Getting Your Oompa-Loompa On…

Forty-0ne.

Forty-five thousand.

Three.

Two-hundred and eighty.

Fifteen.

Nine millionish.

What’s your guess? Do you suppose these are random numbers or might there be a common theme bringing them all together under one leafy roof? Well, I’ll spare you the agonizing suspense. Ta da! The facts and figures revolve around the Oregon Country Fair.

The Oregon Country Fair turned forty-one this year, attracting approximately forty-five thousand people to the three day event, spread over 280 wooded acres fifteen miles west of Eugene along the Long Tom River and pumping nine million dollars or so into the local economy.

Now that you are familiar with the relevant statistics, what’s the Oregon Country Fair? Excellent question. It is many things to many people. Vague enough?

Back in ’69, the event began as a barter and trade fair with the invitation to “come in costume.” While it morphed into a Renaissance Fair during its childhood, it has grown to accommodate 350 vendor booths full of delicious food, fun clothes, crazy masks, outrageous art, face painting and too many other interesting things to list individually.

There are 18 official stages providing venues for all kinds of performances: musical, comedy, vaudeville, theatrical, juggling and many etceteras, while the dusty paths shapeshift into impromptu stages for parades, marching bands, stilt walkers, giant puppets, mud people, fire dancing, hoolahooping and the legendary drum circle at the Drum Tower.

Fair-goers can be categorized into three basic groups: Those who have never been yet, those who take a year or two off, and then those who are completely devoted and would never, ever miss a year.

They can further be organized into people who buy tickets and are only allowed in during official fair hours of 11am until The Sweep at 7pm. Groom and I fall under this category. Before you ask, we have never applied to sell our bricolage jewelry as vendors. This is the only show that we have ever heard of, that even if you are accepted and invited to display your wares, that there is no guarantee you’ll have a booth.

Which brings me to the other sub-category. Fair family. The booths are not the white, temporary Easy-Up 10 X 10’s that pop up to make a tent-city like at other shows. No. The booths at the Oregon Country Fair are permanent structures with a store front downstairs and lounging upstairs. We saw one artist’s private area which included a full-on living room sofa and a kitchen sink hooked up to their very own tank of water. Fancy! Most require carpenters and maintenance, and someone has to die and leave no heirs before a booth changes hands.

The whole point of the Fair is not necessarily to vend, but to obtain the much sought after camping pass and spend several days and nights in a row out in the wooded area. The real show, they say, happens after midnight. It’s about a five day and night party, and only those allowed in the inner sanctum get to participate.

Groom and I have another reason we’ve never applied to vend. It’s the only show of the year that we are not responsible for anything. We just get to go and have a great time for the day. We actually get to walk around together, visiting with friends, looking at the artwork and pleasuring our tastebuds with gastronomic delights. We call it our busman’s holiday and we look forward to it with all the tummy butterflies children get at Christmas.

Speaking of butterflies, this could be the theme of the Fair. “Come in Costume” still stands and many individuals shed their chrysalis and transform into beautiful, colorful butterflies for the day. While they may actually don a butterfly costume, try on wings or come as something equally imaginative, the essence is the same. Trading the old work-a-day costume for a playful one, people let go of their pent up frustrations with modern life and engage in old-fashioned play.

The three day affair seems to be good for the soul. Collectively, the group sets an intention for peace and those who come fall under its influence. People are kinder, smile often, laugh outloud, complement each other, stop for photo ops, spontaneously dance and exchange many friendly hugs. If only we could sustain this for a period longer than three days.

The dress code? No pubics in public, genitals must be covered. That’s about it. As you can see by our photos, color is the word of the day. Rich, vibrant tones spanning the rainbow. Groom and I took about 400 pictures and it was a difficult chore to reduce the number to share here. How to tell the story, especially to those of you who have not yet attended, in twenty-five or less? If a picture is worth a thousand words, then you’ll probably get the gist.

I always manage to fit in this commercial. To get a better gander at the goods, simply click on any photo to enlarge, then hit the back button to return to the blog.

Some of the details are worth noting. My favorite of the day is the photo below. During the hottest part of the day, we caught a father and daughter taking a nap, her little hand held lovingly and protectively in his. Sniff.

About mid-way through the photos, you can see Kimmmm’s response to one of Lil Bo Peep’s new hats.

Groom and I appear two and a half times here today. Can you spot us? I’ll give you a clue. The “half” is the last visual aid. Aaaah, at the end of a fair day, ‘taint nuthin better than a sweet, cool shower. No, those are not sun tan lines on our feet. Those are dust lines.

Well, all good things must come to an end, and the Oregon Country Fair concluded on Sunday. I did note, however, the auspicious dates for next year. July 8-10. Written out, it looks like this. 7-8-9-10-11. If you haven’t gone yet, maybe next year is the time to do it.

Until then, adieu my dear peeps.

