It’s that time of year again, when small country fairs start popping up like boils on a warthog. We have a lot of fall harvest fairs here in Connecticut, and I’ve been to them all. Here is my list of my favorite local celebrations:

Brooklyn Fair

In terms of size, the Brooklyn Fair is probably considered “quaint.” They do have some fun exhibits, like beekeepers and the old diesel engines that are boring as all heck to me but that I’m sure my father would appreciate.

Must See: There’s a wide variety of cows and bulls to admire, if you’re the sort of person who appreciates a healthy, well-groomed Holstein.

You Can Skip: I had the worst apple fritters that I’ve ever put in my mouth at this fair. I still regret not holding out for the mac ’n cheese vendor. I’ll know better next year.

Hebron Harvest Fair

I’ve been going to this fair all of my life, so really, this is a nostalgia thing for me. Over the years, I’ve seen them lose the used-book vendor, the mouse races, the giant candy tent, and the guy who sells chocolate-covered, cherry-glaze-coated popcorn. I still go, though, in the hopes that some day, the racing mice will return.

Must See: They do get some impressive musical performers. And the Demolition Derby is fun, I suppose.

You Can Skip: The camel at the petting zoo. Cool to look at, sure, but careful—she bites. Hard. Visit the pygmy goats instead. They bite, but softer.

Durham Fair

The Durham Fair is reputedly the largest agricultural fair in the state, and given the crowds they get every year, I believe it. There are tons of vendors, an impressive Better Living barn, and oxen pulls. There are also crying babies in strollers, crying adults on scooters, exhausted people, and lots and lots of elbows and body odor.

Must See: The Sweet Cioccolata guy. Remember the chocolate-covered cherry-glaze-coated popcorn I mentioned that I miss at Hebron? This is the one fair where that guy still sets up shop. And yes, I’m the kind of person who will pay $13 just to get into the fair and buy his wares.

You Can Skip: The animals. After Brooklyn and Hebron, haven’t you seen enough goats already?

Woodstock Fair

I think (sorry, Hebron) that this is my favorite fair. It’s huge, there’s a wide variety of vendors and exhibits, and the food—oh, the food! Bacon cheeseburgers and cheese fries and fried cheese nuggets and the Cabot cheese sample people in the agricultural barn . . . but it’s not just about the cheese. There’s the Ben & Jerry’s booth and the World’s Best Sundae and homemade milk shakes . . . and probably some non-dairy stuff somewhere, too. This is also the fair where I found an artist selling watercolors of all three Kennedy brothers. Total win!

Must See:  The aforementioned agricultural barn isn’t just about the Cabot cheese. They have apple slices and honey samples, and exhibits with bugs and bears and fisher cats (all dead). You’ll want to hold a fuzzy baby chick (not dead) and feel like a kid again.

You Can Skip: The portapotties. There are real bathrooms with fancy running water and everything across from the Better Living barn.

The good news is that fair season is drawing to a close soon. I do love a nice Kennedy watercolor and properly groomed Holsteins, but after a while, enough is enough. My waistline can’t take much more.

Many of you may not realize that besides being a Hiram Award-winning author, I am also a bit of an artiste. I started at a young age. This colorful drawing to my left was done in first grade. I titled it "Portrait of the Artist as a Turkey" and it hung on the bulletin board of my classroom for at least a month, the teacher was so proud. (My classmates' drawings were up there too, but really, mine was the best.)

Over the years, I've learned to experiment with various mediums. This little beauty was originally going to be a statement of sentiment using simple wooden sticks, but my artistic flair took over, and I added sparkles and cotton balls to fully express my true feelings regarding the holiday season. To me, it's simply a bundle of my raw inner essence, and it brings me to tears each time I pull it out in December. I call it "Snowflake of My Soul."

I'm not limited to colored wax or rounded wooden sticks when creating my art. Sometimes  –  most often in winter  –  I'm inspired to sculpt. This existential masterpiece was created in a flurry of artistic fervor. Using raw materials like snow, twigs, rocks, and a carrot, I was able to catch what can only be described as a startling statement against the political disarray that has kept Cameroon in the national spotlight for so many years. I call it "Bridge Over the Katsina Ala River." I can only hope this stark sculpture can bring peace in that troubled land.

I've found that many, many people simply don't understand my art. I'm sure I'm not the only artist who feels this way. The only one who has been truly supportive of my work is my mother, who often says "you know, dear, as an artist, you're really more of a writer." I'm not sure what that means, but she still proudly displays my creations on her refrigerator until I leave.

Apologies for the delay in posting today. I woke up with a migraine that found me on my knees before God, asking for forgiveness for whatever heinous sin I had committed to deserve such painful punishment.)

I had the opportunity to go to the opening of a photography exhibit last night. My friend Linda had eight photos in the show, so Jason and I went to show our support and to hobnob among the artistically inclined.
As soon as we got there, I realized my mistake. The people there were all dressed in fancy clothes from Chico’s and Coldwater Creek, while I was in my St. John’s Bay cords (on sale at Penney’s!) I own one dress from Chico’s, which I found at a consignment shop. I suppose if I’d worn it I’d be worried 
all night that someone would recognize it and say “Hey! I used to own the same dress, until I donated it to the poor.”
 
One of the wonderful qualities that Linda possesses is that she is not at all pretentious. When I apologized for wearing Penney’s, she waved me off and admitted that she too had forgotten her ascot at home (though she was dressed much nicer than I was.) She pointed out her photography, which included crisp, clear photos of lighthouses, monuments, and a beautiful shot of sunrise over the Atlantic, the wake of a boat glistening on the water. 
These photos made sense to me. I could recognize what they were of and could appreciate their beauty. She has a great shot of the gate at Fort Griswold, which looked like a cemetery.  
Personally, I love a good cemetery, and this particular photograph evoked a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

Some of the other photography displayed had me stumped.  One guy had a whole series of close-ups of what appeared to be rust. I squinted. I turned my head sideways. Finally, I had to admit my ignorance and ask Linda what, exactly, the pictures were meant to convey.

“Rust,” Linda confirmed.

Color me silly, but when I see an old water heater on the side of the road, I don’t stop to take pictures.  I knock on the owner’s door and give them directions to the town dump. Clearly, I don’t have an artist’s eye.

One artist had won honorable mention at an art show in Greenwich. His photograph still displayed the ribbon he'd earned, even though this exhibit was taking place in New London, which is about as opposite from Greenwich as you can get. Maybe the thing to do among photographers is to collect ribbons at different galleries and display them at every subsequent show, like people who collect pins at Disney World (a hobby I also don’t understand.) "Is that normal?" I asked Linda. She shook her head. 
I have to assume this guy was trying to brag about being recognized at a show that took place in the richest town in the country, but really, what he was telling everyone was that nobody in Greenwich bought his photograph. Artists are funny that way, I guess.

The ascots were getting thick in the room.  It was time for Jason and I to go.  We congratulated Linda on her gallery opening and headed for the door.

“Love those pants,” one woman said, stopping me.
“Thanks,” I said nervously. She was dressed in Vera Wang.
“My housekeeper owns the same pair,” she smiled.

Yup. This crowd was definitely outside of my comfort zone.