Sucker

"I hate the county fair!" I said to Heidi the other day. She nodded, because we have this conversation every summer.

I was responding to the cumulative inconvenience of the gym and rec center being closed for 2 weeks and the mess that's usually left at the fairgrounds, which are our former school. The smell of garbage, divots and truck tracks on the playing fields, and cooking oil stains on the sidewalks greeted teachers when we returned at the end of August and lasted for weeks after the fair closed.

Plus? It's so inconvenient to get there! I feel irrationally resentful of having to take a shuttle bus to the place I spent most of my time for the better part of 31 years.

So I was surprised by the inadvertent thrill I got today on my way to the gym when I saw the first of the brightly colored rides and concessions lined up for unloading in the parking lot. I pictured the midway at night with its thousands of lights, the screams from the rides, the laughter from the games, and all the people strolling excitedly through the grounds. I thought of the bands that would play, the local agriculture exhibits and competitions, and the beer garden. It actually seemed like it might be a fun time.

"Oh my gosh!" I thought. "I don't hate the fair!"

The Right Questions

Larchmont Farms. The name came unbidden into my mind as I enjoyed my breakfast of fresh, sliced peaches. Was that the place Mom took us to pick peaches and apples? I wondered. 

I did have a powerful computer in my hand, so I swiped open my phone and searched for the farm in New Jersey. It was much farther away from our home than I would have thought, and a further search informed me that they did not have any pick-your-own crops available. 

Did they ever have pyo? I asked the AI function but was informed that it had always been a commercial wholesale farm. 

What are some pick-your-own places near Willingboro? I asked next and was provided with a list of places that did not sound familiar in the least. 

Which of those were open in the 70s? I queried, and that narrowed the names down, but still, none rang a bell. 

Are there any pyo operations from the 70s that have since closed? I asked. Again, the list was substantial, but not what I was looking for. 

Finally, I sighed and typed, I remember riding on a flat-bed truck out into the orchards to pick peaches and apples. 

And AI really delivered! Here's what I found, complete with source citations from the NY Times and local history sites:

That vivid memory of riding a flatbed truck out into the rows of peach trees in the early 1970s almost certainly took place at the original Larchmont Farms orchard grounds in Mount Laurel, New Jersey. While that specific orchard property is gone today, the history lines up perfectly with your memory of a unique peach-picking tractor ride right near Willingboro. 

Why Your Memory Lines Up Perfectly:

The Location: Long before moving their central operations down to Elmer, NJ, the Haines family operated their sprawling, primary Larchmont Farms peach and apple orchards right in Mount Laurel. This sat directly adjacent to Willingboro—making it just a brief few minutes' drive down the road for local families. 

The 1969/1970s Timeline: As noted in historical regional records, a massive, devastating hailstorm battered the region on July 3, 1969. The hail cosmetically scarred the skins of the ripening peaches and apples. Supermarkets refused to buy the "ugly" fruit, prompting the Haines family to completely pivot. They opened up their massive commercial orchards to the public for an unprecedented, emergency pick-your-own harvest event that spilled over heavily into the early 1970s. 

The Flatbed Tractor Ride: Because Larchmont Farms was an enormous commercial wholesale operation spanning hundreds of acres, it lacked the simple walking paths of small family farms. To get the thousands of local suburban families out into the deep, expansive rows of stone fruit trees, they utilized their industrial farm equipment—hooking up large flatbed orchard trailers and wagons to transport public pickers straight into the fields.

Buy Jiminy!

As Heidi paid for our dog food, I wandered over to a sign posted on the wall of the pet store. Due to an issue with the vendor," it read, "crickets will not be available until further notice."

"Uh oh," I pointed to the sign, "Looks like it's time to get into the cricket business."

The cashier laughed and rolled her eyes. "Sooo many people are upset," she told us.

"How long has this shortage been going on?" I asked.

"Oh," she shook her head, "it's been a good three weeks. And people are still asking every day."

"All right then," I said decisively, "I'll have to start my cricket ranch right away!"

"Yasssssss," she replied. "We're going to need small, medium, and large."

Straight Up Crooked

I had the bright idea of adding shelves to our deck by screwing brackets into the 4x1 upper brackets. It worked beautifully on the back railing, so I bought another shelf board to add to the side. I brought the level out to make sure my work was true, but when I stepped back, the shelf was crooked. I put the level back, but the bubble was perfectly balanced in the center of the hash marks, so I stepped back again and literally scratched my head. 

I moved the level to the rail cap so I could take the shelf down, and I saw what the problem was. The whole railing is slanted toward the house, and so the shelf was objectively level, but crooked relative to the railing. I decided I'd rather keep it level, but dang! Every time I look out there, I see what appears to be a terribly sloping shelf. 

Sigh. I might have to "fix" that.

Well Groomed

That smells great! I thought to myself and glanced down the line of treadmills. Somebody was wearing a scent I really liked—warm with a little musk, but not too spicy or powdery. A little while later, I caught another whiff of it, and it honestly made my workout a bit nicer. 

It was pouring rain when I pushed my way through the plate-glass doors, and I got drenched as I dashed to the car. Dripping in the driver's seat, I opened the console and pulled out the little hairbrush we keep in there to comb my wet hair out of my eyes. As I did so? That same pleasant scent wafted through the car. 

I realized that it was my hair product, and had been all along; the smell was released by my sweating. At least I don't stink today! I thought and headed home.

Not Cool, Cats

The weekend schedule is a little more relaxed around our house, even in the summer. Most weekdays, Heidi gets up before six to walk with a friend and make sure Lucy has exercise well before the hottest part of the day. 

On Saturday and Sunday, then, she can be forgiven for trying to catch up on her rest and sleeping in. Lucy has no problem with that arrangement: it's been years since she got up even one second earlier than Heidi. The cats, however, have a different opinion altogether. It is usually me to whom they express their displeasure, yowling by the door to the deck as I make my coffee, and scratching furniture if that doesn't work. 

This morning, they had both been outside a couple of times before Heidi and Lucy made their appearance, but they were outraged, as usual, that the dog went out and she and Heidi took a walk before anyone was fed. I heard them fussing by the front door a little while later, and couldn't imagine why they were directing their fury there until voices drifted in, and I realized that Heidi was right outside, visiting with the neighbors. 

It wasn't a brief conversation, and I thought the cats were going to lose it, meowing loudly and scratching at the door, before Heidi came inside. I shook my head and looked at the clock. It wasn't even 10 am yet, but I guess that's late when you're used to eating at 7.

Not as Sharp as They Used to Be

I ran by the grocery store this afternoon after I was finished at the gym. The last gym I belonged to was right next to a big grocery store, and I often picked up a few things before heading home. Then, there seemed to be several other sweaty patrons like me, and the proximity to the gym was its own explanation. 

Today I felt a little self-conscious, though, because I had to drive to the store from the gym, and it seemed like I was the only shopper in damp workout duds. I didn't think I smelled too bad, but I kept my distance from other people as best I could, in case. I was reminded of a joke my grandfather used to tell.

An old lady went to the doctor, and when he asked her how she was, she said, "Fine, except I've been passing gas a lot lately. It's silent and odorless, though." She paused, "Oh, it just happened!"she reported.

The doctor nodded, prescribed some medication, and told her to come back in a week.

"How are you?" he asked at her next appointment.

"Okay," she answered. "I'm still gassy, though, and they are still silent, but now they really stink!"

"Well, we've fixed your sense of smell," he told her. "Time to work on your hearing."