The end of the summer is known by the newly posted sign on the staple laden telephone pole announcing this year’s agricultural fair. Sad that the summer has fallen behind us, but we do take this opportunity to venture to well worn fields laden with the deposits of farm animals. We are, however, rewarded by a tour of the agricultural tents. We politely scrape our shoes at the saw dust entrance that invites us to view the award winning pies, jellies, jams and an occasional oversized cabbage. Like any fair, the air is thickly laden with calories made up from wafts of fried dough, freshly cut french fries and in this neck of New England, clam fritters.
In the far corner of the fair crowds gather on a hillside to watch the demolition derby. Cars roaring across the track, zig zagging, as if annoyed with each other. They smoke with fumes, crashing into each other taking their toll, dents, and frustrations out as the crowds cheer them on. Beefy men sit on the fence watching the festivities while smoking large cigars, dreaming of what the world would be like if only the highways would only allow such behavior.
A fair would not be the same if it did not include the influx of young men infused with testosterone, catching stolen glimpses of the young girls that pass by in sets of three. This is a rite of passage at a fair. This begins the evening activities and the hope of further development.
Agriculture is still strong in the quiet corner of Connecticut with membership to 4-H and local high schools still offering a farm focused curriculum. Getting a living from the earth still is clearly visible from the popularity of local farmers markets that have sprouted up, with each town hosting their own on a different day of the week. Farm to fork is a way of life. It is the rhythm of the soil. This has been a good year for growing, a a local farmer stated. “You could not have scripted a better season”.
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