The Flog – The Fabry Log

The County Fair always makes me think about life. Maybe it's the aroma of corn dogs, popcorn, cotton candy and turkey legs that does it to me. Or the barkers who yell, "Step right up!" Or, "We have a winner!" I guess it could be the lights and booming music, but I think it's something else.

I spent four agonizing hours (and considerable cash) at the County Fair last week so my son could go with a friend and ride some rides. There was a musical group at the main stage that I had never heard, but the audience had because they knew all the songs. I didn't understand the words, but maybe that's not a bad thing.

I believe I was the only person among the thousands in attendance who was reading a Writer's Digest magazine, but I didn't see everybody, so don't hold me to that.

Other than three camels and a seal, I didn't recognize anyone in the crowd. (They were here last year.) Sitting there watching the humanity rush like a river, I didn't see one face I knew. And that bothered me.

I've been in this area since 2009. Surely I should have seen someone I recognized. (Perhaps someone I knew saw me and turned another direction?)

As I watched the guy with the toy he sent high into the air that lit up and came back to him like a boomerang (only $10 for 3 toys), I wondered what his life was like outside of the fair? How does he deal with the daily secondhand smoke?

Five ponies with saddles stood in a circle, waiting for riders. Three men talked and laughed nearby and the ponies never moved. Sometimes I feel like those ponies, but I'm not as patient or cute. They looked lonely and tired. Like they wanted to see a familiar face.

Just about everyone of age had a plastic cup filled with Budweiser or a tall can. An older woman sauntered by, a man with a cane following, walking spider-like to catch up. He gestured and raised his voice, pointed his cane in the air and threw out his other hand. I couldn't understand what he was saying. The woman didn't say much, just kept walking. The veins in the man's neck stood out as he railed. I never did find out their problem or if it was just his, though I admit I did follow them for a while.

Just after 10 p.m. my phone dinged. It was my son. "Come to Wave Rave."

"Ok," I texted.

I was standing in front of the barbecue place that had the beer-battered onion rings for $10. Nearby was the stand selling fried pecan pie. No kidding. I had no idea where Wave Rave was, but I was pretty sure I had been past it about a dozen times.

Past the basketball game with the bent rims, past the quarter tossing game where no one wins, past the ride where you drop from a great height, the Haunted House, G-Force, the Ferris Wheel, another haunted house—this one wasn't quite as ghoulish as the first—and another stand selling fried Twinkies and corn on the cob. Cash only.

The man with the cane and the woman passed me going the other way, his arm around her, walking as if they'd never fought a day in their lives.

And there it was. Wave Rave. And there was my son and his friend, talking and laughing as they waited in line.

And the world felt a lot less lonesome.

As far as I know, the ponies are still waiting.