The Week Before The County Fair

It's the week before the county fair in our tiny part of the world.
The wonderful, beloved, long-awaited, anticipated, (right-about-Tuesday-overrated) county fair. 

What does that look like?
Well, per usual, not this Rockwell painting:

I reflect back to the week before the county fair when we were in 4-H and think that possibly the greatest display of sincere love and patience Momma ever showed was not killing us - or herself - the week before the county fair. 

Looking back, I don't know how she did it. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Show boxes are being pulled out, scrubbed out and rinsed out. Old ribbons are being straightened out then carried to the house. Do you keep yellow ribbons? That is an internal debate. Show halters are being scrubbed then conditioned. Kids are realizing that their parents may have known what they were talking about when they said, "Clean it out now. In a year you'll be glad you did."

Kids are wishing that they had. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Women are feverishly leafing through Southern Cooking and Taste of Home cookbooks, searching for the perfect four-layer-chocolate-truffle-cake-sure-to-beat-'Ol-Always-Wins-Whats-Her-Name.

Ugh. 

For as much sugar as she puts in her cake, you'd think 'Ol-Always-Wins-Whats-Her-Name would be just a little bit sweeter...

It's the week before the county fair. 

4-Hers are rummaging through the trash trying to find the ingredient tag off of any feed sack. Project books are being completed - because of everything short of a gun held to the head - at the stroke of midnight, then being hand delivered to 4-H leaders' homes at the crack of dawn for the final signature. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
A crowd sits in the rural school auditorium, watching shy girls transform into confident young women in chiffon during the beloved queen contest. That same crowd shares coordinated seat shifts when a contestant question is answered without thought. That same crowd beams with pride when the most deserving young lady is crowned. 

Julie Moyer Arnold

1986 Wayne County 4-H Fair Queen

It's the week before the county fair. 

Mothers are stuffing their growing children into the white jeans she bought too sizes too big last summer, sure they'd fit perfectly this year. She is also wondering why said children chose the dairy project again. They don't even regularly finish the leftover milk from their cereal. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Open class exhibitors are watering, plucking, scouting, pruning, picking, poking and poaching the perfect produce. They're also trying to remember what time the old Master Gardener around the block usually goes for his Saturday morning coffee? Before open class check-in ends at 10:00, they hope. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Muffins are burning, cakes are collapsing, little brothers are taste-testing things they shouldn't and young gals are calling their grandmothers to decipher cursive writing on a recipe card, From the Kitchen of: Mary Lou, 1978.

It's the week before the county fair. 

Show numbers, registration papers and health papers are held in higher regard than the third child's birth certificate. Perhaps even the third child, entirely. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
Showmen are shaking aerosol cans, checking volumes, to determine just how much money they'll pay Mr. Sullivan next week. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
This is right about the time that the $200 in creative spending you've invested in at Hobby Lobby should kick in, but doesn't. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Grandparents are gathering their one dollar bills, sure that half of their life savings will be spent on fair food and the livestock auction in the next 10 days.  As long as the grandkids are happy...and hydrated. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
Young, inexperienced mothers are laying out clothes: Shirts you're allowed to eat a snow cone in, shirts you cannot. In two weeks they'll pre-treat, wash, dry, fold and put in a trash bag for cousins. "Barn Clothes" she'll label them. Some may become dust rags with a story. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
Thirty-somethings are looking at their open class projects, glue still drying the morning that it's due for judging, thinking: I thought I'd have it more together by now. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
Teens are wondering if their fair crush will remember them. 
Two things I want you to note here:
1. Of course he/she will; there are 16 teens your age in 4-H in the county. Your crush is related to 8 of them. Your odds are fantastic. 
2. You're the complete package, you just haven't come to realize it yet. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
Campers are being pulled out of the barn. Fathers are making to-clean lists, mothers are still wondering why they bought the dirty old thing and kids are trying to convince both that they'd rather sleep in a tent. "Memory Maker" dad called it; I won't type what Momma called it. Young people read this blog. 

It's the week before the county fair. 
The Worst of the Worst sibling fights are sure to take place this week. Things will be said, done, sworn and physically carried out. None of those things are true or good or right. In fact, those things won't be said, done, sworn and/or physically carried again out until the Summer Type Conference in Springfield next week. Or the week before Junior Nationals. Or Louisville. Maybe (probably)  all of them. 

It's the week before the county fair. 

Mothers say things such as:

You are never - ever - doing this project again.

When I was in 4-H I had my projects done in April.

I swear if I find out you talked to your brother that way in public...

