County fair life prepares for unfairness in life

The county fair rolls around only once each year, and it’s probably a good thing. It’s simply too much work for those involved to be expected to make it through even one week, let alone an encore performance six months later.
What is a county fair? An eight-day special event extravaganza where millions of small pieces and people come together in one brief venue, yielding various pay-off to various factions of those involved.

FAIR UNFAIRNESS – Sometimes the hard work exhibitors put into it seems to pay off. Other times, it feels like circumstances are ganging up on you.

Well, if that statement didn’t knock all the romance and nostalgia out of the county fair, I don’t know what would. Like fireworks, the county fair goes off with a bang and before you know it, the bright lights have burned out and you are packing up and heading home. But its life lessons last year ‘round.
The biggest events end up much shorter than all the preparation you put into getting ready for them; the hardest working person sometimes sees zero reward, while some slacker takes the prize; and the ride you stood in line forever to board ends up making you vomit the elephant ear you wasted your whole allowance on, and you walk funny for the rest of the day. Yes, learning abounds at the fair.
One of the best things about the county fair is that participation is a family event. Everyone living under one roof can take part and work together as a team. That said, one of the worst things about the county fair is that it is a family event. The pressure of trying to get it all done exposes your family team’s flaws and legacy issues.
Everywhere in life, there are haves and have-nots. The county fair is no exception. With regard to the “haves,” there are certain families that have winning legacies with certain types of animals or certain events within animal divisions. For instance, sometimes a family has an exceptionally well-trained “push button” horse that gets passed down through successive children. Heirloom unfair advantage.
Some families have the means to pay for professional training of their animals. Other families are able to travel and compete at livestock shows throughout the year, to the point when it comes time to enter the county fair show ring, they look bored instead of anxious. It’s so second-nature, they could very well carry a cup of coffee and check their cell phone messages while showing their animal.
I used to run into their adult, oratory counterparts in Toastmasters speaking competitions, so I can easily spot them. Some belonged to multiple Toastmasters clubs and speaking associations, and/or underwent private coaching and had jobs where they presented regularly. Was I envious? You betcha! Technically, they may not have been “professional” speakers, meaning they got paid specifically for speaking, but they were professionally prepared.
No matter how hard you try when up against the professionally prepared, the best the authentically amateur can hope for is a distant second place. While we like throwing around the maxim, “Hard work pays off,” sadly, there’s no guarantee. In addition to that disappointing reality, there’s an ironic, greater battle that gets waged among the “have-nots.”
Within the amateur ranks, there are always those who work their working-class tails off to become the best they can be within their financial and status limitations. While they can begrudgingly accept losing to the much more polished “haves” (due to years of practice), they emerge shell-shocked when they get knocked down a few notches by other “have-nots” whose stars have briefly aligned.
There is nothing more frustrating than losing in competition to someone whom the universe has sent an undeserved, lucky 4-H clover reward disproportionate to the hard work he/she did NOT put into his/her animal project. I know, because I have been both the spoiler and the spoilee in the unfairness sweepstakes. Worst case scenario is when the spoiler is a sibling! That’s the ultimate stinks-to-be-you experience.
As one county fair father said of his children’s arguing over the unfairness of the other siblings not working hard enough during their jointly-scheduled animal barn duty, “Welcome to real life, where you will encounter endless unfair. Get over it. Get used to it.”
Life lessons served fresh daily at the county fair.

Saying an ambivalent farewell to a family pet

Got a text from my children’s father early the other morning. Where was my gray and white cat? Actually, I was petting “Kitten.” Good, he said, because a gray and white cat was dead in the road near my house.

“Whew, not OUR cat,” I sighed. After everything else unfortunate that’s happened in recent months, I didn’t want to have to tell my kids the youngest stray in our country drop-off collection was dead.

Walking across the front lawn later to get the newspaper, I saw what looked to be a dead raccoon in the road. Hmm. The reporter of the dead gray and white cat must be colorblind. But as I reached the road, I could see white paws and underbelly. Nooooo! It was Gibbs, the cat we’d had the longest. I wanted to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head.

Because it’s a main road, the cat needed road-removing sooner, not later. So I returned to the house and awakened my son and daughter. “Good morning,” I said, “Gibby got killed in the road and we need to go get and bury her.” They groaned, but hustled to help.

It had been four years since we had last laid a pet to rest. Actually, it wasn’t a big difference from Gibby’s usual state – sleeping all day upstairs on the folded comforter at the foot of my bed. I hate that pets simply lounge all day, doing nothing except waiting for us humans to wait on them. Then when they die, we get to engage in aerobic hole-digging activity. Some deal!

