When I started this column earlier this week, I had the intention of making it about how I went from journalism to teaching and back to journalism, but my interim publisher/husband had an other idea, sort of. Knowing my past history with the Neshoba County Fair, he teased me about taking a trip up there to write a story and maybe a column. I politely declined and made a face. Our son Marshall laughed because he knows the story, too. I’ll do my best to explain the joke and why Wednesday’s trip to The Fair changed my mind.
You see, prior to Wednesday, it was well known that I was not a fan of the giant houseparty. I had an encounter there that falls into the category of “Everything that’s Wrong with the Fair.” There are some of you just like me that have that list of prejudices about The Fair. I’ve held on to this list for about 25 years.
I made a trip with some family members to the Fair about 25 years ago. I went for a concert featuring the popular band Shenandoah because of a family connection to lead singer Marty Raybon. I took off from work early to participate in the chair races. I was excited. I bought a brand shirt and jeans to wear because you have to dress cute when you’re young. My sweet husband wasn’t coming with us because he was working, but he told me to have a good time and not to wear my “cute” clothes because I might get muddy. He warned me, and I didn’t listen. (Hindsight being 20/20 this may be why I really got mad. He was right, and I didn’t listen.)
Though none of us were Fair regulars, I was in good company, but we weren’t prepared for the rain and mud that Fair regulars like my husband know all too well. The concert was great. We had a good time even with the rain and mud. When the concert was over, we began to make our way off the muddy track still relatively mud free but soaking wet. Our plan was to go to Shenandoah’s tour bus for a final visit.
That’s when it happened. Some random guy who had indulged in at least one or two adult beverages (the proof was in his hand and speech) lost his footing, grabbed the back of my shirt with his free hand in an attempt to remain upright, and pulled me down into the mud. My temper was about as red as that mud when my assailant said, “Hey, watch my beer, now.” I had a muddy handprint on the back of my new shirt, mud in my hair, and a red seat from hitting the ground. He had nothing- no apologies and no regrets. That just didn’t set right with me, so I decided if I was going to be muddy so was he.
Acting like a child, I jumped up, pushed him down, and balled up a clod of that famous red dirt. I threw it in his face. I threw a couple more mud balls. I began a lecture on sobriety that would have made women of the Temperance Movement proud. The next thing I know I’m being asked to leave the Fair by “the Fair Police.” Meanwhile my new mud buddy got no escort. I was escorted to the front gate and asked to leave. He got nothing. It was NOT FAIR! I was sober. I protested loudly to no avail.
From that day forward I hated The Fair. My husband and sons occasionally went, but always they were without me. They would ask, and I would usually decline with, “I’ve never lost anything at that place except my temper.”
Then came Wednesday when I figured out why so many people love The Fair and continue to go year after year. I called ahead to my sweet friend Tammie Addy and asked her if she would be there. I knew the answer. She always is. She met me at the end of her street and walked me to the cabin passed down through her family for generations. I was already intrigued. I love old family houses. There are always stories, and Tammie certainly had a few about this cabin that she has only inhabited one week out of the year every year for her entire life.
We both got a little misty eyed when she talked about her mom who died just a couple of years ago but loved the Fair her entire life, too. Tammie and I share that common bond of being middle aged orphans, sentimental fools, and the new matriarchs of our families. Tammie has three granddaughters to my one grandson, but we take that role seriously. We both know it is on us to keep our traditions. I’m not great at it, but Tammie is, partly because she makes the trek to the Fair every year loaded down with everything necessary to live away from home with her family for a week but free of the things like schedules, appointments, and distractions.
Tammie takes the Fair week to do the little things like tell the stories and enjoy the moments. She spends time with her neighbors that she only sees at The Fair, cooks for her family and friends, and welcomes people like me to come enjoy the AC, eat great food, and just talk.
I stayed much longer than I planned because in that afternoon time stood still. My phone didn’t buzz. There was no television or computer screen to drag at my attention. There was just time for two good friends to sit and talk - something we hadn’t done in years despite living less than five miles from each other. That’s what the Fair does. It rids people of their worldly distractions and boundaries and provides them with a chance to focus on the most important thing we have - relationships. Tammie is so serious about how she spends her time, she doesn’t even have a washing machine and dryer in the cabin. She quipped, “I’m not here for that stuff. I can do laundry when I get back.”
After our glorious time together I took a walk around Founders Square. What I felt at Tammie’s cabin was just as true around the Square. I saw kids playing together with dirt and rocks not gaming consoles and controllers, fathers and sons playing catch, ladies leisurely reading on the front porch, and people deeply engaged in conversation without the ever present cell phone to glance at. I don’t usually see those things in my daily travels.
I get it now. I probably won’t ever decide to spend a week at the NCF, but I certainly understand why folks like Tammie do. To Tammie and those hardcore Fair goers, I applaud you for making a place to take the time to do what so many of us struggle to do - enjoy our relationships by breaking free of our daily schedules and confinements of work and home. I hope to see you next year, Tammie!
