Climbing out of the car
I could smell the smoke:
wood fires and fritters baking
and leaves burning.
The soups, stews, pies
and everything else made with apples
one could possibly think of.
I could see it all in my mind's eye:
the traders with their furs and pelts,
reenactors with their blue and gray,
vendors with their old-fashioned clothes,
the noise and the smoke and the smells,
mostly the smells.
I pull out my laundry,
the quintessential college kid
returning to Kendallville
for that one small claim-to-fame
we can be proud of: Apple Festival.
No matter how far we ran to
get our higher education,
everyone returns with dirty clothes
and bright eyes to our dumb little town.
You don't miss the Fest.
It just isn't done.
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