You kids are lucky this only lasts ten years. I would have killed you in the eleventh.

Get your hair out of your face and tuck your shirt in. 

It's the week before the county fair.

Survive it, embrace it, love it, and remember:

The next ten days will go so quickly. 

But seriously -  next year? 

Start earlier. 

The Importance of Insignificance

Earlier this week I came across an album one of my Facebook friends posted, full of photos of the Rocky Mountains. This woman always has the most unique angle, the best shot or the most creative perspective to capture her current elements. Looking through the photos, I couldn’t help but think about how different her current setting is to her previous one. We used to reside near the same town, surrounded with flat fields and rows of corn and whispering creeks. Now she wakes to the Rockies.

I enjoyed looking through her new (for years now) scenery and admiring how different it is to mine. Then I saw a comment.

“beautiful pictures. makes me feel insignificant.”

I liked that. 

I think it is ok to feel insignificant every so often. In fact, I believe it’s a good thing. Feeling insignificant has a punch-in-the-gut way of reminding us that we’re part of something bigger than ourselves.

Stephen Emerson

It’s ok to feel insignificant when you don’t make the team. That experience only pushes you to one day discover your talents. And from talents, you can typically discover your passion. And there is nothing better than unearthing your passion. Oh, dribbling a basketball through your legs? When you’re 85 and reflecting you won’t wish you had done more of it.

It’s ok to feel insignificant when the storm delivers havoc to everything you’ve ever considered normal. The winds will blow, the lightening will strike, waters will rise and things will blow away never to be seen again. Sometimes nature puts on a show to remind us who is in charge. And by storm, I mean weather storm, health storm, people storm, career storm or life storm in general.

It’s ok to feel insignificant when standing next to an endless ocean, under a Kansas sky full of a million stars or within a magnificent mountain range. It is not ok to feel insignificant when standing next to another person. No matter how big they are. Or what they're wearing. 

It’s ok to feel insignificant when waiting on hold with the cable company. What you're experiencing is actually called shoddy customer service. When you finally speak to a representative (who certainly cares about your call), simply and sternly let them know you’re cancelling your service and switching to the competitor. You will no longer feel insignificant.

It’s ok to feel insignificant when you’re overwhelmed with the stuff that can fill up hours, days, weeks, months and years. But you’re also in control of that (in)significance. There are only 940 Saturdays between your child’s birth and when they turn 18. Don’t want to spend those Saturdays at birthday parties watching 5-year-old strangers unwrap Legos and Frozen dolls? Don’t.

Marsha Behm's image "Child Fishing on Lake Allegan."

It’s ok to feel insignificant when you don’t get the job. It humbles you. Teaches you to think on your feet. Guides to where you need to improve. Transforms you into a better speaker. Allows you to grow. Opens better doors. Give you an excuse to buy a new suit.

It’s ok to feel insignificant when you’ve planned, planted, watered and tended the perfect garden and an animal utilizes it as a salad bar. Get yourself a live trap and teach that wascally wabbit who is truly insignificant.

It’s ok to feel insignificant when you look at your life’s goal sheet. That means you’re setting out to do something great. And you still have a long way to go. That’s the best part. That’s the life part.

It’s ok to feel insignificant when you keep track of your months by endless bill, payment stubs and looming deadlines. In this case, the surefire way to be reminded that you’re not insignificant is to miss a payment. They’ll find you.

It’s ok to feel insignificant. Though no one else should ever make you feel that way. 
It’s gratifying to feel insignificant. 
It’s powerful beyond measure. 
Insignificance puts us in our place. 
Insignificance allows us to focus on something bigger than ourselves.
In our small, disconnected, important, individualized place. 

Is it time you go somewhere to feel insignificant?

 Credit

Penny Pincher

I don't always pinch pennies with the likeness of vice grips, 

but when I do it's on necessities and comforts 

such as food and toilet paper. 

At one point last weekend, I set out to pick up a few things. 

Besides the extreme pressure and anxiety I feel during check out, I love shopping at Aldi. They carry almost everything I need, their selection has more than doubled in the last two years, they have unbeatable prices and the store is small and easy to navigate. Avoid that place on the first day of the month and it's an even better experience. I can reorganize stock in search of empty boxes with the the very best of them in order to get $1.79/gallon milk and Sunshine Bay Sauvignon Blanc at $6.99.

However, without fail I get so nervous during check out. 
Is there a cart at the end of the belt?
Should I push my cart around? 
Will I get my quarter back?
Is the cashier in a good mood?
Is there space for me at the packing counter?
Who is behind me?
Why are they buying so much beef jerky?
Why didn't he put a divider between our food? I am not buying his beef jerky...