Hats Off

Calendar wise, the Eugene Saturday Market opened this year on April 4th, but I was busy getting my wings, so our official first day was April 11th. I floated on air throughout the entire day, reuniting with friends, selling our wares, sharing hugs, sipping coffee and exchanging tiddly bits. Not exactly gossip, as that would be about other folks behind their backs, but more juicy bits of drama from the dark days of winter to the light of spring. Oh, another way of saying it would be “playing catch up” or having a good chin wag.

The one that sent me into bottle shock was Kimmmm’s news. My spell checker is having a fit and I’m telling it, yes, her name does contain a lot of mmmmm’s. How many precisely, I’m not sure, but quite a few. Alphabet conjugation aside, her news sent me reeling, kinda like I’d been kicked in the goolies. She delivered it with such panache and style, too. Kimmmm began with a fashion quandary and demurely asked, “What should I wear to meet Prince Charles?” Huh? What?

Bob’s your uncle, me mate is off to London Town to bear witness while her husband is recognized by the Royal family for his humanitarian work. Crikey Moses, I was chuffed to bits for her. Sounds like I was cheesed off, huh? Nope, it means I was really pleased.

After I got the lowdown and felt all squidgy (soft), I bumped into a friend, Bo Peep, I hadn’t seen for donkey’s years. “Guess what?” I said, all sixes and sevens. “Have you heard Kimmm’s going to meet Prince Charles?” I filled her in on the details, including the one where Kimmmm celebrated with London street revelers on his 30th Birthday in 1978. It had been a teenage fantasy of hers to meet the dishy Prince and now 30 years later, she gets to do it.

“That Kimmm is the bee’s knees,” I extolled. “She may be one of the best manifesters I know.”

Bo Peep was intrigued. “How so?” she asked.

What surprised me next, is that I didn’t jump into all the material goods that come to her as if by magic (although they do), nor describe any cracking procedures she follows along the Law of Attraction path. Instead I began to tick off a few of her qualities.

“Kimmm’s very accepting of people and situations. Her offence-meter seems to be turned down low and she allows people to be themselves without needing to control the outcome. Besides being beautiful and brill, she simply doesn’t spend the energy being brassed off all the time.”

Believe me, this woman has a career where being offended could be her full time job. Right then, I grocked how aerodynamically she glides through this world, without all the drag and clutter on her being. She avoids the aggro and therefore does not gather resistance on her way to what she wants.

Ah-ha moment. When I spend my energy and time in a beastly and barmy mood, poised and ready to be offended by what other people do and say, or especially by what they don’t do or say, I am creating a shambolic atmosphere for my rockets of desire. Bollocks! How are they supposed to land when I am in chaos, offering resistance at the same time I launch my requests?

Last June, during Royal Ascot, when the Brit elite don fancy hats and watch horseracing on Ascot Heath in the historic county of Berkshire, England, Kimmmm sent me amusing photos of posh women in their outrageous millinery. For several days in a row her emails included hats. I sashayed into her office toward the end of that week and noticed several round boxes stacked by her desk. “What’re those?” I nosied.

Horses for courses, if Kimmmm didn’t ceremoniously uncover the mystery boxes one by one to reveal heavenly chapeaus in luxurious textures and colors. “Where’d ya get those ace toppers?” I squealed.

“Oh,” she said casually, with a shrug in her voice, “So-and-So was cleaning out her closet and decided I might like to have them.”

Bite your arm off, Kimmm had just spent several days enjoying Royal Ascot pageantry, and voila! smart hats to rival the horsey diva’s arrived at her office step. Her clarity plus enjoyment equaled a friend daft with envy. Ooops, did I just write that out loud? I meant to say, her clarity plus enjoyment equaled a bunch of fabulous new hats, Easy Peasy, with no real effort or struggle on her part.

‘ello? Sometimes I’m just gormless. While I whinge and complain, struggle and resist, she’s over there looking jammy and twee. I sound like the little boy who didn’t want to do his math homework. “If you could whine every five minutes, how many things could you whine about in an hour and a half?”

“Eighteen.” Sheesh.

Deepak Chopra suggests that we “slip into the gap.” Umm, I don’t know what that means. Is he a paid spokesman for the apparel retail chain and I’m supposed to find happiness and contentment by wearing what everybody else is told to wear? You know the commercial, “Everybody in stripes.” Codswallup.

Upon further investigation, Mr. Chopra (I wonder if close pals call him “Dee” for short?), describes the gap as “the silent space between thoughts.” Hoo boy, I don’t have any of those. The thoughts in my head take up all the space and more. Sometimes it would be handy to use one of those innovative PODS storage units, where the company delivers a weather proof container and I could get rid of my excess thoughts and then “slip into the gap.” I’m certain there’s a healthier route to clearing out the mental clutter, but that’s what I came up with today.

So with a head full of crowded thoughts, I have created an alternative definition of the G.A.P. -- a life of Gratitude, Abundance and Purpose. Maybe if I’d offer more thanks and ta, I could be like the customer on Saturday who answered my, “How are you?” with “I’m doing really, really great, but don’t worry, I’ll get better.”

And as Vickie Getchell says about her guardian angel, “Her wings are broken, but her tennis shoes are smokin’.”

Cheerio my cheeky monkeys!