franco-american-inspired nostalgia

Last night the carnies set up a ferris wheel, but with death cages attached to the ends, replacing the more traditional seating. The granny smith apple from yesterday is now four apples: two red, two green, and they supposedly spin. It hasn't been set up yet, so I'm still in the dark as to how it's going to work. There's a kiddie-size scrambler, a ride I forget the name to but rode once at La Kermesse in 1987 (like a wire tire that you are strapped into, then it lifts up and spins), and lots of carny trailers. It's a nice little set-up, but I'm hoping there's more to it. Because if the carnival is comprised of nothing other than what's already there, I am going to have a hard time spending three days at it. I'll do it, but it'll be tough.

La Kermesse...1986 was my first year. We were living in Biddeford at the time. Fun. French. I think it was the next year that my Brownie troop was in the parade. We all got to dress in costumes. I was Mama from Mama's Family - I thought I was so awesome (who am I kidding...I was TOTALLY awesome!). The year that I rode the wire wheel of terror was the year that Lorrie got lost on the fairgrounds. A former teacher of mine, and Lorrie's then-current teacher, Mrs. McPhail, found her. That was also the night I learned that Mrs. McPhail smoked...it made me feel awkward, since at that age, and for many years after that, cigarettes were "devil sticks", consumed by bad people who did bad things. I can only imagine that it was a tiring brainwashing campaign on my mother's part. I was severely reprimanded for holding a candy cigarette when I was five, and since then, I can't come in contact with cigarettes without being overwhelmed with nauseating guilt. Lorrie doesn't have that problem. Not that she smokes, because she doesn't. But she has, at least once. She doesn't break out into a rash or have a panic attack when her best friend asks her to pick up a package of cigarettes for her (another story altogether. I did it, but at a cost to my mental well-being). She also never ended up arguing with another friend who wanted her to simply put a clove cigarette against her lips to taste the cinnamon (I couldn't do it even if I wanted to!) I have nothing against people who smoke. I have no qualms when people who smoke want to smoke in my presence. But I have no control over the resulting sadness.

Where the hell did all that come from? I'm cut off! More blogging later.