When you grow up in the midwest, the county fair is a holy event. The state fair is like a mecca. Jean Shephard died a few years ago, and although he was older than I am, his wonderful short stories were like a personal history for me. I remember his great tale of the fair and thinking it was just as I too remembered. Some of my earliest memories are from those fairs.

Early on, at one of my first fairs, my Mom and I were walking past the little booth selling lavender that they put in little basket-like things do be used in drawers of wherever as a sachet. Margie (long story, but I called her Margie) explained the idea to me and I smelled the aroma. She asked if I liked it, and I said I did. We moved on. Somehow from this brief conversation, I gathered that she liked them and I asked Dad if I could buy her one. The "Ol' Man" smiled, happy that his young son would think such a nice thought (I now know that feeling myself), and we went back "on the sly" and made the purchase. I spent the rest of the day hiding my little surprise from Margie as best I could. When we got home I gave it to her feeling like one of the wise men in the Christmas story and she acted so surprised (as though she hadn't been smelling this thing all afternoon). I got those fantastic hugs of hers and some extra time with her at the piano before bed.

Well of course from that point on every fair yielded another lavender basket and I was rewarded with her hugs. No matter what else I brought her from the fair, she always got the lavender basket. In October of '67 I brought her one from the last fair of the year which I'd gone to with a girlfriend on a weekend home from college. She had been ill with cancer for three years and I brought her this one in the hospital just before catching the bus back to Berea. And once again, I got the full huggy treatment. She died a few weeks later.

The Ol Man and I were going through her things that Christmas. Neither of us had much heart for it, or for Christmas either. In a lower dresser drawer, wrapped in plastic, were a drawerful of those baskets. It was one of those moments. Then Dad kind of smiled and said, "You know Pat, she never liked lavender; just never could bring herself to tell you that. We both used to get a kick out of you bringing them to her."

I hope I'm half the parent they were. I hope my sons have those same feelings I had. And no, I don't wish she'd told me.

Spaw