Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, August 6, 1995 TAG: 9508070008
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: ELIZABETH OBENSHAIN
DATELINE: CHRISTIANSBURG LENGTH: Medium
It's part of the unchanging cycle of rural life. Whether it's the New River Valley Fair or smaller community fairs in Newport and Prices Fork, the lure is still the same - to prove to your neighbors that you bake the best yeast rolls or raise the biggest squash or have the county's heftiest Charolais bull.
Growing up on a farm, I spent weeks trotting after my three older brothers as we groomed our Jersey heifers for the fair. On summer nights, we tugged and pulled them around the front yard, rehearsing for the show ring. We shampooed and clipped and brushed and, in a final frenzy of bovine beauty, braided and fluffed their tails.
Showing at the county fair taught me a lot of lessons in life.
The first was about hierarchy.
My eldest brother, Dick, always got the best heifer to show; Scott, the second best; Joe, the next; and I, the baby of the family, ended up with the smallest heifer at the tail end of the line when it came time for the ribbons.
However, because of good luck or incredible foresight on my father's part, the ribbons were always plentiful. The Obenshain family each year made a clean sweep of the Jersey championship and prizes. We not only had the best of these beautiful little dairy cows in the county, we also had the only Jerseys in the county.
The county fair also was the first time I ever competed against boys and, at least when it came to handling cattle, it taught me I could hold my own in the game.
The game was that ultimate test of skills - the fitting and showing class, when the judge turned his attention from the cow to the nervous kid trying to maneuver 200 to 500 pounds of often ornery animal around the ring.
Fitting and showing was the moment when you went one-on-one against those feared FFA boys.
My ally was Rita, a sweet little gray heifer who was a veteran of the show ring. As we slowly paraded our cows, alert to the judge's slightest gesture, I had a momentary lapse of concentration. Rita watched the judge for me and turned and posed without a hitch. I still savor that blue ribbon - remembering the thrill of winning against the odds, against 17 other eager farm kids from larger farms.
But shows also taught me a lesson in swallowing defeat - gracefully, I hope.
The next year, I unwisely deserted dairy heifers and embarked on a career of raising a baby beef steer for the annual show at the Hollins Stockyard.
Normally, these steers eat like teen-agers turned loose at a buffet. Mine? Well, let's just say he was the first anorexic steer I've ever met. He wouldn't eat. Didn't like food. Wanted to watch his waist and keep that trim form.
When time came for the show, I marched him into the class with 42 other kids and their fatter, sleeker steers. As the class went on, I got bumped lower, and lower and lower, until I was finally 42nd out of 42. I did a lot of stern talking to myself and swallowing big lumps in my throat not to make a fool of myself - trying to retain a shred of teen-age dignity.
Along with the hurt, though, was the recognition of the kindness of friends and their parents. Too tactful to say anything, their unspoken sympathy and their presence did a lot to help me through that day. I've grown to realize more every year what a comfort the kindness of friends can be.
So, last week in the office, we started thumbing through the fair catalog, fantasizing about what class we might enter.
Should we go for the baled lespedeza? Or the wax beans class? How about "small novelty tomatoes?" Or "most unusual jam, jelly or preserve?"
Nope. My days at the county fair are over. Some memories are sacred.
by CNB