The Church Factor Written by Neoma Finn

I used to love going to all those silly little festivals held in small towns and villages

throughout the countryside.

You know the ones, they're nearly always named after a fruit or a vegetable that grows

in that part of the world.

They consist of contests themed after the said fruit or vegetable, and food is baked

with the same fruit or vegetable as the main ingredient.

A few of them might be named after a flower or an animal, but they all involve the same

types of activities, and they almost always culminate in a street dance, and I love those

darn things.

I'd get off work on Friday night and drive halfway across the country if I had to, I'd

spend the night nearby and do my best to be the first one to arrive the next morning.

They were a piece of Americana that doesn't exist anymore, the epitome of wholesomeness

and honor, and I loved them right up until the last one I went to.

I was in my 20s back then, and a bit reckless, and never occurred to me to tell anyone

where I was going or when I would return, nor did it ever cross my mind to ask anyone

to come with me.

I can't count the times when I'd be watching a bunch of kids race each other on pedal

tractors, or group of adults with their hands tied behind their backs and their faces

planted in plates of blueberry pie, and I'd think, you know, so and so would have really

loved this, but by then I was there and it was too late to ask.

I would have given my right arm if I had only asked a friend to go with me to this last

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