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.

My mother has taught me many things over the years. Maybe not how to properly apply makeup (and as a result, neither she or I wear any . . . and we look at my sister in amazement, wondering where on earth she learned how to brush on just the right hint of blush without looking like a circus clown). It’s okay—I don’t feel my life is lacking due to my inability to use a mascara wand without poking myself in the eye. She taught me more important stuff, like:

People will judge you by the company you keep. 
I wish this wasn’t true, but it is. This is why I had to stop hanging out with trolls. They’re not good for my karma. And pimps. I’m sorry, if you’re a pimp, we can’t be friends. Mom says no.

If you don’t like how something tastes, you don’t have to eat it. But taste it first. 
This was quite a change from my youth, when Mom’s general rule was “You’ll choke down what I cooked, and I'd better hear a 'thank you' for it!” (Also a rule in my house to this day.) Believe me, it was quite a revelation when I discovered that my mother had stopped eating black jellybeans. “I don’t like them,” she said. (Neither do I, but the genetics behind why my mother and I have the exact same preferences in both food and shoes is a conversation for another time.)
I parroted back her mantra from long ago. “But—but—that’s wasteful!”
 “Jellybeans are cheap enough. Try every flavor, of course. But if you don’t like  ’em, toss ’em. Or leave them for your father.” 
Wise words.

Stop complaining that you’re turning into your mother. 
It’s when you look in the mirror and see Grandma looking back that panic is warranted.

If you want something done, learn how to do it. 
I should point out that this is something both Mom and Dad have advocated all my life. Because of their guidance, I have in my lifetime: soldered a pipe to fix a leak; changed a car battery; applied for, cut through red tape for, and received a waiver to both install a septic system and drill a well on a 1200-square-foot piece of property in an ecologically protected area; sewn pillows, made my own pants, and patched a couch; and laid down new flooring. Piece of cake!

If you can’t do it yourself, ask your father. 
But only if you’re really, really sure you can’t do it yourself. I had to turn to Dad when my water heater gave up the ghost (all over my basement). But I was able to watch and help him install the new one, so I still learned a little bit.

Express yourself with words. 
Mom says she’s not a writer, but she sure does have a fabulous way with words. One of my favorite family expressions comes right from Mom: “Move your face closer so I can slap you.” It’s a joke in our family, but when I want to express my displeasure with someone, these are exactly the right words to use. Complaining because you’ve lost ten pounds and now you’re too thin? Sad that the BMW you just bought doesn’t have butt massagers installed in the seats? Is life just too darn good to you? Move your face closer.

Don’t feed the mogwai after midnight. 
I think Mom taught me this. Nope, wait, that was Gremlins. Mom said, “Don’t talk to that scruffy guy in the trench coat—he's a flasher.” Also a good rule to follow.

Speak softly, and in Connecticut, you know you can get a permit to carry a concealed weapon, right, dear? Ah, Mom. You don’t mess around with her.

There are other women, of course, who have also had a part in raising me: my Aunt Joanne (“The company of cats is often preferable to the company of people”), my Aunt Bea (“Why have one cat when seven will do?”) and my Aunt Joan (“Don’t look at me like that—all of your aunts are cat people, apparently”), for instance. Even my sister (“You’re putting on too much blush! Stop! Sto—fine, if you want to go out looking like a clown, go ahead.”) Happy Mother’s Day to all of the wise women in my life.

On Tuesday, my novel Ordinary Boy will hit bookstores (you can pick it up on Amazon as of today). It’s been a long time coming. About twenty-four years, give or take.

Let me explain. The story behind the book goes back to early 1991, when the news hit the hallways of my high school that two of our former classmates had been murdered by their stepfather. We had something like eight people die my senior year—car accidents, overdoses, the usual teenage fare—and I was getting a little tired of all the dying going on. But there was one detail about this spectacularly awful death that bothered me. According to the high school rumor mill, the boy my age (we’ll call him “K”) had been shot while hiding in his closet.

It was a detail that bothered me for years. So much so that twenty years later, when a paramedic at my old job mentioned his hobby was researching—ancestry, court cases, that kind of thing—the first thing I asked him was if he could find out what had happened to K’s killer. I knew the guy had been caught, but didn’t know much past that.

My paramedic came through. Besides reporting that the murderer had been sentenced to four consecutive life terms, he mentioned one small, monumentally important detail. K hadn’t been hiding in his closet at all. The rumor mill had gotten it wrong.

