Tomorrow is Fall fest.
In the tiny town we live in, that’s like a superbowl. We’ll have a parade that lines about ten city blocks, mini golf and sugar as far as the eye can see.
And I got sick.
Attendance is mandatory this year, as it is every year, since I am the only one to take the monsters to their yearly tooth rotting ritual. Hopefully, the antibiotics will be well underway by morning. But, I had to say something.
This the part of small towns that I love. Every tiny town up and down the river does it’s best to survive, and they put on these little festivals without exception. There must always be one. It’s a requirement, and I love it.
Main street becomes an open air market selling mostly sugar, since diabetes is like our number one export here in the Bootheel. Someone trots out our surplus hay and scarecrows, and the Hunter-Dawson home and schoolhouse tours are organized. Seriously, it’s my idea of Heaven.
It’s quaint and old fashioned. It’s Fall. The most wonderful time of the year. Grab a sweater, and, if you live on the river, find yourself a festival this weekend. It’s BYOAB. Bring your own anti-biotics.