Every fall they’d come. Down by the bend in the river, across from Franklin’s farm. Young or old, we all looked forward to their arrival.
But then there was that trouble with Miss Wilkins and her pink pearls. Jimmy Dwyer, youngest son of the head carnie was blamed. He protested his innocence, but ran none the less. That was the last year they stopped in our town.
Thing is, it weren’t Jim. Folks round here know that, they know who it really was but they don’t want to say. Just seems safer to blame outsiders I guess. But heck, I sure do miss the Fair.