remember how last year we finally went to the common ground fair? well, i for one am hooked on it now, and i can hardly imagine letting september get away from me without going. this year we were sans zoë, isaac, and jason "pie cone" read, but we were accompanied by mom and dad, who were also won over by the charms of organic potato chip fries, iced coffee from rock city roasters, organic wild maine blueberries, adorable rabbits and strange chickens and brilliant border collies and personable farmers.
what you can't quite see is that these guys, above, are both looking at cell phones.
our fair day last year was chilly, and we huddled beside fires and drank hot coffee and ate indian food. this year it was hot: cold cider and lemonade weather. still wonderful, and i still kind of want to live there forever.
“'I'm staying right here,' grumbled the rat. 'I haven't the slightest interest in fairs.'
'That's because you've never been to one,' remarked the old sheep. 'A fair is a rat's paradise. Everybody spills food at a fair. A rat can creep out late at night and have a feast. In the horse barn you will find oats that the trotters and pacers have spilled. In the trampled grass of the infield you will find old discarded lunch boxes containing the foul remains of peanut butter sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, cracker crumbs, bits of doughnuts, and particles of cheese. In the hard-packed dirt of the midway, after the glaring lights are out and the people have gone home to bed, you will find a veritable treasure of popcorn fragments, frozen custard dribblings, candied apples abandoned by tired children, sugar fluff crystals, salted almonds, popsicles, partially gnawed ice cream cones, and the wooden sticks of lollypops. Everywhere is loot for a rat--in tents, in booths, in hay lofts--why, a fair has enough disgusting leftover food to satisfy a whole army of rats.'
Templeton's eyes were blazing.
'Is this true?' he asked. 'Is this appetizing yarn of yours true? I like high living, and what you say tempts me.'
'It is true,' said the old sheep. 'Go to the fair, Templeton. You will find that the conditions at a fair will surpass your wildest dreams. Buckets with sour mash sticking to them, tin cans containing particles of tuna fish, greasy bags stuffed with rotten...'
'That's enough!' cried Templeton. 'Don't tell me any more, I'm going!'"
-E.B. White, Charlotte's Web