo to show off some of our lamb’s, often forgotten, uses (the lanolin comes from the wool). 

We were children that week, free to run around the fair at our leisure, checking into the barn only periodically throughout the days.  We were each given an allowance of something like $20 for the week to spend on one dollar foot long hotdogs and similar sized meatball subs, twenty-five cent sodas, two dollar malt milkshakes from Sunset West Ice Cream, and anything else our taste buds desired.  We’d sit up in the lofts of our barn slurping on our milk shakes while our feet dangled into our sheep’s pens below.  We’d each display proud grins as guests walked through our barn listening to our “lectures” on the “sheep business”.  We’d discuss the differences between different breeds of sheep, which grew a higher quality of wool, which made for better lamb chops, amongst a variety of other “interesting” facts.  We’d sheer our sheep in the middle of our barn’s long hallway, showing off our skill with both the electric and hand clippers, wash our lambs repetitively, and talk amongst friends.  Oftentimes, we would spend the entire day within the confines of that sheep barn ─ and in doing so, we had a blast.  We weren’t interested in going out and talking to boys or hanging out at the arcade with friends.  We got enough pleasure out of tending to our animals.  4-H honestly was probably one of the best activities my parents could have put me and my younger siblings in.  It taught us a lot about life, hard work, and respect.  

Now, it seems, I’m too old to show sheep.  My time has passed.  Going to the fair is mostly a social event for adults in our community to catch up with old friends, eat a ton of great tasting, often not-so-good-for-you, food, and watch people pass by.  It brings back an assortment of certainly good memories, but tragically these are often more painful to re-live than even the bad. The good memories remind me of what could have been.  Possibly one day my adult siblings and I could have placed our own kids in 4-H, and gone on together to watch our own children show sheep at the fair.  Possibly, we’d still run around the fair just as we did years ago when the night became late had life not taken the course which is has.  We’d eat pulled pork sandwiches while sitting around outside of our neighbor’s tent.  Sadly, these days just cannot be.

So in consideration of these thoughts, I didn’t make it to the fair this year.  Possibly, a year from now I’ll slurp down a peanut butter flavored shake while watching a sheep show amongst family and friends.  Possibly, the same feelings will return as kept me from entering those gates this year.  Only time will tell.  For now, I’ll reminisce on the past.   

Instead of attending the fair, Brad and I served as the caterers for the baptism recital for Jonathan, the two month old son of our friend’s, Kim and Steve.  My Mom and Dad, Joe, Steph, and Sam were our “laborers”.  Joe served as “King of the Grill” after the rest of us failed at our attempts to make something like 100 perfectly round pancakes.  My Dad ran errands while Steph and Sam decorated, and set up the food in a buffet style line.  The event turned out nicely, and as usual, I insisted on preparing entirely too much food.  We probably had enough leftovers to feed all of the guests I’m inviting to my wedding.  This is no joke!  Brad ate left-over pasta salad for a week.  Of course, he didn’t complain!  He’d eat pasta salad every day of the week if it were available.

Switching gears…      

As the seasons change once again now from summer to fall, I’m reminded so much of the absence of my brother, Jeremy.  Autumn has always been my favorite time of year.  It’s the best time to run.  The weather couldn’t be any more agreeable.  The scenery is beautiful as the leaves begin to change colors, and fall to the ground.  Multitudes of running races are scheduled each weekend.  Football season is in full bloom.  And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t live for tailgates, hearty fall foods, and an excuse to run around in a pair of faded jeans and an oversized blue and white sweatshirt.  It could be fall all year round if I had my way!  But then again, maybe it wouldn’t be as special as it is now. 

Regardless, the absence of Jeremy this year amidst the wonders of the fall has truly sunk my spirits.  And I suspect, this is one of the reasons I avoided the fair ─ yet another reminder of what could have been. 

This year fall has reminded me of death’s role in my life.  She certainly hasn’t shied away from my side…As if that should be a surprise.  We’re all haunted by the footsteps of death…all trying to run faster than her stride. 

This year the fall has brought with it a dark sense of sadness I’m hoping to discard. 

In the 11^th grade, my swim team coach passed away.  I remember it to be spring…although, I could be wrong.  I looked up to her probably more than she knew.  When I was in the sixth grade, anorexic, and knocking on death’s doorstep, she wrote me one of the most genuine, honest, letters I’ve ever read.  I still have it today.  She wouldn’t let me participate in swim team practice until I got better.  Even so, I couldn’t be mad at her because I knew she truly cared about me.  And I wanted to be just like her.  So when she committed suicide I was at a terrible loss.  I wished I had told her how important she was to me.  I wished she wasn’t so sick ─ that she knew she was loved by her family and friends, and would be terribly missed.  I worried incessantly for her place in eternity.  I chose the patroness of mental illness as my confirmation name in memory of her: Dympna. 