"How are you today? $34.28. Cash back? Have a good evening."

Wait. 
What? 
Where am I?
Did I already pay? 
Before I know it, the cashier is pushing my cart out of the way and asking the Jerky Hoarder how his day is going. It always happens so fast. It's like the Soup Nazi experience of grocery shopping.

After my blood pressure lowered from my Aldi experience, I stopped at the Amish Dollar General to pick up other things I had on an imaginary list somewhat stored in my cray-cray head. The Amish discount store has a reputation for great prices on all items, if you can get past the cosmetic shortcomings...

Last summer I bought two coral Maybelline lipsticks, one each for Momma and I. They were only $.80 and looked great if you could get past how bad they made your lips burn. I also bought Cody a 50-count One-A-Day men's vitamin that was only a couple months expired. Fifty vitamins for $1.50, regularly $8.00! He has yet to break the seal on the vitamins, but I'm optimistic that 2015 is the year. He mentioned something about sterilization. I don't really remember. 

Anyway, while I roamed the aisles aimlessly like a lost child, I was thrilled to find Italian seasoning by the case, two pounds of butterscotch chips and bananas - none of which I had even thought of prior to entering the store. I came in to look around and went out with $.03 change from a twenty dollar bill. 

Minutes later (the real problem with each of these places: convenience) I reached the homestead and began to make trips into the house with my newfound treasures. 

I walked back outside after trip number one to see Cody staring blankly into the back hatch of my vehicle.

"Please let me you did not buy food at either of those places. Tell me you only bought cleaning supplies."
"Food and toilet paper," I responded, holding up my 18-double-roll-super-pillow-plush toilet paper purchase. 

"Linds," Cody said while studying the purchase, "that has tire tracks on it. It's been run over by something."

(UGH! He's such a details guy, I thought to myself.)

"I saw that, but I just need to reshape it then store it somewhere where with won't regress. It only cost like eighteen cents per roll. You can't put a price on that!"
"Yeah, I can. It's eighteen cents....on roadkill toilet paper."
"Oh, there are worse things," I continued as we carried the groceries in. I was trying to think of worse things, but the more I looked at our little flattened rolls of roadkill, I couldn't think of much. Between you and I, I'll never tell Cody that. How was I supposed to get those on the spool? 

"Uhhh, are these bananas?" he asked once we reached the kitchen.
"Uhhh, what else would they be?"
"Did you really buy midget bananas? They're already starting to brown. Why would you buy bananas with cheetah spots already?"
"Because they were thirty-cents per pound compared to sixty-six cents. You do the math." 
And then Cody said something under his breath that had absolutely nothing to do with math. 

That night we had had some good friends over for dinner. I opened the freezer and my two-pound bag of butterscotch chips hit the kitchen floor, busting open and scattering like hundreds of ants scurrying across the linoleum.
OH, THE HORROR!
I - along with six others - dropped to my knees and started scrambling to snatch up the tiny pieces, one by one. 
"Do you want to save these?" Timmy asked as his long arms extended to corral the rogue candies.
Before I could even open my mouth, Cody yelled, "No! We're tossing them." I didn't even have a chance to ask everyone to put them in a bowl so I could rinse them off for a refreeze! Darn that Cody, always looking out for my reputation. The next few minutes were a haze. With every chip I heard ping into the trash, I simultaneously heard a dollar cha-ching!
Ping.
$$$Cha-Ching!$$$
Ping.
$$$Cha-Ching!$$$
Something like $3.00 down the drain. 

Days later and I've found that my pinching pennies did nothing for patience. Being run over by a Peterbilt should have been the least of our concerns when it comes to the toilet paper. These roles are somehow triple-layered, mismatched, uneven and basically a really big pain in the the....neck. One minute we're trying to get a few squares, the next it's like the entire bathroom floor is covered in shreds of paper and half the "value" roll is gone.

Oh, and - the 18-pack value pack only had 16 rolls in it. 

Darn those Amish, always doing things their way. 

The way I see it, I'll continue using my vice-grip-money-saving-practices, like buying a case of knock-off Windex with twelve broken spouts, until one of two things starts happening:

1. Some discount salad dressing that was a victim of an I-70 fender bender causes our hair to fall out or

2. Cody starts doing the grocery shopping. 

See you Saturday at the 

Amish Dollar General, Bertha Yoder. 

Dear Jacob,

Dear Jacob, 

That's the only name by which I know you from the endless dotted lines we've signed and forms we've completed together, though we've barely met. Buying a house is tough stuff, huh? Looking in every closet, inspecting every step and giving the lender every single request, short of a blood sample. 

