Last Friday, my friend Amy and I went to the county fair. It was tractor pull night, and I couldn’t wait to hear the roar of engines groaning against the weight, to smell the pungent scent of gas and oil, to see the billowing black smoke fill the air.
Amy was game; of course she was. She’s a photographer and artist, and noticing is kind of her thing. She showed up with a camera hanging from her neck. “I’m ready,” she said, smiling.
I hadn’t been to a county fair in years, which is surprising, given how much time I spent at them growing up. Ever since eighth grade, fair marked the end of the season, the close of summer right before we headed back to school, before the dog days of August cooked themselves into fall. It was also where we looked to meet boys from different schools, decked out in our crop tops, flare jeans, and platform flip-flops. Armed with purses and lipgloss, we’d make our way to the lemonade stand for something to quench our thirst, something to carry, something to hold onto as we made our way around the blacktop loop over and over again.
*
When we got to the fair, I watched Amy’s face fill with wonder. “This is heaven for me,” she said, walking over toward three fair queens standing in line for ice cream. She hung back at first, snapping a couple photos. Then she moved closer, circling them. Once they noticed, it reminded me of a dance — Amy moved effortlessly, even as she held the camera to her face, elegantly stepping sideways to capture a different angle, and the girls grinned in their tiaras and blue jeans, satin sashes across their chests.
*
The truth is, I had been craving something different: a new environment, something outside my norm. The fair was the perfect choice. It was far enough away from my daily routine, yet deeply nostalgic at the same time. It was the sweet spot. Before this, I was thinking about the ways we trap ourselves. It started with a feeling of restlessness, a desire to shake off all the routines I’ve created for myself, a need to see something different. There are times that I’ve felt too “head down” rather than “chin up,” and I needed something to change at eye level.
These initial feelings are always a bit unsettling for me. What does this mean? I ask myself. Am I unhappy? Have I made the right choices? But once I move through that discomfort, I’m able to see it differently — as an opportunity to consider the ways in which I might call more joy or wonder into my life. That sense of being trapped, like the world is becoming smaller, closing in around me, is a cue to look for ways to widen it, to shift perspective. It’s a nudge to feel my way beyond the daily minutiae of tasks that feel repetitive, like machinery. I thought a brief change of scenery might do the trick. The fair? Perfect for that.
I invited Amy because she’s my friend, but also because I’m inspired and challenged by how she sees the world. I knew going to the fair with her would help unlock something in me. She sees the world as an artist. Her openness and willingness to simply be in the experience is the very thing that made her wander off while one of us was mid-sentence. But I loved it, because I could follow her eye. And watching her simply notice things — with no qualification, with no judgment — encouraged me to do it, too.
“This is how I work,” she told me. “I just let it happen.”
Have you ever done that? Just let it happen? Do your best to stay in the moment, to suspend any notions or judgments about what you’re seeing? It literally changes the way you look at things. When I intentionally opened myself to being an observer, I felt as if I could know more. I felt more curiosity, more joy. Simple, everyday things were suffused with a shifted quality, some slight magic, as if it were infused with a golden light. I even felt more empathetic, and compassionate toward complete strangers.
We ordered milkshakes, then headed to the grandstand to watch the tractor pull.
*
I thought that in order to exist in a different kind of world — one where I feel more open, more present — I needed to engage with it differently.
That night, in the rabbit building, I noticed a cage with two large flyers taped to the front of it. “Lost if found call,” the first read. The second was more urgent: “CASH REWARD for the return of a stolen rabbit.”
I searched around and saw a girl about 12. “What happened?” I asked her. “Was this your rabbit?” Her eyes widened and her face was solemn. She shook her head. “No,” she said, “but I know the girl whose rabbit it is. He was really sweet, really young. Like, if you came up to his cage, he’d come up and try to get you to pet him.” She pulled a video up on her phone, of a moment when the small, young bunny was safe in his cage at the fair, his nose twitching.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I hope she gets her rabbit back.”
*
Nostalgia is defined as “a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for a return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition.” In that way, nostalgia might be defined as a ghost.
A fair — for me — is nostalgic as it gets. That first taste of freedom. Staying out until late with your friends. The squeal of tires, the clouds of dirt, the flying clods of mud at the demolition derby. Flirting with boys after the sun went down and the helmets were hung up for the night. Those quiet electric moments in the dark, the buzzing and chirping that carried like music across the newly-cool air, laughter as you slip a sweatshirt over your head.
I think indulging in nostalgia is a lot like chasing ghosts. It’s a longing for something elusive; a desire to conjure.
At the end of the night, once it was dark, Amy and I lingered around the Midway, were the middle-schoolers were meeting up. A squad of girls who were maybe 13 years old were talking to each other as they waited in line for deep-fried candy bars. They all wore the same uniform: tank tops with jean shorts, beaded Taylor Swift bracelets, and white platform Chuck Taylors. I stared at their feet, oddly mesmerized by the matching shoes as they scuffled through the dirt.
I felt this 🖤 reading your work is such a gift
You have the gift, Ashley! I