I dragged Trapper John to the Johnson County Peach Festival in Clarksville early Saturday morning a week ago. It wasn't that he didn't want to go. It was that he most decidedly, unequivocally, without question, did not want to go.
And that was fine by me. I told him he needn't go, as Baxter and I would go and have a grand old time while he stayed at home and did whatever he wished. It's all right if he doesn't like going to county festivals. Not everyone can have good taste.
Funny how being told you can't do something makes some folks -- yours truly, and apparently Trapper included -- willing to walk through fire to do the very thing we just said we would not be caught dead doing. That man was up and out and ready to haul me to the fair in 6 minutes flat.
We missed the Diaper Derby, Peach Cobbler Bake-Off and the Greased Pig Chase, but we got there in time for the Frog Jump. I felt like I'd stepped onto the pages of a Mark Twain novel as we watched parents wrangle frogs and children of every size. There were tiny frogs, huge toads, little girls in knotted pig tails, and husky boys with farmers' tans. One boy about the age of 8 pushed a foot-long bullfrog into the faces of girls who clearly wanted no part of the amphibian. He proudly introduced the creature as "Back Pond Bob" because, he claimed, he fished it out of the back pond.
A small circle was drawn with chalk on the pavement, and circles of increasing diameter were drawn around it. The kids squatted in the center circle with their frogs facing outward on the chalk circumference. The announcer yelled, "Go!" and frogs and children went in every direction. When a frog crossed the outermost circle, a red flag was raised by high school football players to mark the winners and hand out ribbons.
Back Pond Bob did not prevail. But you wouldn't have known it from the smile on the young man's face. There's always next year, he determined.
The Terrapin Derby was a slower affair, and the Bed Races couldn't be held because someone had stolen the beds. At least, that's what "Judy" said, and townsfolk agreed, Judy would know.
Next up was the Peach Pit Spitting Contest. Young and old alike had distinct techniques for furthering their footage. With a cheeseburger gift certificate and bragging rights on the line, the competition was fierce, but one little boy beat everyone in every age group with a 39-foot pit spit.
I looked around at the smiles in the crowd, even on Trapper John.
"Thanks for getting us here," he said. "I'll admit, I've had a good time."
"You're most welcome," I chirped. "And who knows, we might stay for the Demolition Derby and Street Dance next year."
"NEXT year?" he stammered, as Baxter helped himself to our barbecue sandwich.
Sure, why not? That'd be just peachy with me.