the Fairground of my Childhood
Posted by Kabby (repost) on Thursday, June 22 2000 at 08:22:39pm|
England is a deep green place . I lived there when I was seven. We climbed the grassy hill up the mark in the red earth where the rain had washed the grass away - to the fair. Hopscotch over the stile at the top of the field, falling over each other in our eagerness to get there.The fair was a night magic - the swingboats swished in the air - their ribbons flying through the evening - the moths and flies clustered round the lights that were candles in jars maybe or paraffin guttering in lamps. When you are seven you just remember the lights and the magic.... I did not dare to ride in the swing boats - their crazy heave was to the top of the bar and back round again - it was better to stand there, half crouching and watch the older boys and girls - and to turn cartwheels as they swooped and dove and their laughter cut the air cleanly like a scythe. The smell of the newly mown grass filled my nostrils and the cinnamon bake of the toffee apples and the sugar-sweet caramel of candyfloss seemed to carry with it the sound of the girls laughing, of the swingboats swishing of the music playing.... and the muscles on the arms of the man who worked the boats rippled as he pulled and pushed them - as he grinned all the night long - this too had a scent that I cannot remember. The music..... yes - was that an accordian or a squeezebox - was it a rinky tink piano or a fairground organ ? - strange how the memories of the sights and the smells linger down the years but the mad melodies of that fairground night are less clear - as if they were taken for granted maybe - there had to be music.... and there was. And the sideshows - the catch-me-with-a-hook the throw-a-rubber-ring-for-luck - the prizes that gleamed there fantastical when you are seven - and unobtainable - as everything is that you desire when you are seven and you desire heaven itself and the magic of faeries and the gift of flight and the colours of paradise.... The cowslip meadow brooding in slumber in dark-summer evening. Its rythyms those of the summer flies - drowsy with the day's heat - the cool night air like water from a deep pool - the sentinel trees friendly yet watchful, ancient trunks that hold the secrets of the fairs of ages and that caress the sky with their branches that sigh in the night sky......that watch me as I stumble by ready for bed, past ready...... First Posted on BoyChat, October 05, 1996 : reposted to BW. |