Every summer on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, there is a Brigadoon known as the Cecil County Firefighter's Carnival.
Cecilton is forgettable, and that is kind. But the carnival was always fun. I give full props to the volunteer firefighters (many of whom I knew from my summer job at the marina, where they worked as mechanics or painters on yachts and sailboats). They are a dedicated bunch, and they know how to throw a carnival.
I have a fuzzy memory of bright lights, funnel cakes, rides that make you *almost* puke, and the sweet freedom of a pocketful of tickets.
* * * * * * *
Going to a carnival as an adult is different.
It's sort of like when they turn on the "ugly lights" in a bar at last call. It looks a lot different than you thought, and not in a good way.
Durel and I learned this last weekend. Luckily, we had enough Tums and Advil to get through it, and were able to enjoy Jack's view of the event, which is utterly carefree.
[I mean, it's just scary to think of all these rides being taken apart into transportable bits, nuts, bolts, and pieces and then reassembled, ridden, disassembled, transported, reassembled, and then ridden by you and your child, the most precious thing to you in the entire universe. In retrospect, I prefer the firefighters and mechanics.]
[But you know what? Everything is scary if you think about it wrong. So, we got our bad selves in line and rode the rides because that's what you do.]
Jack and I rode the Ferris Wheel.
|It's really pretty from up there!|
Jack and Durel rode the roller coaster.
|Raise'em like you just don't CAYAH|
We did not take a camel ride, go inside the weird tent to see the "World's Smallest Horse," which the sign said in bizarre, Wizard of Oz style wording, was "Positively Alive!" or pay $12 for a turkey leg.
Sawyer maintained a Zen-like composure while watching us. Wise baby, he is.