10.3.11

 Tunbridge World's Fair, Vermont Sept. '11 The Tunbridge World's Fair takes place in rural Vermont  every fall and has hardly changed in almost 140 years. I love it. I hadn't been there since I was a little kid and all I could remember about it were some teams of oxen, apparently competing against each other by pulling blocks of granite, some very large vegetables, chickens in a barn and bikers- which turns out to be accurate... but this time in Tunbridge I saw that there were also pig races, which made me feel confused. It was just very... I thought they would be funny- actually, I don't really want to write about that right now.
Ok, listen- I had a little break and I feel like I can write something about the pigs now- not directly, but I'll just give you this: When I was a senior in high school, we had a class picnic during our graduation week, attended by ourselves and the school faculty. We were allowed to drink back then because Vermont was the last state to change the drinking age and most of us had been "grandfathered" in- so we were partying at Lake Champagne (a body of water in my town that looks nothing like the larger, more majestic Lake Champlain. Lake Champlain, in the northwestern part of the state, is the 6th largest lake in the U.S. Lake Champagne is a pond in a campground/trailer park. The only thing the two really have in common is that if you jump into one, then jump into the other, you'll get wet both times). At some point, after several beers and hot dogs, a small-ish group of us decided it was time to take some revenge, veiled as lighthearted shenanigans, on some of the faculty whom we had harbored resentments against over the years. I think we splashed some water on the science teacher, maybe put some pie on someone else... it was good fun. I don't remember if we consciously chose to save Mr. Duffy for last (real name Mr. Kilduff but I'll just call him Mr. Duffy here) but by the time we got to our endomorphic guidance counselor (who kept a couple of goats on his front lawn so he didn't have to mow... he also refused to let me take typing class because it interfered with a required home economics credit or something- I'm typing with three fingers at this moment, still, after all these years) the energy had become  more aggressive and a bit surly. Everyone was still having a reasonably good time, I think, but the smiles were a bit more severe, more purposeful on our side- more hesitant and questioning on theirs.  I remember Mr. Duffy backing away from us slowly with a stiff grimace on his face that seemed to say "I'd like to take this opportunity to... to just apologize if I... if you'll just... no... I don't want you to do that...". As we seized him, knocked him down, grabbed his arms and legs and began dragging him to the water's edge, he started to struggle as if we were about to hurl him into a volcano. It was disturbing.  There was something about his humorless state of panic and the way he gasped and groaned, twisting and convulsing to free himself, that I found depressing. It was such a shocking character break for a guy I'd only ever seen sitting behind a desk. I had a moment of pity and almost let him go... but by this point the group conscience far outweighed my own  and we threw his ass into the pond.
Later, I drove (under the influence of canned beer) with two female friends to my house in the village. I was covered in mud and decided to jump in the shower. I had come to within what I now believe to have been seconds of convincing one of my female companions to take off her clothes and join me in the shower when I heard my Dad's car on the gravel as he arrived home early from work.
I still wonder sometimes what it would have meant for me, for her, for all of us- if my Father had caught his naked, teenage son in his shower with someone else's naked, teenage daughter. 
My Dad would be obligated to tell her family. My Mom would be deeply hurt. There would be shame, guilt, remorse, lengthy punishments and restrictions, probably the school would be involved, there would be meetings, councils, tribunals, seminars, sentences, lost trust, news vans. A Priest would want to speak to us both (separately- I would never be allowed to see her, or any female, again). She likely would be beaten, sent away- but rather than go, she would hang herself dead. I would to this day be learning to cope with the repercussions of my self- centeredness and irresponsibility.
I hope this helps to illuminate my feelings about the pig races somehow. Try to make it up to the Tunbridge fair sometime, though.

Bethel, VT.  Post- Irene

New York, Sept. '11