The weight of the world lifted off my shoulders that day. Wonderful news! I mean, sure, K was still dead, but no longer did he haunt my mind, crouching in the closet, holding his breath, hoping his stepfather’s wrath would pass him by. What a relief! All those years, I thought that poor kid was hiding . . . hmm. You know, that would make an interesting twist in a . . . oh, book, or something.

 So I started outlining a story about a kid growing up in the ’80s, trying to navigate his way through puberty, avoiding the school bully, making a friend and finding a girlfriend. I knew where it was heading. As much as I adored my main character, Curtis Price, his sense of humor and his vulnerability, things would not end well for our friend Curtis.

I didn’t know K well—I knew nothing about his hobbies, his friends, whom he dated, what kind of music he listened to, or what kind of car he drove. I’m certain Curtis resembles him not at all. The town, the details of his life, the neighborhood where he lived, the number of siblings he had, none of these remain the same in Ordinary Boy. But still, that sense of being an ordinary boy in an ordinary New England town who wasn’t really noticed until this one horrible thing happened—that came from K.

I can only hope I did all right by him.

“Reading Stacey Longo's Ordinary Boy is like opening presents on Christmas morning: the excitements of pathos, humor, terror, and surprise keep coming in this touching and relentlessly honest tale of growing up in small-town America. Longo is an original, and Curtis Price, the protagonist and narrator of her novel, is an inspired and wholly believable creation. Ordinary Boy sounds the depths of youth, adolescence, and young adulthood in a voice at once deft and ghostly and heartbreaking. Huck Finn, Nick Adams, Holden Caulfield—they all would've ‘got’ Curtis Price perfectly.” ~ David Daniel, author of Reunion and White Rabbit

Ordinary Boy is out now! You can buy it here: http://tinyurl.com/ordinaryboy

If you asked me, I wouldn’t say I live in the country. I’ve lived on a farm and an island. The luxuries I have now, like home delivery of mail, and a shiny Dunkin’ Donuts in the center of town, seem positively urban to me. However, I’ve had friends visit who have subsequently implied that I live in the middle of nowhere. Unfair, I say. Your town has two measly traffic lights, they point out. Not true, we have three. You missed the one they put in when we got that new-fangled CVS downtown. Then my houseguests stop arguing because they’re laughing too hard at the fact that I seem to sincerely believe my town has a downtown.

Okay, I’ll admit it: I live in a rural area. There are certain aspects about country life that maybe you city folk don’t understand. Here are a few:

1. Takeout, not delivery. Oh, how I envy you people who can call up a pizza place and actually have a pie delivered. If we want pizza, we have to get in the car and drive somewhere to pick up a pizza. There is no Dominos or any other pizza chain to deliver in 30 minutes or less. On the bright side, we save a ton of money, because we’re often not ambitious enough to drive for our food.

2. Wifi, not satellite. Nature’s nice and all, but because of the stupid trees surrounding us, we can’t get satellite television. Again, we save a ton of money, because with no cable or satellite bills, we watch television online. The downside: we have to stay off Facebook on Sunday nights to avoid Walking Dead and Downton Abbey spoilers, because the episodes aren’t available online until the next day. And I would sincerely appreciate it, Peter Dudar and Jeff Strand, if you would wait to post your Survivor comments until 24 hours after it airs.

3. Taco who? My town has no fast food, save the one Dunkin’ Donuts I mentioned previously. If we want McDonalds, Burger King, or Kentucky Fried Chicken, we have to drive thirty minutes. Remember when I complained about having to drive to get pizza? The pizza place is only twenty minutes away, and we can’t even muster up the energy to go there. We eat fast food exactly never.

4. Wildlife 101. When Jason first met me, he could not identify a woodchuck on sight, nor did he know the difference between a fox and a coyote. Now he can identify animals based on their poop, which we find frequently in the back yard. We’ve seen deer, foxes, bobcats, skunks, possum, coyotes, coyotes eating possums, red-tailed hawks, bats, owls, and more. The upside: I have never, ever, seen a cockroach outside of a zoo.

5. What public transportation? I had a roommate in college from the Bronx. She didn’t have her driver’s license because she’d never needed it. Conversely, we were taking drivers’ ed at 15 in my hometown. You couldn’t not have a license. The closest bus station was a 20-minute drive away. Now that I’ve moved one town over, it’s 30 minutes away. So I could drive 30 minutes and take a 30-minute bus ride to work, or I could drive the 40 minutes it takes to get to my job.

