It's fair time!! Last Saturday I entered some photographs of my own and a piece of art for a young man in our church. Harrison was with me and mentioned that he would like to enter some art as well. So we came home and he spent five solid hours drawing dinosaurs, airplanes, and all kinds of bugs. He decided the fighter jet would be the entry. So I took him to the fair grounds yesterday and entered his art.
The art from the young man at church was prominently displayed and I was glad because I had made a mistake when I entered it. I figured I could go in, ask them to change the category from Crayon to Colored pencil, and off we go. Nope! Fat chance. Both ladies working that area looked at me as though I had asked them to define the theory of relativity. Then begin to inform me that this is not colored pencil, it's crayon. "It looks crayon to me also, but his mother says it is NOT crayon, it is colored pencil. Can we go ahead and change it, please?
Finally, one of the ladies spoke up and said that I would have to find his entry form at the front office and have it changed there, then come back and they would change it on his ticket stub.
I said, "Can't we just fill out another entry form?"
"Oh no," She replied. "You have to go to the office."
So Harrison and I stopped for directions to the office, found the office, and then proceeded to explain to the receptionist what had happened. Again, the "theory of relativity look."
"Hang on a second and let me get the manager."
Oh boy...the manager. Really? So out comes this little lady and she tells me it's the women at the entry desks fault for not recognizing the difference between crayon and colored pencil "...and whose signature is at the bottom of this entry form?"
"Oh, that would be mine since I turned in his entry."
"Oh no, we can't have that. The exhibitor's signature must be on this entry form."
"Well, what can I do? This is the last day to enter and he's in school. He won't make it up here in time."
"Well, I'll put my initials on it and we'll let it slide this time."
"OK, but I signed my son's entry form too."
"Where is it?"
"At the entry table."
So we briskly enter the exhibit hall, make our way to the entry table, find Harrison's entry form and the manager begins to chew out the elderly lady sitting there accepting the forms. I felt so bad for her. I was embarrassed too.
Harrison signs his own name to his entry form and we walk down to the ladies at the art section. The manager begins to chew them out also. They show her the art and she, too, says, "This is not colored pencil. This is crayon."
"No, I'm telling you, his mother says it is colored pencil."
"I've never seen colored pencil look like this."
"I'm sure it is. His mother would know."
By this time I'm just so ready to go home. The manager finally tells me that she'll change it, but she knows it's crayon. Everything is changed, I thank her, let out a long sigh, and off we go.
As we approach the driveway, I realize that I had used my son's first name "Daniel" as the exhibitor and when signing his name, he used "Harrison." Did I go back?
What do you think?