I’m always surprised by how quickly we find ourselves ‘in the middle of nowhere’ when we head off in search of some rural destination or another. Two quick rights from Tracey’s driveway and we’re soon skirting the boundaries of farm fields, marshes and forests—the cityscape fast disappearing in the rearview mirror. Ten minutes into the trip and we’ve slipped back in time to enjoy a little tour of pre-industrial Canada. Because once you’ve swung onto Leitrim Road and passed the community centre and the Canadian Forces station, there’s no there there. It’s countryside plain and simple, and it’s lovely.
Entering the nearby town of Navan last Saturday did little to destroy the time-travelling flavour of the drive. The welcome sign is carved in wood and proudly proclaims that the town was the site of the astounding “Fifty horse hitch.” Fifty horses on a single hitch, their lead reins nearly 170 feet long, were paraded down the quaint main street and into the world record books. In this very town. As we made our way towards the fair grounds, promising the boys that the heavy odour of fresh hay and fresher manure would subside, I realized that the past we had entered was my own.
This is Erin, circa 1982. The same small Irish village turning itself inside out to host a weekend fair, the same three long-time Lion’s Club members working the ticket booth, the same muddy assortment of John Deere and Massey Ferguson tractors lined up behind the agricultural buildings, the same cheesy glitz and laughter on the midway. Tracey felt it too, as she heaved Anabel’s stroller across the rough muddy tracks left by a horse trailer, jokingly calling the boys “city kids” as they screwed up their faces in disgust at having to pick around the ‘road apples.’ It’s a familiar scene to a pair of small town girls, but their children don’t know from rural fairs. We need to get them out of Centretown more often.
We let the boys have the run of the midway for an hour or so, following them from ferris wheel, to giant slide, to pirate den, to house of mirrors, to spinning strawberries. Carter even braved the Dragon Wagon rollercoaster, while Sam staunchly defended his right to sit out. They watched in slack-jawed awe as the big kids screeched their way through the startling drop zone ride, the speedy polar express, the gravity-defying tilt-a-whirl. Not this year for these two. Not next either. Much as they like to try teenager mannerisms on for size lately, declaring with conviction that they’re 18 years old, they look very much their age as they weigh their midway options and head for the cute stuff.
After a nice break in a shady playground on the edge of the fairgrounds, we walked back through the thick of it, explaining to the boys that the grown-ups wanted to see the exhibits. I loved that stuff in high school—the arts and crafts, the student projects, the baking, the prize vegetables. The sight of those ribbons pinned to the best in class still twists me up with irrational excitement. It’s nuts. I expected the kids to humour us, but they had a blast. Look at the scarecrows! Look at these bird feeders! Look at the Lego sets. Look! Look! Look! They ran circles through the exhibition hall and Anabel toddled after them, caught up in their excitement.
We’ve long been meaning to do the fairs, but they come early around these parts, with most towns staging them by Labour Day weekend rather than waiting for Thanksgiving. By the time my inner voice whispers “fall fair time,” we’ve missed out. But we’ll pay more attention now. It was nice to spend the afternoon out of the city, to participate in farm-based community events, simple celebration, and age-old fun that is all wrapped up in a small town fair. It’s the first time I got a strong sense of “Ontario,” as I know it, from anything connected to Ottawa. I like sharing that with Sam. Maybe next year we’ll catch the demolition derby, too.
Entering the nearby town of Navan last Saturday did little to destroy the time-travelling flavour of the drive. The welcome sign is carved in wood and proudly proclaims that the town was the site of the astounding “Fifty horse hitch.” Fifty horses on a single hitch, their lead reins nearly 170 feet long, were paraded down the quaint main street and into the world record books. In this very town. As we made our way towards the fair grounds, promising the boys that the heavy odour of fresh hay and fresher manure would subside, I realized that the past we had entered was my own.
This is Erin, circa 1982. The same small Irish village turning itself inside out to host a weekend fair, the same three long-time Lion’s Club members working the ticket booth, the same muddy assortment of John Deere and Massey Ferguson tractors lined up behind the agricultural buildings, the same cheesy glitz and laughter on the midway. Tracey felt it too, as she heaved Anabel’s stroller across the rough muddy tracks left by a horse trailer, jokingly calling the boys “city kids” as they screwed up their faces in disgust at having to pick around the ‘road apples.’ It’s a familiar scene to a pair of small town girls, but their children don’t know from rural fairs. We need to get them out of Centretown more often.
We let the boys have the run of the midway for an hour or so, following them from ferris wheel, to giant slide, to pirate den, to house of mirrors, to spinning strawberries. Carter even braved the Dragon Wagon rollercoaster, while Sam staunchly defended his right to sit out. They watched in slack-jawed awe as the big kids screeched their way through the startling drop zone ride, the speedy polar express, the gravity-defying tilt-a-whirl. Not this year for these two. Not next either. Much as they like to try teenager mannerisms on for size lately, declaring with conviction that they’re 18 years old, they look very much their age as they weigh their midway options and head for the cute stuff.
After a nice break in a shady playground on the edge of the fairgrounds, we walked back through the thick of it, explaining to the boys that the grown-ups wanted to see the exhibits. I loved that stuff in high school—the arts and crafts, the student projects, the baking, the prize vegetables. The sight of those ribbons pinned to the best in class still twists me up with irrational excitement. It’s nuts. I expected the kids to humour us, but they had a blast. Look at the scarecrows! Look at these bird feeders! Look at the Lego sets. Look! Look! Look! They ran circles through the exhibition hall and Anabel toddled after them, caught up in their excitement.
We’ve long been meaning to do the fairs, but they come early around these parts, with most towns staging them by Labour Day weekend rather than waiting for Thanksgiving. By the time my inner voice whispers “fall fair time,” we’ve missed out. But we’ll pay more attention now. It was nice to spend the afternoon out of the city, to participate in farm-based community events, simple celebration, and age-old fun that is all wrapped up in a small town fair. It’s the first time I got a strong sense of “Ontario,” as I know it, from anything connected to Ottawa. I like sharing that with Sam. Maybe next year we’ll catch the demolition derby, too.
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