The Road to the Fair
By Bob Eddy

"How do you get to the Tunbridge Fair?"

This is, on its surface, a pretty straightforward question, bringing forth a remembered listing of familiar routes. There are, however, turns in the journey not found on any map.

For over 30 summers now, our family has taken a back route to the fair. Eschewing I-89 and most state roads, we take to the Randolph Center ridge line, turning right, past the Dupras's, Mim and Wes Herwig's, and Metcalf Walling's homes.

Yes, I know that Bill and Carol have moved and Wes has passed away. Metcalf and Sydney are gone too, but that is the point of this piece; the journey back to the fair is a trip of memories. It is a chance to hold once again those recollected bits that make up a lifetime.

So, on down past the VTC apple orchard we go, picturing there our two young boys picking fruit.

The Beidler, Preston, and Silloway farms flick by, cows munching on the last pasture of summer. In my mind I see my dad at the wheel of the Plymouth station wagon of my childhood. We're in New Haven, Vt., on a similar dirt road, passing cows in other fields a long time ago. Dad is telling me how he learned to drive when he was 13 on these dirt farm roads in a time before the war, before I was born.

The roadside spring spurts into David Silloway's wooden tub just as it did when it was Paul Silloway's farm, and Tom Winship's barns still stand silver-grey and proud at the crest of the hill. Paul and Tom are gone? Not for me. Not today, as I make my way back to the fair.

The stand on the corner at the Whalen farm is stacked high with tomatoes and pumpkins and squash. I see Helen Frink standing beside me in the garden, pulling the last tendrils of vines from the soil as the boys ride small tricycles around the perimeter and sounds of crickets fill the still velvety air. Further on, a scarecrow mimics Ray Bolger. I'm swept back to my grandfather's library, reading "The Wizard of Oz," as a 10-year-old. Scarecrow is giving me directions, not to Oz, but to the Tunbridge Fair.

Rob Whitlock is gone now, but not for me. This morning, as I pass his house, I see him sitting there in his spit-spot kitchen overlooking the valley. I'm having a cup and conversation just once more with an old friend.

There is the ferris wheel, the church on the hill, and the back bridge to the grounds. There are the boys and girls and old hands watering cows in the stream. There is the track, and Floral Hall. Kids are handing out "Bernie" stickers this year, but I'm shaking hands with Fred Tuttle in another time, another campaign.

I'm remembering Manny's Fried Clams, David Sawyer using a spoke shave on ash for a chair, David Cilley's smile, and Jack Drysdale loading his pipe in late evening September sun on the midway as carnies bark and children laugh.

Yes, I went back to the fair again this year. I caught up with old friends, and I'm pleased to say that most of them were there.

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