As we briefly shook hands in the yard on the day of our closing, you immediately asked what you needed to know about my old - your new - home. Truth be told, I had a tennis ball lodged in my throat that very moment. I couldn't think of much to say, but I've since thought of a thing or two:

You've probably already learned that the toilet paper dispenser doesn't stay in place. It was like that when I bought the house, and like that when I left six years later. Creatures learn to adapt. Never found a way to fix it well. I have confidence that a young man like you will figure it out. 

You can thank my old pup Dixie for the marks on the inside of your basement door, and also the missing carpet. When she was very small I'd leave her in the basement - Doggie Dungeon - as I went to work. She made it quite clear that a pup with such spirit didn't belong in a basement all day. Considering her visible - destructive - statement, Momma agreed to Doggie Daycare and everyday I'd drop her off at the farm before work. Dixie was a great dog. 

The the south bedroom closet walls are filled with hand-written thoughts from a young gal. Not me. They were there when I arrived and I never had the guts to paint over them; she was quite the philosopher. Not a grate spellur, butt who am I two juge? Afteral, all we nead is luve. 

The original wood floors are possibly my favorite part of your house. They're scraped and dented and perfect. They've seen a lot of traction; they tell a lot of stories. You will - however - need socks in winter. I was twenty-seven on February 25, 2012 when a man from Kansas showed up on my - your - Maple Street doorstep because of a white lie my older brother told. He was wearing a beige Polo pullover, a navy ball cap, square toe Anderson Beans and starched jeans. He cleared his throat and shook my hand. Within a month, he and I were two-stepping across those hardwood floors and looking into the eyes of the rest of our lives. Yikes. I married him the next year. Your floors are scraped and dented and perfect. But trust me, one washing with Murphy Oil Soap and they look brand new again. It works wonders, effortlessly. Murphy Oil Soap - buy stock in it. 

Jacob, there are some beautiful, old trees in your yard. They're tall and huge and bold. They'll sway with the breeze and creak with the wind....loudly. Don't be afraid. They'll also drop a ton of sticks; don't forget to pick those up. Under those trees I hosted a baby shower to welcome my niece who is now 5, threw a wedding prep party for our nuptials, and in the end - organized a garage sale. Those old trees are a great source of shade and history nestled in a tiny town. Embrace them...without being a tree hugger, please.

The folks who owned the house before me planted a lot - A LOT - of hosta around the house. If you agree, I'll be back in the early spring to transport my own starts to our home. It will be good for them to be thinned out, anyhow. 

The rest are in your couch cushions. 

The Greens Fork Family Diner - a short walk from your front porch - is really fantastic. I've never had a bad meal there and I eat...a lot. NOTE: Last time I visited they only accepted cash. 

I left very little in your house, Jacob, but each item was intentional. Assuming you've moved your toothbrush into the new house, you've already found this quick read in your medicine cabinet. I hope you'll read it and live by it. You can read the full story behind that little sheet of paper here. 

Tuesday morning is trash day. And if you set out your trash past 4:45 AM Tuesday, it's too late. Trust me. Set it out the night before. Trust me. The trash man is too busy to stop and back up for your trash once you've missed him for the week, and crying does nothing. Trust me. In order for your trash to be picked up by the trash man, it must be sitting in the middle of the street - unavoidable - and not on the sidewalk. Trust me. The trash man on your route reminds me a lot of the Soup Nazi in Seinfeld. Except, you don't have to wait one year. He'll be back next week. 

No trash pick up for you!

You won the neighbor lottery - I'm serious. Good, hard working, All-American people. A 1/2 cup of sugar or a weekend of making sure no one burns your home to the ground - you're surrounded by really nice folks who will help when needed. I hope you'll get to know them. 

Jacob, have you ever stepped on a lego? It's like this unexpected shock through the body that wakes you up and raises your blood pressure. Or, makes you want to throw up. The day you moved in was the same day I stepped on this little beauty on the hardwood floor of your dining room. Hurt like hell  a lego. 

I have no idea where I got the lapel pin or what significance it held in my previous life, but I thought it was a pretty solid sign: Time for me to go and you to arrive. 

Jacob, I hope you love your home as much as I did. It is such a solid, well-built house with unmatched character. Homes aren't made today the way that your's is built. Take care of her. 

Also: 

When I moved in, I tucked $100 into an undisclosed wall to ensure none of those walls would ever talk. 

If you were wise, you'd do the same this week.