– by Barry Mathias –
Islanders are used to being greatly influenced by the seasons: when it’s hot there are water concerns, and when it’s cold there are unending discussions as to the volume of a true cord of wood.
The water concerns are felt only by the Islanders; the tourists have two showers a day, luxuriate in hot tubs and occasionally risk life and limb, and sometimes exposure, while swimming in local lakes. Islanders are the ones who prefer to have the unwashed look and ensure their vegetable gardens flourish.
This preoccupation with the prolific vicissitudes of the gardening life comes to its annual culmination with the Fall Fair. This is an event which is disguised as a tourist attraction, but which is, in reality, the nearest thing to a deadly struggle between erstwhile friends that the Islands ever achieve; unless one wishes to examine the creation of each Islands’ Land Use Bylaw … but, as children may read this, I will move on!
Fall Fairs are a once-a-year chance for fame and glory. It is a time to show the magnificence and fecundity of one’s garden. Those unbelievably large zucchini, those huge red carrots, those military-muscled beans and, oh yes! – the pickles! This is where the real altercations begin.
Now, the pickles section is only to be entered by the long-time, pass-it-down-from-Grandma, home-made vinegar users, and never-used-a-spray-in–my-life competitors. It is rumored that the judges take out extra life insurance, and that security guards are employed to guard these epicurean delights on the evening before the judging.
There are stories about secret inducements: fine whiskeys, free massage and … but one’s imagination runs riot! The great morning arrives, and competitors who have not slept a wink wait anxiously for the doors to open and the judges’ decisions to be revealed. The air is rent with cheers and hoots of derision as the successful and the badly misjudged come to terms with the results. For some there are tears of gratitude that their gastronomic skills have been recognized, while others fester in unbridled frustration: “He’s got the taste buds of a jelly fish” and “she couldn’t tell the difference between a pickle and a rice pudding.”
But the day moves on: the polished cups are presented, the winners drink tea with their adoring supporters, while in the beer tent the losers plot loudly among those for whom they have bought the drinks. It is custom; it is community, and it is great fun for the visitors.
However, once the drought of summer has given way to the torrential rains that follow the equinox, many Islanders think of the Christmas Fair, or Fare, or Faire. There is, once again, the stirring of competitive fervor; the irresistible dreams of vast economic benefit and the optimistic booking of expensive vacations in the sun. Islanders begin to ponder the possibilities of wondrous, but cheap to make, ‘stocking-fillers’, and culinary, tooth-decaying seasonal extravagancies that will be ‘sold out’ before the end of the show.
It is the same every year: the Islands decrease in population during the rains, and those who have fled south miraculously reappear with sun tans, diminished bank accounts and a gratitude towards those who have stayed and have continued to maintain the lifestyle that we all love.
