Wyoming County Fair

A county fair is timeless; an event that inspires nostalgia while setting the stage for countless happy reunions admist spinning carousals, cow stalls, and colorful quilts. This past week, I went to the Wyoming County Fair in Pike, New York three times which is a low number of visits compared to true fair fanatics.  I like to see the fuzzy chickens, squeeze sheep and constantly question why some goats have their ears removed. Apparently the answer is either so horrific or so boring that I always forget the answer to my question and I have to ask it again every year. Attending the fair is a chance to get out of the house while feeling like you're still at home.

 The fair has many distinctly separate personalities. When I went on Tuesday morning to watch my friend Evelyn compete with her horse Jazz, the grounds were quiet, blanketed in a soft misty fog. The mid-way was statue-still, vendors were just beginning to open and the smell of breakfast almost diverted my route to the horse arena. Afternoons are busy; packed with waist-high, laughing children willing to risk the most stomach-churning attractions. Evenings are a hodge-podge of families, leashed pups, packs of teen-agers, seniors, and strollers. Nighttime is deafening with the sound of tractor-pulls, a haze of smoke now clouding the jam-packed arena.

It is particularly entertaining to view the fair through the eyes and excitement of my friend Sarah. She had worked with me at Letchworth Central School for five years until lured back to her city roots. "Chili is a suburb, Amy," she repetitively reminds me. Five years of former sixth graders stampeded down the fairway to jubilantly greet her, pushing me ruthlessly out of the way. While Sarah was busy being uplifted by her horde of adoring fans, I was being grilled by a geezer who habitually casts aspersions on my writing skills in a public forum. I tried to restrain my outrage because he's a pastor and because he looked so darn cute in his little newsboy cap. But I tell ya...I can only be pushed so far before I pop him in the nose!

Having extricated ourselves from these delightful social situations, we then ordered delicious pulled pork paninis from Decisions of Silver Springs. We were horrified by the explicit prize posters adorning the wall of the neighboring pop-a-balloon game so we momentarily planted ourselves next to it crying out, "Look away, Citizens!" Well, ok. That might have just been me. Wandering through the exhibit buildings, we pondered the ribbon distribution criteria associated with submitted baked goods, canned fruits and vegetables as well as preserves. One cannot ponder aloud at a county fair because multiple unsolicited responses will immediately be forthcoming. There's no such thing as a reciprocal comment at Wyoming County Fair. We had a very confusing conversation with Evelyn about her ride results. I blame the noise level of our surroundings but as Evelyn was describing the barrel racing game of "Steak-n-Shake," Sarah and I were both picturing Evie pulling a USDA grade beef steak out of a barrel as she swept by on her horse. Turns out, she meant a stake...aka a stick...aka a pole. Ohhhh....I believe we may have been further distracted because Sarah and I had enjoyed one of the best milkshakes of our lives at a "Steak 'n Shake" in Erie, Pennsylvania. I ordered a chocolate-covered strawberry milkshake...yum! Oh. Evie took second place!

The Thursday night talent show is one of the pinnacles of Pike Fair. It is a surreal event. A stage of sawdust. An audience that includes cows that are either being clipped or milked during the performances. The entertainment roster is a thrill-ride of varying abilities. I tend to be a tad chatty..."A tad!" commented my friend Deb, "You talked all the way through the show!" Now, mind you, I stood in line for a half hour to get that woman a special-ordered fried elephant ear coated with cinnamon-sugar on one side and powdered sugar on the other. You'd think she could be a little more gracious. Who could possibly remain silent as little girls clog energetically to the inappropriately lyric-ed "Ain't No Holla Back, Girl"? Who isn't going to sing along with sister act Shelby and Haley's melding melodies as they harmonized on "Collide"?  We cheered for violinists, hula-hoopers, singers and dancers. During intermission, we admired the cellphone images of our former student, Brandon's lawn tractor, outfitted to resemble "The General Lee." Trying to recall Waylon Jenning's lyrics from "The Dukes of Hazzard," I inadvertently created my own mangled mix-tape:

                                                                Just a good ol' boys, 
                                                            Never meanin' no harm, 
                                                            Beats all you've ever saw,

                                       Been in trouble with the law since the day they was born

                                                    Wasting away again in Margaritaville.

You always leave the Wyoming County Fair wanting more. We weren't able to squeeze in time to ride the mechanical bull. We missed a prime opportunity to try and win a goldfish. Sarah refused to have her picture taken with a toad that can grow to the size of a dinner plate. We did learn how to craft our own plates by gluing printed fabric to Corelle ware. We cursed our luck that we hadn't been able to see the Fair Queen parade and talent show. This year, apparently, was particularly memorable as one of the contestants was outfitted with wings to resemble an appropriately-attired, homespun Victoria Secret's model and one of the talents included a demonstration on tree-climbing. Drat our bad luck! Next year, we may just have to spend more time at the fair. Maybe we could sleep among the livestock like so many kids do. Our sad regret is assuaged by the knowledge that Pike Fair is a reliable friend who will reappear next August, giving us another chance to be reacquainted with all the best that Wyoming County has to offer. 

