Back to the Fair

It’s been a while since we visited Portsong. As its Mayor and chief historian, I feel neglectful that my fine little town has been pushed aside for the hustle and bustle of modern day. In searching through an old steamer trunk that is the town archives, I found this issue of the Portsong Guardian. 

It wasn’t in the best of condition – with torn edges and water stains. After I got over the putrid odor of mothballs and something that mysteriously smelled like lima beans, a quick scan took me back to simpler times to recall the era when the county fair was the most important event of the summer. Of course, small towns have their share of jealousy and competition. But in the end, harmony and community seem to win out.

Join me on the front porch and remember your county fair as I read the report of Portsong’s fair of 1921.


Photo Jul 21, 7 59 26 PM

Controversy Reigns as Ms. Corrine’s Cobbler Does Not

In what many have referred to as the biggest surprise since the hailstorm of 1897, Ms. Corrine Deaton failed to win her eleventh straight blue ribbon in the Pie Contest. She took home the red as runner up with her famous Peach Dream Cobbler. Coming in first was newcomer Hazel Gruber’s Blackberry Delight. Congratulations to Mrs. Gruber, who just moved to our fair city from Warbler’s Ridge.

The white ribbon was awarded to Mrs. Myra Culpepper, who ended the day nearly as bitter has a slice of her rhubarb pie. After finishing second to Ms. Corrine for a decade, she was quoted as saying, “Serves her right. Everyone knows a cobbler isn’t a pie, anyway!”

In less dramatic fashion, Sherman Peas won the Hog Calling Contest by unanimous decision. After hearing his grunts and chortles, every judge was inclined to go his way.

For the little ones, the Goat Roping Competition was a head-butting good time until Wilbur Clegg’s billie got loose on the midway, shutting down the rides for nearly twenty minutes. Unfortunately, Smitty’s Robbin’s girl, Little Esther, was at the apex of the Ferris wheel when it stopped and her notoriously weak stomach became a problem for the goat wranglers below. Order was quickly restored and Little Esther returned to the soil she had soiled with and empty stomach and three empty cotton candy sticks.

Mayor Earnest Shambley declared this year’s fair to the be the finest yet in a lengthy speech that ended when he realized he was alone save for Bess Lively, who he nudged awake.

The Fair Organization Committee is still looking for folks to clean up Hargett’s Field so Old Man Hargett can set his cows to graze again. There will be a potluck supper after Sunday church for all those who volunteer.


For those of you who might be new around here, the 1920’s sleepy southern town of Portsong is the setting of my first literary endeavors. Our young friend, Virgil Creech still hasn’t quite gotten things right, but he’s getting better and having a ball in the process.

The Start of the Parade

In the distance I hear the band warming up – not a single note piercing the air sounds right. Each is singular, isolated, and the sound of them issuing from so many instruments almost hurts the ear. It is not melodious or rich. It sounds a mess.

People young and old run and walk around me, depending on their ability. The youngest citizens are aided by the hands of parents who steady their wobbly steps. The elderly are aided by their children, their children’s children, or a kind neighbor. No one is alone.

Excitement is high. I can see the shopkeepers giving out red, white, and blue buttons, pinwheels, and balloons on sticks to anyone who wants them. Somehow, today isn’t about profit or loss. Those cares will wait until tomorrow. Competition forgotten, today they smile together and serve.

The entire of Main Street is lined with flags – 48 white stars, seven red stripes, and six white. My own native flag boasts the same colors but in a much different configuration. I never saw it displayed so much when my home was there. Of course, as countries go, mine is old and gray while this one is but a newborn. In the latter years, one doesn’t celebrate birthdays with quite as much vigor as a youngster. One hundred and fifty years old today, I’m reminded.

This little town of Portsong is like any other in the country. It boasts nothing outside its borders that make it unique. It is known for nothing, remembered by few, and can’t seem to grow despite the mayor’s efforts. Yet there is something special here. While I cannot put my finger on it or label it properly, there is something that made this old Brit stay and set up shop.

I believe the allure is in the small details.  For instance, I have been asked to join the festivities no less than seventeen times since I came and sat on this bench. Five of those offers came from people I do not know and four more came from people who saw me at a distance and went far out of their way to make their inquiry. I have been here since just after sunrise and it is now nearly eleven o’clock. In that time, I have counted forty-three people of various ages who have passed me. Forty-two of them shared a smile and kind word with me. The only one who did not was little Esther Parsons and being two, she was in the middle of a fit about her bonnet, I believe.

In most places I have been, an old man on a bench can blend in… be anonymous… simply fade away into background. Not here. In this place this old man has been knitted into the fabric of the community so tightly that I believe I would be missed if I left. Yes, I believe there would be a hole in the quilt if I or anyone else took flight. And that is the loveliness of Portsong. Does it exist in other small towns? I am certain to some degree. It is certainly here to stay. As am I.


The parade is about to start. As I leave my seat aided by the hand of a beautiful child with golden ringlets, I hear the marching band leading the way. No longer are they clanging individuals striking off on their own notes. Now they play as one group. Their sound gets closer. It is beautiful, melodious, and wonderful. Like this place, it is a collection of people working together in harmony.

I truly love it here.


-Colonel Clarence Birdwhistle

July 4, 1926