Believe me, I’m not complaining. I lived on an island where home delivery of mail or newspapers simply didn’t exist, the gas station was limited to alternating hours on alternating days (and believe me, if you couldn’t make it there between 9 AM – 12 PM on Saturdays, you were walking the rest of the weekend), and where Chinese food was a fancy mainland dish we could only dream of. So I’ll take the half-hour drive to Taco Bell. I may not go there often, but at least I can if I want to. And in my world, that’s as close to city living as I care to get.

Now please excuse me—I have to go feed a taco to the bobcat in the back yard.    

I’ve often lamented about living in Connecticut, mostly because it’s cold, the people who live here are rude and standoffish, and, let me say it again, it is cold. So why do I stay? Largely because my family and most of my husband’s family are here. But Connecticut isn’t all freak ice storms, shootings, serial killers and Benedict Arnold. Here are some great things about my home state:

1.    We have Wally Lamb. That’s right, you Maine elitists, you can keep your Stephen King, because we have the author of She’s Come Undone and I Know This Much Is True. Wally Lamb will pop up on the Connecticut landscape when you least expect it—an appearance at the Franklin library here, watching the movie filming of one of his books in downtown Norwich there. And every single resident in my beloved state will claim to have once had Mr. Lamb as an English teacher. Apparently, Connecticut also has a lot of liars.

2.    We have the WWE. Yup, the WWE is based right here in Stamford. Standing as a beacon to John Cena fans worldwide, it’s impossible not to spot the World Wrestling Entertainment logo atop its shiny gray/black headquarters off Interstate 95, and I guess we’re proud. As Connecticut residents, we have a love/hate relationship with the country’s top wrasslin’ organization. We love the money Vince McMahon spends on taxes, and the jobs he provides for residents. But we hate voting his wife into public office, which we’ve failed to do twice now. Why? Because Connecticut is chock-full of tunnel-visioned Democrats, and we refuse to let Republicans succeed. (This might not be entirely the Democrats’ fault, however. Our former governor keeps getting indicted for accepting bribes and perpetrating fraud, and as luck would have it, he’s a Republican.)

3.    If wrestling is too lowbrow for you, we also have ESPN. Yup, you “too good for wrestling” snob, we also have the biggest sports network in the world. If you’ve loved sports your whole life and want a career immersed in all things sporty, you’ll have to move to Connecticut to do it. And maybe we don’t want you here. See, Connecticut is also full of snobs.

4.    We specialize in good food.  Check your pantry right now. I mean it. Right now. I’ll wait. Bring me back some chips or something, will you?
Half of the stuff in your pantry came from Connecticut, if my skewed calculation of fractions is correct. That’s right. We’re home to Newman’s Own (Westport), Nestlé Pure Life (Stamford), Lender’s Bagels (New Haven), Mystic Pizza (Mystic), Munson’s Chocolates (Bolton), Bear Naked, Inc. (Norwalk), Stew Leonard’s (also Norwalk), Pepperidge Farms (apparently, Norwalk is really in to food) and Subway (Bridgeport). If there’s one thing we like to do in Connecticut, apparently, it’s eat.

5.    We’ve got the largest casino in the country, and another fancy one right down the road. If you’re a gambler with money to burn, you already know this and maybe already live here. But not only do we have Foxwoods, which, in addition to six casinos on site also has hotels, spas, restaurants, concert halls, golf courses, and a museum, but if you get bored, you can go to Mohegan Sun, ten minutes away. Mohegan Sun has three casinos, hotels, spas, restaurants, concert halls, and golf courses, but no museum. (Wait . . . is there a museum? Maybe there is. I don’t go there for the culture, folks. Like a true Nutmegger, I go there to eat.)

There you have it. I managed to find five good things about my state, and I didn’t even have to use the obvious ones, like Mystic Aquarium, or how the UCONN women’s basketball team is the better than yours, or the Mark Twain House, or how we only have the third highest cost of living in the nation, according to CNBC.

Now, if you want to visit our little corner of the nation and meet Wally Lamb, watch some wrestling, tour the ESPN building, eat a ton of food, and gamble, I would recommend you come do it soon. Winter’s just around the corner, and nobody in Connecticut leaves the house in the winter. Because—and I cannot reiterate this enough—it is cold.

