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The sentinels of the fairThere are few more instantly recognizable landmarks at the Abilene, Kan., fair grounds than the old sycamore trees that dot the landscape. The trees were planted generations ago and have stood as silent sentinels of the Central Kansas Free Fair for as long as most of us can remember. I wonder, though, what memories those trees would share if they could. What stories of our youthful antics would they tell? Summer after summer they've shaded steers and heifers as they stood in fitting chutes before the morning show. Those trees must have heard the chorus of thousands of clippers and cattle blowers in their time. If they could speak, would they intervene in the inevitable family bickering? If they could bet, would they lay wagers on which steer will win the top prize? What advice would they give the first-time youth? Would they console a disappointed showman as he brings his red-ribbon calf back to the barn? After the organized chaos of the show ends, and the aroma of show adhesive clears the air, I wonder if the sycamore trees know it's their time to shine. Maybe their branches stretch ever so incrementally outward to provide more shade for a family in lawn chairs. Do they know how soothing the sound of the wind is through their wide leaves? Can they see how it's lulled the young girl into a nap on her show box? In their wisdom, can they already predict the heartache she'll face when she has to sell her big dopey Charolais steer at the auction? Or, do they eagerly anticipate the annual water fight that erupts after the cattle are tied back up in their stalls? As the youth grab buckets and water guns, do you think the trees ready themselves for the drenching their thirsty roots will receive? Maybe they secretly smile as teenage boys take refuge behind their trunks, out of the line of water gun fire. When the afternoon sun gives way to the evening twilight, will the trees search for familiar faces strolling through the barns? Do they take a bit of pride at serving as meeting points for parents and their children? They surely hear the calls of "Meet your father here after the rodeo so we can tie out your cattle," shouted at children off to explore the carnival rides. As the night cools, the sycamores are treated to a parade of young families and strollers, children playing tag, and grandparents coming out in the cool evening to take in the livestock exhibits. Do you suppose the sycamores remember when those same grandparents were young 4-H parents themselves? Have the trees, in their quiet watchfulness, seen how much older we've all gotten since the last fair? Does a tree remember when a young couple had their first quiet conversation perched on the metallic pipe fence that protects its trunk, talking into the night about nothing and everything? Could they have predicted that same couple would celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary under those same branches? What about that young father, showing off his newborn daughter to his old classmates? Do the trees remember his ornery shadow that only a few years back let the show pigs out for an "unsanctioned evening constitutional?" Would they chuckle at how fatherhood has matured him? Do you think the trees recall when that harried 4-H mom brought home a grand prize rosette for her pumpkin bread as a young member herself? Do they see the faint crow's feet she swears are growing deeper every year, or do they only remember her blonde pigtails and unlined face? If a tree really can remember people, do you think it mourns those faces that don't return, just as we mourn them? I bet if those sycamores could talk, they'd tell us tales of our younger selves, and remind us of the hopes, and dreams and sheer joy we shared under their branches. Maybe they'd even remind us that time is nothing to a tree, and that we may wish someday we'd taken a little more time to stop and enjoy the shade. Jennifer M. Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com. 8/18/08 Date: 8/12/08 Advertisement
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