This Age

This Age

A few months ago I bought Molly and I an all night ride pass at the Tunbridge World's Fair. The fair is a highly anticipated local event filled with all kinds of folks meandering shoulder to shoulder through the fairway chock-a-block with classic slam dunk games and spinning wheels a buck a shot for over sized stuffed bears and dogs, tractor pulls and agricultural wonders.

Molly has been relentless in her efforts to make me feel guilty about never taking her to Disney World as a kid (despite the fact that I funded her high school band trip there where she displayed her trombone finesse simultaneously with her amazing marching skills for all the world to see). To add insult to her injury I called her from Disney when I chaperoned a field trip of high school seniors a few years ago from Providence to tell her what a great time I was having. Sometimes, not TRYING to be an ass, I'd call her from the poolside where, each morning, I swam laps at the Liki Tiki Resort (the actual name of the place where we were staying!)  I really did miss her because I knew how much fun we would have had together.

So on a night with intermittent chilly rain at the start of a Vermont fall as we moved through the crowd with arcade lights flashing, children squealing and tugging their parents one way or another, and the smells of Blooming Onions, grilled sausages, and manure held close in a fairground that we sloshed through in our rubber garden boots, ankle deep in mud, people sliding all around us, car tires spinning at the entrance and exits, we were simply enjoying the opportunity to be there together. The place was pulsating with anticipation, ours included.

We wandered through Agricultural Hall, excited to see the mother pig with her piglets, some snuggled together, some squashed beneath her. Lambs were settled in for the night in their stalls, gentle bleating sounds and sweet hay smells. We oohed and aahed over the vegetable sculptures made by local children, and leaned in close over the fence posts to see who the photographers were that won the blue ribbons.

Molly didn't seem to mind that I was the oldest person on the rides that night at the fair. To her, there was nothing awkward about being 23 years old and standing in line holding her mom's hand while we waited our turn for the rides. And I really do love the rush of the fast rides, even if we had to wait a half hour to get on them.

We watched each ride before we decided which ones would be best. The bumper cars were not an option, too many people in that line, but we climbed, without hesitation onto the spinning rides, locked in with steel harnesses, that pushed us together at every turn, despite holding on tight. I have this strange laughing reaction to fear. The laugh comes from way down deep inside me and pushes out in odd girlish sounds, squeals more like it. Molly's response was similar, but her laugh was deeper. By the time I got off each ride my face and belly muscles hurt. We both had tangled hair and wild eyes and were looking for the next ride. I admit I did need a little break after the one that spins and turns and pushed our backs against the wall before the floor drops out. I couldn't seem to open my eyes. But I loved the feel of the moving night air, the sound of the jingling piped in fair music that seemed to flow with the rise and fall of the ride and yes, Molly was still holding my hand at the end of it.