I toyed with the idea of professional pet cremation, but since I wasn’t working, had an endless supply of elbow grease and an ample amount of property, plus an extensive selection of shovels, I dismissed the notion.

Experience informed me to choose a flat snow shovel for flat cat removal and a pointed camping shovel for grave digging. Connor volunteered to serve as pet cemetery sexton, but needed help selecting an appropriate grave site. I chose one on the practical basis of fewer tree roots. I donned latex gloves and headed to the road. Kate watched for traffic to prevent me from becoming collateral carnage.

As it had recently rained, the digging went surprisingly easily, aside from my son stopping after every shovelful to ask, “Is this hole deep enough yet.” He was angered I wouldn’t sign off on too shallow of a grave. I helped shovel in compromise. With each deepening divot, I couldn’t help but note that come burial time, even the smallest pets always seem twice the size they were while alive. Or maybe that’s just my aching shoveling shoulders talking.

I placed Gibbs in the just-deep-enough grave. At Connor’s insistence, I arranged her paws into a more natural, reclining pose. We made spectating Kate replace the dirt. Then I offended them both by stepping on the snow shovel atop the dirt mound to level it.

“That’s just wrong,” Connor said. Not as wrong as catching it with the lawnmower blades tomorrow.

Normally we deliver a short pet eulogy. What to say about Ms. Gibby? We got her from a couple who’d received her as a stray around when they’d both been diagnosed with cancer. Gibbs had lost the tip of her tail in a fight with a screen door, was nervous and flatulence-prone. It was just too much for them.

Connor named her after the NCIS television show character, “Gibbs.” She was an accomplished mouser, ground moler, chipmunker and batter, dragging prey onto the porch for our “oohs” and “ahs.” Although declawed, Gibby expertly disemboweled her victims and habitually left assorted rodent organs in the paths of unsuspecting feet. Ooh. Ah. YUCK!

Gibbs loved to snuggle, paws around your neck, face buried in the crook. When she’d suddenly tire of tenderness, she’d forcefully launch herself away. Ouch. The presence of “Kitten” had activated her deepest anxieties. Gibbs had started leaving him foul-smelling messages of displeasure.

Consequently, I was starting to mark her days. But the road had risen to meet her, defaulting me to the preferred role of tearful mourner, versus villainous executioner. It’s good to be Irish and blessed.

Kingsley’s life built on small-town foundation

ONGOING HUMILITY – Pictured here at his 2014 retirement party, no matter how far Jim Kingsley went in life, he never forgot where he came from and treated everyone as if they were on the same level as him.

On the judicial circuit, he was revered as “The Honorable James C. Kingsley.” But when back home in Union City, everybody knew him as “Jim” from the Class of 1959. That’s one of the reasons Jim Kingsley, 1941-2015, was so honorable. No matter how far he travelled in life, he never lost sight of where he’d got his start. Our family got to witness his journey.

As the proprietors of Donovan’s market in downtown Union City during the 1950s and 60s, my mom’s side of the family knew the Kingsley family on East High Street. Both sides of my family have long been friends with Jim Kingsley’s in-laws, the Case Family. We couldn’t have been happier to see Jim marry Judy, except for the fact that they settled in Albion instead of Union City. Hey, you can’t win ‘em all.

Growing up along Union City’s St. Joe River, Jim developed into a standout student and athlete. He took the neighborly, small-town values he acquired, including the customer service lessons honed at Horton’s store in Union City, with him when he went on to attend Albion College and then the Northwestern University School of Law. He applied them in his law practice and with his own family, the childhood sweetheart he married and the two successful children they reared who are also grounded in community.

The year he was seated on the Calhoun County Circuit Court bench, 1982, Jim keynoted my high school commencement. While I can’t remember exactly what he said, I remember being inspired to make something good out of my life like Judge Kingsley had.

My positive impression of Jim was reinforced every time I saw him after that point, including a 2008 interview where he said he hoped to be remembered as someone who “meant well.” At his 2014 retirement celebration, listening as multiple people feted Calhoun County’s longest-sitting circuit court judge of 32 years, nine months, it was obvious Jim had not just meant well, but done well. He was respected locally, statewide, nationally and internationally.

The last time I spoke with Jim, he was in Union City to eulogize his late sister-in-law, the irrepressible Sally Case Gifford, at her memorial service. I had a great vantage point, the piano bench at Lighthouse Funeral & Cremation, playing hymns.

Jim told stories of growing up around Sally, his wife’s sister, and the rest of the Case clan. His affection for family, togetherness and our community was evident. After the service, he inquired how my daughter was recovering from her recent illness and expressed concern regarding my job loss. He listened intently. While sometimes an overlooked quality among Kingsley’s attributes, to me, Jim’s ability to listen was perhaps the most foundational quality upon which most of the others rested. He always honored others through his attentiveness.

