In the name of the fair
It was 175 degrees and 200 percent humidity. I knew because my hair told me soon as I sat up in bed.
The higher the hair, the closer to God, and I got closer to God with each passing, sweltering hour.
It was 175 degrees and 200 percent humidity, so I did what any good and reasonably sane mother would do: I loaded up the kids and went to the county fair in town.
Because this was our only chance before they packed up the carnival and quilting projects, put the horses away, sold all the 4-H steers and took the show rabbits off of ice and back home to safety.
Plus, they were selling giant glasses of freshly squeezed lemonade, which taste really good after lugging a 30-pound 2-year-old across the parking lot because she suddenly wants to "hold you."
Yeah, if only she could hold me. "One day child, one day," I said quietly to myself, her sweat melting into my sweat as she began sliding down my legs at the food stand where the two of us had a 175-degree decision to make between pizza or hamburgers while my nephew spun around us in the wheels he strapped to his shoes so he "wouldn't have to expend so much energy."
Kid had the right idea. So did the lady who took one look at me as I trudged across the asphalt dragging a wagonful of children as if I was on the last legs of a yearlong trek across the Sahara. She handed me a handful of Popsicles and saved my life.
Ah, the county fair. It's always hot at the county fair.
Unless it's hot and windy.
Or windy and raining.
I stuck one Popsicle down my shirt and handed the melting children the rest and continued our journey past the livestock sale toward the carnival for a flashback to all of the sweat that trickled into my eyes when I was a 4-H kid standing in my long-sleeved white shirt holding on tight to the halter of my clean-enough horse.
Which reminded me of the once-a-year horse-washing ritual I would perform on my mare in the grassy backyard, complete with hose, Mane 'n Tail and a ShowSheen finish only to wake up to an open gate and a horse that escaped to the nearest mudhole. That happened more than once.
But still, we persist. In 175 degrees or 175 mph winds. In the name of the county fair. And big, godly hair.