Over time fictional standards by which all Fairs are judged locked in my head. A proper fair demands precise measures of warm summer breeze infused with fry grease and diesel fumes. Constant decibels of midway grind punctuated by game of chance symphonies, the faint whiff of livestock manure mingled with popcorn and fried onions. Good fairs exude optimism, the hope we won’t notice frayed edges or tired paint. Above all they require those of us who pass the turnstile in search of a perfect day at the fair.
All images captured by my husband, last Sunday at the Pacific National Exhibition.