Hi there all you awesome AtoZers and all others who've stumbled across my little infinitesimal corner of the blogosphere. I'm glad you're here today. Yesterday was insane. Youngest Urchin started puking at bedtime and was up most of the night. Earlier in the day yesterday the toilet tank broke and a huge chunk cracked off, flooding the bathroom. We had to tear out the flooring to the studs. Now there's other bigger plumbing and flooring issues besides taking out a toilet and replacing it. And this means we're down to one bathroom in the whole house. UGH!!
Anyway...this little gem tells about my encounter with a carny worker from the fireman's fair that comes to town every year and parks itself for four glorious days just past our back fence. The Urchins hang on said fence like rabid squirrels, salivating over all the rides as they're assembled during the week before opening day. I hope you enjoy this glimpse of my 2010 romantic side as I relay my belief that there's...
A Lid For Every Pot
I have a theory, that receives some rather substantial proof every
August when the fireman's fair erupts just beyond my back fence. This
theory may seem hopelessly optimistic, but I believe wholeheartedly that
there is a lid for every pot.
As the smells of funnel
cake and pizza, french fries and horse manure fill the air, a
sweltering mix of humanity flocks to the rides and food. A wondrous
mixture of lids and pots.
Some pots have found their
lids and display their tandem-ness with pride. The elderly couple who
shuffle along, carrying their aluminum lawn chairs to reserve their spot
on the grass for the gospel singers who perform the first night. The
vinyl webbing for the chairs has been removed, and in their place are
matching woven yarn patterns. His and hers. They sit together and chat
with everyone around them. He cheekily pats her knee with a gnarled hand
which earns him a girlish smile that rearranges her wrinkles and a
playful smack on his arm.
You look around and there's
the middle-aged couple advertising their fit by strolling arm in arm as
they wear matching outfits. Dressed alike, you can't miss that he's her
Then there's the odd couple. A gigantic man with
natural orange hair, pencil drawn eyebrows, tattooed eye liner, and a
lavender shirt covering his substantial bulk loudly expounds on the
golden era of Hollywood. A thin young man, in black from the tips of his
spiked hair to the tips of his combat boots hangs on his every word as
tightly as he hangs onto his arm.
Lids and pots.
Everywhere you look. Some matched up; others on the hunt. Flocks of
teenage girls giggle and scream, sounding the availability call to the
gaggles of teenage boys, who laugh and shove and bullshit their way
around the midway. The flashing neon lights of the rides and games draw
them just like clouds of moths, looking to try on a lid for the night to
see if it fits.
As I wait in line for the umpteenth
time to put my youngest urchin on her favorite ride, the operator
strikes up a conversation that doesn't require much on my part.
"How old is she?"
that's almost as old as my twins. They're four." He bares his twisted
teeth at me in a friendly sort of way. "I got a seven year old and another'n on
He nods his head across the midway to a surly
looking young woman with a severe ponytail; pregnant out to here. She
glares at me as she slumps in her decrepit metal folding chair, and I
smile the smile of someone caught staring, before she returns to taking
the tickets for her ride.
"They gave her a chair so's she c'n sit down."
nod, and he flashes those teeth again, as I try to decide if he's
seventeen or thirty. All I can discern for sure is he looks like life
has already ridden him hard and put him up wet.
he continues undaunted as he takes in the midway with awe, "They gave
us both jobs, 'n they've been good to work for. Just look at that chair
they gave her." His chest swells with pride as he gazes over at her
And I can almost hear the metallic clunk of a lid falling into place.
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