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  • Writer's pictureKelly Marks

County Fair

I don’t know how all of this started, but when you’ve been with one person for so long, at some point, they’ve heard all of your stories at least once, and you’ve heard all of theirs.


Randomly Paul or I will find something the other doesn’t know. If it’s something about me or one of my stories, my mom will get a text or a call out of the blue from either Paul or myself, trying to verify the details or the truth of it.


Her reply will usually include at the end, “You guys talk about the weirdest things.”


A few nights ago, Paul and I were talking about the Dixie Classic Fair. It was the fair that came to Winston-Salem every year at the end of September through the middle of October.


It was a right of passage. Everyone went. It was crowded and dirty and you could bet it was either super hot, super cold, or raining. I’m not sure it was ever perfect weather. But that didn’t stop us.


Talking to Paul that night, I was warming to my subject. As I continued to describe the rides, the midway, the food, the livestock, and the exhibits, I told Paul that back in the day I had actually entered biscuits in the fair for judging and had in fact, won a blue ribbon and two reds.


Paul was incredulous. And to be honest, I see his point of view. He’s lived with me and eaten my cooking and seen my “experiments“ go horribly wrong on numerous occasions. The fact that I actually won a ribbon for my cooking was probably pretty hard to swallow. (sorry - pun intended)


I gleefully jumped up and told him I could prove it. I knew exactly where the ribbons were. I ran upstairs, dug to the back of the closet and pulled out the box of mementos I had saved. Everything in the box was exactly where it was in my mind's eye, except the ribbons. They were nowhere to be found.


The next day I dug through the attic, still to no avail. In the back of my mind, a little doubt started. Did I throw them out? I started to feel more and more certain that I had. Paul claimed it was further proof that there really were no ribbons and absolutely no truth to my story.


Later that day, after realizing the ribbons were nowhere to be found, I heard Paul’s scuttling hurriedly down the stairs and straight out the door only to return a minute later and scuttle right back up the stairs. Having been together for so long, I might know all of his stories, but I also know when he’s up to something.


As I went to bed that night, I pulled back the covers and there were ribbons on my bed. A blue one and a red one. All the scurrying had been an Amazon delivery.


I was telling my mom about this and laughing and she said “That’s either really sweet or a slap in the face.” I said, “Guess which one.”


The next day I decided to try my hand at scratch-made biscuits again. Let's just say it's been a while. When I came back into the kitchen, there was a white, 3rd place ribbon lying beside the biscuits. Why do I have the feeling this could be the new thing around here?






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