Even before my swim team coach passed, our 4-H leaders, Shirley and Harold, lost their son, David, in a tragic automobile accident.  I was horrified.  As a young person, I couldn’t image their family’s pain.  We always looked up to David as he was older than us, an expert showman and skilled sheerer.  He was just starting out in life, recently married with two young children.  His death was tragic.

Strange how to this date I still remember standing in line during the viewing, waiting to greet the families of David and Sharon.  Tragedies like these never stray far from us.      

A few years after my swim team coach died, David’s mom, Shirley, passed as well.  The culprit this time was ovarian cancer.  Ironic I suspect that this month is national ovarian cancer awareness month.  Shirley was a sweet soul, always curious of the events of our busy lives.  She was like family to me.  Heck, the entire sheep club was like family to me.  When Shirley died I just couldn’t believe it.  She seemed healthy and alive the last time we talked.  I was saddened; my heart broke for her husband, remaining living children, and for the community.  We lost a very dear soul the day God took her back.  But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t offered a scrap of relief from my sorrow in knowing she was finally at peace with her son.  Back then, my faith was strong.    

My grandfather passed one year and one week prior to Jeremy.  God rest his soul.  And not long after Jeremy died, our second 4-H leader Kathy Zimmerman died unexpectedly also.  So many lives taken at such early, ripe ages ─ it breaks my heart to consider such sadness. 

I suspect after so many losses, life at the fair as a prior member of the Centre County 4-H Sheep Club might never be the same.  Shirley and Kathy were both wonderful people.  Neither came from a lot, but they knew what was important in this life.  I remember our club used to put on a food sale during the Penn State Ram Sale at the Ag Arena on campus.  All of the 4-H kids would sell ice cream, home-made pie, lamb BBQ, and sloppy joes prepared by our leaders.  Shirley, Kathy and our parents would moderate our sale tactics, count the funds in the money box periodically throughout the day, but mostly just sit back in a corner and catch up with one another while intermittently checking in on the meat and cleaning up after us kids.  As the day came to a close, we’d all get a sandwich for helping out. It was the best BBQ I’ve ever had.  Possibly I just remember it was such because of the significant roles these women played in my life.  They taught me the value of hard work, the importance of respect, good morals, and character.      

During the fair, those two ladies would sit in the dairy or beef barns “grading” our project books year after year.  I remember it was always my family and our friends who were late to turn in our books.  We weren’t always the best at keeping up with our “record”.  We were to record when vaccinations were given to our lambs, how much was spent on feed, hay, supplies, etc.  No matter how simple this project actually was, we dreaded it.  It just wasn’t as fun as our other 4-H activities.  You see, we were much better at setting up booby traps in the lofts of the sheep barns for our guests to walk inadvertently through.  Or “walking” our sheep attached by a halter to a moving lawn mower (yes, we were ridiculous, and no, we didn’t go fast, it’s a lawn mower for goodness sake!  No sheep were ever injured during this experiment!).  And we were much better at packing for 4-H camp and for the fair than sitting down to fill out a “boring” book.  But somehow Shirley and Kathy always pushed us to turn in our project, completed in good form.    

I’ve got to hope the two are together now in a better place accompanied by family and friends. 

It can be depressing to reflect back on life now, in the present moment, and think of how wonderful life was at the time I was a 4-H’er running around dressed in overalls with barrettes falling out of my hair.  It’s easy to wish time would have frozen way back then.  But it didn’t.  And it never will.  Time keeps on ticking no matter where we are in our journey through life.  I suspect this disclaimer should have been printed in small ink for our view just prior to exiting the birth canal.  Yet even if it were, I’m certain I still would have slid on out loudly with an enthusiastic cry. Oh what the heck!  Why not give it a shot? 

In almost exactly one month I’ll be running fifty miles through the Rothrock State Forest.  I’m permitted 12 hours to complete this task, although I hope it takes me far less time.  I’m looking at this adventure as an all day hike.  An experienced “Mountainbacker” suggested this wise idea to me.  What better way to spend a Saturday in October than by traveling through a forest filled with life?  Some might think I’ve lost my mind, but in considering all who no longer have the opportunity to just go outside for a walk around the block, I figure why not give running/walking/shuffling/crawling fifty miles a chance.  Oh what the heck!  What’s the worst that could happen? 

Please don’t answer that rhetorical question!

I challenge all of you to reflect for just a minute on the people who have left a mark on your life.  Maybe they are still with us today, maybe not.  How have they helped to shape you into the person you are today?  I’ve only mentioned a few great souls who have touched my life.  There are so many more.  My great Aunt Delores, Mrs. Dolan, my 3 grandparents still alive today.  Make these people proud.  Your journey through life means more to them than meets the eye.    

One final note…   

Leaving Virginia book-signing #4: October 23 from 1-3pm at the Dubois Public LibraryJ   My illustrator, Sara E. Smith, and I will be there to promote our upcoming children’s series as well!!!   Come out for food, coffee and company.