As I gave an update, Jim leaned forward, cocked his head slightly and trained his eyes in my direction with a thoughtful expression on his face. It conveyed that while there were many other people nearby, he was focused exclusively on me.

After I finished speaking, Jim bowed his head, touched the knuckles of his hand to his closed mouth and reflected a few moments before speaking. When he looked up, he earnestly expressed his thankfulness for Kate’s improving health, offered encouragement for coping with uncertainty, shared couple of job search ideas, then supportively squeezed my hand in parting.

That was gentlemanly Jim, as eloquent in how he spoke to everyone as was Robert Frost, in one of his favorite poems, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”:

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.”

Although Jim Kingsley was laid to rest in the heat of summer, the promises of love and loyalty he kept to family, friends and the communities where he resided will keep memories of him kindled through the winters of life to come.

May future recipients of the James C. Kingsley Memorial Scholarship, so graciously established by Jim’s family, honor his memory through continued connection to community roots, no matter how far life takes them.

Family work bonding creates resentments

CHILD LABOR EXPLOITATION – Although adults vehemently deny it, all children recognize the only reason their parents reproduced was to save money on hiring out crappy jobs, which can instead be ofted onto their offspring.

If my farmer dad were still alive, he would have just turned 82. My guess is he would still be working because he was wired to be tireless when it came to work.
What is work, anyway? It’s defined as a job, a form of labor, a duty, a deed or an accomplishment. By those standards, my father was a highly accomplished man, for all he ever did was work.
Surprisingly, Dad never complained about working. Sure, he might cuss about the #%*@! cattle that foolishly broke out of green pastures to get into the neighbor’s wheat stubble or say a few choice words about the ever-increasing price of binder twine during hay baling season, but he never complained while fixing fence or baling hay. He’d whistle cheerfully.
My older sister and I did enough work complaining to make up for it. Because we wanted to avoid getting backhanded into tomorrow, we never complained directly to our father, but to our mother. We indirectly blamed her because she’d married and reproduced with him. But mostly we complained bitterly to one another the whole time we worked, which made things worse.
“It’s your turn to go to the truck for insulators,” my sister would snarl at me.
“Well, I can’t drive the truck ahead to where dad is working,” I’d snarl back.
“It’s not my fault you’re too short and stupid,” she’d reply. So I’d throw a rock at her, putting yet another dent in the tailgate of the old red farm truck. Meanwhile, Dad was bent over, wire pliers in his mouth, waiting for an insulator to wind the electric fencing around.
“Just give me a #%*@! insulator,” he would shout. “Better yet, bring me the whole #%*@! box of them. Don’t make me step in or you won’t like it.”
We weren’t liking much of anything about fence building. Seems like we were either baking like raisins in the sun or being eaten to death by mosquitos. He barely noticed because even the most determined couldn’t penetrate the thick hair on his arms.
There was no such thing as a water break because Dad never brought along water. It’s probably a good thing because he wasn’t big on bathroom breaks, either. Which is also good because someone who doesn’t carry water is doubly unlikely to carry along a roll of toilet paper. If dad had to go, he’d just slip off behind a tree or go behind the truck. We girls had to turn a deaf ear to nature’s call, which made trudging back to the truck for insulators even worse.
I recalled those happy family/work bonding times recently when I rounded up my son to weed- whack. I’d wanted to do it myself because I find it satisfying, but the evil eight-foot hedge required a step-ladder-aided trim, so I delegated the easier job to my son.
“I don’t want to. It’s too hot. This is too heavy. And it’ll take too long,” he informed.
“Wait, aren’t you the guy who weight-lifts and attends sports practices held in the hot sun?” I asked.
“But you actually LIKE doing work. I don’t,” he said.
What?!?! There’s a big difference between actually liking dirty, crappy jobs and being disciplined enough to do them. If I didn’t keep right on him, albeit difficult from atop the ladder, he’d pretend he was done and go back in the house. Dragged back outside to work on the big hedge, he refused to lean precariously off the ladder and thrust whirring blades at out-of-reach stuff, like I do. Safety became his new excuse.
Kate arrived home later, exhausted from non-slumbering at a slumber party. She suggested waiting yet another day on moving the wood pile and resisted when I insisted it happen then.
“Fine, then I’m going to complain the whole time,” she sputtered. My speech on how nice it would be to view our accomplishment afterward was lost on the siblings as they bickered over who was taking too long to put on gloves, picking up the lightest pieces, and stacking the pile crookedly.
“Don’t make me step in or you won’t like it,” I heard myself say. Wouldn’t my dad be proud!