It's that time of year when all of the towns you've never heard of start posting signs about their annual fall festivals. Jason and I like to do the fall fair circuit, mostly because we're both big fans of fried food. We've had to limit our fair-going this year, as we have a business to run, but we managed to stop by three. Here were the highlights of each fair this year:

The Middle Haddam Fair: Never heard of Middle Haddam? Neither have we. We sat in traffic for 45 minutes waiting to get to this little fair, nestled amid corn fields and cow pastures. I was surprised that the parking was causing so much traffic backup. Their sign said they'd been holding this fair for 102 years, so I'd hoped they would be able to figure out a more effective parking setup by now, but no such luck. It was convenient that there were so many fields nearby, however, as I spotted more than one fairgoer jump out of their car and pee in the pastures while stuck in traffic. It did make me thankful that I don't live there.
Once we parked, I noticed immediately (and with some alarm) that I was clearly overdressed. I'd worn a black blouse and neatly pressed jeans, and I looked like I was on my way to a formal dinner compared to everyone else. Clearly, I should have worn a shredded tank top that highlighted my bra, short-short cutoffs, and my cowboy boots (if I were the sort to own cowboy boots. I am not). I might as well have carried a sign reading "I grew up in Glastonbury, and I think I'm better than you" which, quite frankly, was what I was thinking.
The fair was small, a camel bit my finger, and I opted not to use the port-a-potties for fear of catching crabs.
Highlights: The apple fritters were yummy.
Lowlifes: One truck actually had a confederate flag hanging off of its trailer. I borrowed a lighter from one of the gentlemen trying to light cow pies on fire and managed to set the flag up in flames. Then I had to run like the wind to get out of there before the hillbillies caught me. Luckily, because I was not wearing cowboy boots, I made a swift getaway.

The Woodstock Fair: This is a pretty big event held in northern Connecticut every year, and since I once found a lovely watercolor depicting Jack, Bobby, and Teddy Kennedy here, I have fond memories of this fair. We went on a rainy day, which cut down on the crowds, and admired the cows, rabbits, and most importantly, food. I'd dressed more appropriately (tee-shirt, jeans that were too tight) and wound up feeling pretty good about my body by the end of the afternoon. Honestly, people: if you need to lose more than ten pounds, don't wear a thong, and if you do, for the love of God, don't let it show above your spandex pants!
Highlights: I ran into Dennis, my former coworker, and got to meet his wife and see his new baby. Also, there were no camels. 
Lowlifes: There was plenty of camel toe, however. Male and female.

The Hebron Fair: I've been going to this fair since I was a kid. Also, it's practically in our back yard, so it would be sacrilegious not to go. My aunt was kind enough to cover the store so we could attend on Thursday night. I do wish that I'd remembered Thursday night is Demolition Derby night, and that Jason loves the Demolition Derby. We walked around, Jason got a corn dog, I indulged in some cheese fries, and we settled down to watch a bunch of cars ram into each other. The temperature dropped to about 30 degrees right before the event started. Here is the actual text message conversation I had with my sister:

Me: I'm at the Hebron Fair, waiting for the Demolition Derby to start. If you could stop by and shoot me, I'd appreciate it.
Kim: You need to be shot. What's wrong with you, sis? Are you blowing out black snot yet?
Me: Hasn't started yet. The derby, I mean. Not my tears. Those started 20 minutes ago.
Kim: Want me to pick you up? I have tissues.
Me: No, my tears have frozen to my face.
Kim: Do they sell hot chocolate to help defrost the ice on your face?
Me: I bought hot chocolate and dumped it on my head to warm up and now my head's cold and wet.
Kim: How are the third degree burns?
Me: Painful. I passed out from the pain for a little while, so that helped kill some time.
Kim: AND helped keep you warm.

We made it through the event without getting hit by any flying bumpers, so overall, I'd say our outing was a success.
Highlights: Those were darn good cheese fries.
Lowlifes: The camel that bit me at Middle Haddam was at Hebron, too. It saw me, winked, and slowly ran its tongue across its hideous camel teeth.

Overall, our fall fair attendance went well. Jason bought a few clunker pretzels (he nearly chipped a tooth on one) but we bought some yummy apples from the Cavanna Farm Stand to make up for it. There were very few clowns, which was a bonus, but now I have a deep fear of camels. Also, I'm ashamed that there are people in my state who fly confederate flags and others who wear thongs when they shouldn't.
So there you go. Make your fair choices appropriately, and have fun.