Good grammar according to Evie and Jane

Typically hypocritical, I love to edit but hate to be edited. Re-reading my own blogs causes me pain as I inevitably stumble upon a spelling or grammatical error that, to me, invalidates my entire message and exposes me as a writing fraud. Teaching the parts of speech is so much fun but I'm still trying to decipher split infinitives and often unintentionally leave my particles dangling. How embarrassing. The writing process is fascinating as the brain must sift through thousands and thousands of words in search of literary gold. Yesterday, one of my summer school scholars had returned from a week of camp to revisit a developing paragraph on the traditional life of the Iroquois. When she encountered a brain block, I helpfully prompted her, saying, "Think of something you caught at camp." Her forehead wrinkled as she pondered, "A cold?"

Although I tread lightly around plural possessives, I adore apostrophes and will not abide the public mistreatment of punctuation.  The other day, friends and I were out for a little treat and passed a pizza shop sidewalk sign, advertising the day's specials: two pizza's for the price of one. I began to hyperventilate. Glancing furtively around, I crept up to the sign and discreetly wiped the chalked apostrophe off before scurrying away. Later, my friend, Evie spoke up. "Amy, Jane and I have an ELA-related question." Uh-oh, I sometimes get in over my head during these discussions. "Shoot," I said, semi-confidently. "Is is proper grammar to use the phrase 'these ones'?" Jane asked. Good question. The word these is a plural pronoun and those of you familiar with Schoolhouse Rock (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=koZFca8AkT0) will remember that a pronoun takes the place of a noun which, in this case, is the word ones. Although I don't know if it's wrong, it does seem unnecessary. "Let's think of a scenario where it might work," I suggested. After some deliberation (and snacking), Evie suddenly brightened. "What about this?" she said, "Imagine there are several piles of one dollar bills and someone asks which pile has the counterfeit bill in it?" Jane smiled, reaching across the table for the stack of imaginary cash. "These ones," she shouted, waving the magical money in the air. We digested this scenario for a moment. Score! Intellectual table conversation is so gratifying. I learned a lot. But the most important thing that I learned is, if you need any grammar tips, ask Jane and Evie.

A watermelon shark sculpture

I have a very specific skill-set. A talent for tireless clipart research. The endurance to sing the same line from a song repetitively for hours. An innate ability to tie any lesson plan to dachshunds (this skill happily complements my propensity for clipart inclusion).  I have an extraordinary gift for extorting 6th graders resulting in a packed-with-Pepsi faculty fridge. But it is when I am faced with an incredulous attitude of "Can-Amy-get-it-done?" doubt that I really shine.  Can Amy actually procure a single-prop plane for an Amelia Earhart lesson? Of course she can. Is Amy able to lease a llama (and a camel) to teach students about geography? Slap on your sombrero and turn on the video camera. You need a human-sized donkey suit? Call Amy. Only an act of nature or the resilient will of Brad Mosiman can interfere with my singular focus to get the job done. It was Brad Mosiman who prevented a live donkey from walking down the center aisle during a church service...kill-joy (hence, the human-sized donkey suit) and it was prevailing winds that prevented me from dropping thousands of small stuffed whales from a hot air balloon for what would have been the most remarkable fundraising event EVER...loosely named "The hail of whales."

I falter, however, when the attitude of "Can-Amy-get it-done?" shifts to "Of-course-Amy-can-do-it." I am immediately beset with self-doubt and uncertainty the moment I encounter someone who exhibits an unshakable trust in my abilities. I love to prove people wrong. I am an incompetent baboon (my apologies to competent baboons) when I attempt to live up to other people's expectations. The idea of letting someone down who believes in me is a terrifying prospect.

"Amy," my friend Deb asked (more like ordered), "I have a favor."  Her daughter Evie (renamed Levelyn, Levy, and Ela-van based on my varying states of fatigue or inebriation) graduated this year and the party is Saturday. Apparently, it is imperative to have a fruit sculpture at this event or all of those years learning where to appropriately place commas would have been for naught.  But who...who do we know...who would be able to delicately chisel a lifelike watermelon shark to represent Evie's scholastic achievement?  Naturally, my name came immediately to mind.  I was unceremoniously handed the Taste of Home article detailing how to accomplish this so-called simple task and then Deb launched into a stream of modifications which included replacing cantaloupe with in-season cherries accompanied by the required use of a complicated de-pitting device. Fearful that I wouldn't be able to locate the pineapple preserves in my local grocery store, Deb drew me a map after laughing hysterically when her husband innocently asked if I "put up" my own jams and jellies. While I was wondering where he thought I put them, Deb further insulted my homemaking abilities by telling him that my successfully opening a jar of Smuckers was as close as I was going to get to making marmalade.

http://www.tasteofhome.com/Recipes/Watermelon-Shark

Apparently, all of Evie's hopes and dreams center on the accurate depiction of this fruit-filled shark sculpture. My stomach is in knots as the weight of this watermelon-sized responsibility rests on my slightly-atrophied shoulders. Despite my trepidation, I will step up to the plate (or platter) and make this melon mine.  I am determined to de-pit. I will wield my melon-baller (for the first time) with sacrificial sincerity. I will rise to this occasion, asking not what a melon-baller is for, but what a melon-baller can do (my apologies to JFK).  Amy Mosiman will fulfill this favor of her friend. Amy Mosiman will do what needs to be done, not for the a-ha but for the uh-huh. Just when you thought it was safe to eat a fruit salad, Amy Mosiman makes a man-eating melon.