To start this week, I want to take a little mental trip back to a much simpler time.

A time filled with a kind of wide-eyed wonder that only comes with childhood.

And likely, a memory many of us may share, just from our own unique locations.

For me, growing up in rural Kentucky, the late summer meant one thing, the arrival of the county fair.

It was an event anticipated for months, and the first sign that it was near was the rumble of those

massive trucks rolling into town, carrying the skeletal frames of the ferris wheel and the tilt-a-wirl.

Seeing those flatbeds, often driven by weathered men who looked like they lived on the road, unloading their cargo onto the dusty field was a spectacle in itself,

with a promise of flashing lights and thrilling screams.

As dusk settled, the first few strings of bare bulbs would flicker to life,

casting an almost magical glow that could be seen from miles away, igniting a fervent excitement

in all the kids in town and in the young at heart. Once the gates swung open, the fairgrounds transformed into a temporary

wonderland. The dirt and uneven grass would be quickly covered with a layer of straw, a rustic

carpet that crunched underfoot, and carried the mingled sense of sweet popcorn, the sickly sweet

aroma of pink cotton candy, and just a hint of animal

from the nearby livestock show. The air buzzed with a chaotic energy, a symphony of tennie

music from the carousels and the excited shouts of children. We would run ourselves ragged,

either bouncing from ride to ride or sometimes, sprinting

from the exit of a ride right back into the snaking line for another go on the same one. The fair was also a

chance to reconnect with friends from school, fortifying old friendships and forming new ones over shared bags of greasy fries,

messy funnel cakes, and sweet lemonade. Of course, a trip to the fair always involved a bit of

strategic negotiation with my parents, a relentless campaign of pleading for just a few more

dollars for another strip of ride tickets,

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