Are you thinking of relocating to Connecticut? Good Lord, why? Have you not seen how much it costs to live here? Plus, if you Google “school shootings” or “circus fires” or “guys who have put their wives through wood chippers,” we show up on the top of all of these lists. Are you crazy?

Still determined to live here? Fine. I’m here to help. Here are some things you should consider when relocating to Connecticut:

1. Pick your town wisely. Yes, you will be judged solely on the town you live in. Living in Glastonbury, for instance, will buy you more social snootiness points than living in East Hartford, but less than if you lived in Avon. The closer you live to the New York border, the more stuck up you are allowed to be. As you move north and east, your social status will decrease, but I think we can all agree that the death knell to your reputation would be to buy a house in Jewett City. It’s just a known fact to us Nutmeggers.

Helpful hint: It’s important to keep your favorite baseball team in mind when you move to Connecticut. If you prefer the Boston Red Sox, settle east of the Connecticut River. If you’re a Yankees fan, head west. That’s the rule.

2. Do you like sports? More specifically, are you ready to follow the UCONN women’s basketball team off of a cliff if that’s what’s required of you? Fine. You should fit right in. However, if you prefer any other team or any other sport, you might want to consider another state, like Massachusetts.  Nutmeggers are famous for not bothering to leave their homes to support their teams. We’ve lost our MLB baseball team (the Hartford Dark Blues – also showing our lack of enthusiasm for clever names,) our NFL team (that’s right! We were home to the NY Giants from 1973-4, because we couldn’t muster up our own team,) and our NHL hockey team (still a source of heartbreak for the 237 of us who actually went to the games.) If you have no interest in team spirit, Connecticut might be a good fit for you.

3. Great education, terrible jobs. Times are tough everywhere, and Connecticut is no exception. We have fantastic schools and institutions of higher learning – Yale, Wesleyan, Trinity, University of New Haven, even UCONN – which means our retail and fast food workforce has the highest percentage of Ph.Ds in the nation.

4. Consider your political views. Are you a Democrat? No? Keep driving.

5. Weathering the weather. Connecticut is a beautiful place to live, particularly due to its seasons: Fall, winter, more winter, and smothering humidity. When moving to the Constitution state, you should be prepared for snow on Halloween, sunshiny Christmas days, frost in May, and sunny September hurricanes. It’s part of the fun of living here.

6. How do you feel about weird, life-threatening diseases borne by insects? You will learn more about Lyme disease, West Nile Virus, and Eastern Equine Encephalitis virus after one spring season in Connecticut than you’d ever learn in a lifetime anywhere else. See those pretty deer in your backyard? They’re dropping ticks all over your hydrangeas.

After considering all of these things carefully, maybe you think Connecticut is still right for you. Perhaps you figure you can overcome any adversity with the help of good friends and good neighbors. Because everyone knows how welcoming and friendly New Englanders are. 

Good luck with that.

I live in Connecticut. This statement alone explains why I was in long underwear at work last week, wore no coat on Tuesday because it was positively balmy out, and find myself today making a note to turn the heat up in the basement tonight to make sure the pipes don't freeze. If I had a time machine, I'd go back to Ellis Island and find my great-grandparents, just to whisper in their ears that the Carolinas are a lovely place to settle. (That's right. With the power to go back in time, I have no noble cause like trying to save President Kennedy. I want my ancestors to move somewhere warm.)
I have found, however, that there are certain traits Connecticut residents have that you just don't find anywhere else. So, for your enjoyment, my winter edition of "You know you're from Connecticut if..."

• You are not surprised when the snow starts falling before the leaves do.
• You get irrationally furious at people who can't drive in snow.
• You own a generator and know how to hook it up.
• You love hockey, and miss the Whalers, but you don't want to leave your warm house to actually attend a hockey game, which is why the Whalers left in the first place.
• You refer to four 40 degree days in a row in January as a heat wave.
• You throw your leftovers on top of the snow in the back yard because the coyotes look hungry.
• You're up to date on all of the latest styles in snow pants.
• At least one of your cars has 4-wheel drive.
• You think nothing of driving in a blinding snowstorm to get to Dunkin' Donuts. That's why you have 4-wheel drive, after all!

Well, I'm off to try on my new sporty pink snow pants. And if anyone has a time machine they can lend me, please let me know!