Celebration Daze

I woke up at 6:30 last Saturday morning. My toes hurt, which may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that I had crammed them into my mother's cowboy boots and danced until nine-thirty the previous night.

I yanked myself out of bed and threw on a pair of black jeans with silver embroidery, as well as a black camisole. I ate breakfast and put on excessive quantities of Mary Kay makeup, as my mother curled my hair into ringlets tight enough to pass for strawberry-blond automotive springs.

Then I put on the rest of my outfit - a sheer pink shirt (hence the presence of the camisole), boots with magenta embroidery, a silver horseshoe necklace accented with pink charms and a pair of sparkly drop earrings.

Mom and I drove down to the parade lineup area, where we helped get the Columbia County Fair float assembled. After the flowers had been fluffed, the windmill set in place, and a quilt draped over a vacant seat (Heidi Mill- er, my fellow hostess, was gone for softball regionals), I pinned my silver sash to my shirt and perched myself on an oversized spool of thread. I was ready for the parade.

What is there to say about the parade? For those of you who weren't there, I smiled, I waved, and I fielded ques- tions. The crowd was great.

After the parade, we folded the float up and I headed down to the queen's lun- cheon, during which visiting courts are fed and then give speeches promoting their fairs. After the luncheon, I dashed to the car and threw on a red plaid shirt. Then I headed down to Preston Park and played mandolin with The Barnstormers.

After that, I headed home. As quickly as I could, I ex- changed my black jeans for a blue pair lushly embroidered in white and my pink shirt for a white one on which was stitched the Columbia County Fair logo and my name, both in a neon-pink hue. I secured my curls into a ponytail with a sparkly bar- ette. Et voila, my 'dust duds', the designated fair-court outfit for events that involve airborne particulate matter.

By the time I reached the fairgrounds, the much- anticipated cowgirl racing was over and sheepdog trials had begun. I sat in the bleach- ers and watched with interest. Eventually, in the interest of time, I had to leave, but not before I made my mother buy a duck and a cow plop square. (If you were at Celebration Days, you'll know what I'm talking about.)

At home, I shucked off my clothes, donned the fluffiest bathrobe I could find, and attacked my makeup with a wet washrag. Then I curled up on the couch and read National Geographic. But in an unreasonably short amount of time, I once again had to slip into the red plaid shirt and a pair of my own jeans to play my mandolin with the Barnstormers at the entrance to the burger feed.

It was a long day. But in its own busy way, it was fun.

And the next day was a hoot. I cheered for my school friends and my little brother as they attempted to put pantyhose on wild sheep, stole a few licks of my mother's ice cream, chuckled privately at the Celebration Days fair court as they got thoroughly drenched in the fireman's competition, and ate way too much cotton candy. Our cow-plop square ended up adjoining the winning parcel, and our duck decided to take the 'scenic route' down the Touchet. But I got to wear the same clothes all day.