MY FAIR LADY - EVERY YEAR, because Ethel put it in her budget, we piled into the station wagon, the dozen us, and went to a country fair. ”Remember,” Ethel said. “Stay together. Don’t touch the animals. We won’t go on the rides today, okay? but later, a surprise.”
lt was 1968, and the baby was eight months old. Ethel pushed the stroller, and I rode herd one the other kids, ages two to 11, as we took in the sights of the fairgrounds. There was so much to see, and we’d always stop to chitchat with friends.
Halfway through, Ethel steered to the shade of the chicken barn. Knowing what was coming, the kids clustered around her.
“Okay, who wants a hamburger?” As the cheer died down, she fished in her purse, counted carefully and handed me a precise sum of money. “Take Kevin and Kathy and Steve and Sharon with you to help.”
Then she handed Linda, the oldest, more money and said, “You and Sheila and Owen get the sodas.
I’ll take the little ones to see the chickens.” Along the way, I stopped and looked hack at her, with her pink and white checkered shorts, white blouse and tennis shoes. Even with her salt and pepper hair, she looked girlish. “Your mother’s beautiful,” I said to my charges.
Ethel would have frowned had she heard “You’re a hopeless romantic,” she often said. We feasted and were again absorbed midway crowd, and finally it was time to go home.
“Do we have to go?” came the usual chorus.
“It’s time,” said Ethel. “We had a nice morning.”
“What’s our surprise? Are we going to get corn?”
“l‘ve already got the corn. Who wants a balloon?”
Another cheer. She fished again, handed me money and said to the kids, “Go with your father,” and to me, “Be sure you get different oolors. Aren’t the blue ones beautiful?” I bought ten of them, amazed that she had budgeted for this too. Ten dollars was a fortune to us. We ate sweet corn that night, and someone said, “Boy, did we have a good time at the fair." Two of the balloons had popped and one had floated into the sky, but for a day or two the others hugged the living room ceiling.
Ethel was a genius at stretching money, but short-lived helium balloons seemed extravagant to me.
“Kids should have something to take home from the fair," she explained. We returned every year to that fair, and every year there were fewer hamburgers to buy . When the 1980s arrived, Ethel and I were going alone and calling it “a date.”
Our best fair date was our last in 1987. We were young grandparent anticipating the exciting decade of our 50s. The budget was not as tight. We had 32 years of marriage that had succeeded, because each of us had put the other first every day.
Her hair was silver now, I had a paunch. Ethel reminded me that I should lose weight, but on fair day
she indulged me.
I suggested that a pepperoni pizza would be nice.
“Owen, it’s only nine o’clock in the morning!”
“a man gets hungry with all this walking in the hot sun.”
“Oh, all right, You are starting too early though.”
We walked the midway kidding and greeting friends. Then we watched the animal judging.
“You know, you still look great in shorts,” I said.
“Oh, shut up,” I said
“Well, you do.” I took her hand and she said, “Owen, we’re in our 50s.” But she indulged me in this way, too, and we walked along holding hands as we had when we were 19.
“Look at that gay with all the muscles,” she whispered. “He’s flexing his biceps, hoping his girl-friend will see.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Basically, I’m built like that myself.” She elbowed my ample stomach and laughed out loud.
We remained until early afternoon, and then she bought sweet corn. Some of the kids were coming for supper. When we drove off, I said, “That was the best date yet.”
I put my hand on hers, and we drove along that way. Later, I wondered if she knew even then that she would be dead in less than a year. I believe she did.
The changes in seasons became difficult to endure without her. She had protected me with her perfect love. She never said, “Together we can make it.” We just made it because we tried so hard. She never asked me to have a good heart. She had her own good heart and trusted me to copy it. She didn’t say, “I won’t give up on you” when I was down. She just never gave up.
That first September after her death I sought to ease my loneliness at the fair. I went looking for peace, I suppose, but more likely looking for her. I walked the joyless midway, gagged on the food and tried unsuccessfully to watch they cows being judged. This was our day, our fair. But she was gone. What a mis take, coming here, I thought.
I started to leave, walking rapidly, as if trying to outdistance the pain. Then I saw the man with the balloons. I stopped and stared at him, remembering.
“I’ll take that blue one,” I said finally.
The country cemetery was deserted. I tied the balloon to a basket of flowers fronting the handsome stone on which were engraved the words “Ethel Canfield, Beloved Wife, Mother of Ten.”
Suddenly, a young father and his boy appeared. The child, perhaps three years old, had seen the balloon and become excited.
“Hello,” I called. “Come over a minute.” I snapped the string and put it in the youngster’s hand. “From the fair. You like it?" Ethel would have wanted him to have it, I knew.
I drove off laughing, hearing her laughing with me. She was there in my heart, and I knew she would always be.
Gotta get some sweet corn, I thought. Some of the kids are surely around, and we should have corn on fair day.
Such is the English short story with the title MY FAIR LADY. Hopefully useful. You can also send your work to appear here.KIRIM KARYA