Washington County Fair: Looking at Cows

The cows at the Washington County Fair this year were good. They were well cared for, and of a pleasing variety.

I wind up taking a lot of photos of cow rears, mainly because that's how they're tied up. But I also enjoy their diversity of shapes. This Holstein heifer has yet to develop her ginormous udder. Enjoy it while you can, hon; soon you'll have a 60-pound bag, that inflates to twice its size morning and night, there to deal with.

From left, Guernsey, Jersey, Ayrshire and Jersey calves.

A wee Hielan beastie!! The first I've seen at the W.C. Fair.

She was thirsty and her bucket was dry so Shila and I went to find someone to refill it.

Such a sweet little animal. To me, she was right out of a cave painting, something ancient.

 A beautiful Lineback.

 

and a sleek little Jersey. I love Jerseys. Richest milk of them all; the cream floats up solid and yellow to the top.

There were so many things to see, but as night fell the midway beckoned.

I absolutely love the velvety blue sky with the little lit food palaces sprinkled around. Evening is my favorite time at the fair.

You couldn't have found a vegetarian entree if you tried, and we did. 

Somebody was offering deep fried vegetables, but the line didn't move in a half hour so we gave up.

Each year I seek out this old John Deere gas engine which turns the crank on an ice cream machine. But it wasn't running just then. I always think of my dad, who loved to take his engines to fairs. He'd sit all day answering questions about them. One of his favorite moments was when two little girls started to dance to the rhythmic popping of the engine.

There will be other things to remark upon, like loofah/hot pepper/canna leaf arrangements. But for now,  this is probably enough. 

Remembering and Wishing

It was hot, hot, hot at the fair. Nineties. Humid. The heat was coming up off the asphalt on the midway, drying my kids up like French fries. After we finished the water we'd brought along, I kept buying bottles of cold water and emptying them into my babies. Liam found a way to keep cool in the cattle barn.

The heat collected under the carousel's canopy, and Liam almost swooned as we waited for the music to begin and the horses to start their dizzy gallop.It was time for ice cream. I followed the sound of a one-lung gasoline engine, circa 1900 or so. It sounded like a John Deere, and it was. This was the first model of engine my dad ever restored, and by the time he died, he'd restored dozens. He was good at it. He tore them apart and cleaned and greased every moving part, and then he painted them in original colors, sometimes asking me to do the lettering or pinstripes, and put them back together. He'd sit on a bunch of newspapers on the basement floor with hundreds of little parts spread out around him, his legs out like a kid playing marbles, and mutter to himself as he worked (or played).

He would have liked Liam and Phoebe, if he had ever gotten to meet them.

When he finally got them reassembled, he always liked to start them up for the first time to see if he'd done it right. Remember, this was in the basement of our house. The exhaust would drift up the stairs, along with the sometimes deafening report of the engine firing (if he hadn't put a muffler on it), and when she couldn't stand it any longer my mother would stomp over and holler DAAALE!!! down the stairs and slam the basement door and you'd hear him shut it down, the flywheel coasting to a whispered halt. Then you'd hear some muttering and tinkering and before long he'd give the flywheel another crank and the whole show would repeat.

Because I'd been hanging around like a dirty shirt while he rebuilt the things, I always ran downstairs to congratulate him on another busted-up engine brought back to life. I always wished my mom would at least go down a few steps to take a peek at what he'd accomplished, but she didn't think much of having to pick her way through antique engine debris to get to the Maytag.

The man tending this ingenious setup--the engine is turning the ice cream makers' cranks-- was pleased to have someone come by who knew what she was looking at. I was taken away by the pop and chug of this noble machine. All that iron for a quarter horsepower.

Something was wrong, though. It looked right, sounded right, but the nostalgic loop was incomplete.

You're not burning gasoline in this, are you?
Nope, Coleman fuel.
I didn't think it smelled right.

The ice cream was darned good, nice and sloppy, but not as good as Dad's. Mom used to buy Golden Guernsey milk and put extra vanilla in, too. This was made with regular old Holstein milk, I think. Dad was forever trying to figure out how to hook an engine up to the churn, but never got the ratios right. He'd have loved this, hanging out all day making ice cream. He used to take his engines to the Virginia State Fair in Richmond and come home hoarse from talking about them all day.

Good thing this old Deere wasn't burning gasoline. Had I caught the scent of that old familiar exhaust, I know I'd have stood there and bawled.