Painted Ponies

My friend Roberta and I were in grade school when her parents took us to the Topsfield Fair on a sunny October weekend. The weather was perfect, crisp and clear, and the fairgrounds were alive with music and laughter. It was my first carnival and I was instantly enthralled by the sounds and the smells and the pink ponies on the carousel. We ate cotton candy and candy apples, popcorn and hot dogs, drank cokes over crushed ice. We watched clowns and jugglers and stilt walkers and magicians, rode the ferris wheel to the sky and the roller coaster and the flying saucer ride - we were overwhelmed and exhilarated and eventually very sick from the combination of too much excitement, too much sugar, too much motion - but it was a glorious day and as we passed the painted ponies on the carousel, we begged for one last ride. Roberta chose the blue pony and I chose the purple one and her parents watched from the sidelines, standing apart from each other, stern faced and quiet, not appreciating the gentle horses with their brightly colored manes and tails and gleaming white teeth. After this one last ride, we were packed into the back seat of their old Studebaker for the ride home, a long and silent drive where the rhythm of the road eventually put us both to sleep.

Roberta and I grew apart after that final excursion. Her parents, Eunice and Alden, disapproved of my family and decided that I was a bad influence. Roberta, smart as a whip, but chunky, sloppy and stringy haired with thick glasses and bad skin, was universally disliked by other children. She bragged about her good grades and musical ability - the piano came as naturally to her as breathing - but she was excluded from school games and sports, always the last chosen for a team or a dance partner - and she was an unhappy, confused child with distant and demanding parents. The last time I saw her was after the death of Duchess, the family's ancient black cocker spaniel, a snappish and intolerant old dog with bad teeth and arthritis. We buried her in Eunice's flower bed and Roberta shed not a single tear while I cried buckets. Eunice stood to the side, a bouquet of flowers clasped in her hands while Alden, dry eyed and emotionless, shoveled dirt over the small grave. They were hard people, I thought, cut off and unfeeling, cold and without passion or pity. I walked the short distance home, still in tears, still mourning a dog that wasn't mine and not understanding the process of grief or being an outcast. The memory of the Topsfield Fair seemed light years away.

Roberta moved sometime while we were in junior high school and I never knew why or where. I never heard from her again, never was to know what she became or how. But I still remember the painted ponies.

And for the record, the Topsfield Fair is in its 186th year. Fairs will outlive friendship every time.