Autobiographical Sketch / 147photographs. My mind reeled. The Fall Festival! A whole week to select the choicest foods from
the hundreds of booths! A whole week to see over 800,000 people who would flock to the fes-
tival! A whole week to see friends I hadn’t seen since last year’s festival! I’d stuff myself with all
the fried, sugared, salted junk until I was miserable; and in the process, I’d catch up on all the
gossip. And I’d get paid for doing it. What a life!
The first afternoon, camera in hand and camera bag slung across my left shoulder, I headed
toward the kiddie rides. Children, joyous and uninhibited, always provide great human-interest
shots; these proved no different. The toddler in the pink sweat suit, terrified by the merry-go-
round, didn’t hesitate to scream her fears, a great picture, her grubby fist knuckling a tear-
stained face. The pint-sized cowboy in boots and ten-gallon hat obviously found riding the
bumper cars every bit as good as riding the range—another great picture, her hat flopping over
her eyes after a resounding bump from behind.
That’s when Alan showed up. “Hey, look at you in the kiddie park! Fancy meeting you here.
What’s up?” Alan was chaperoning his kid sister for a few hours, looking for his own entertain-
ment. Apparently I was it. But then, wasn’t I looking forward to meeting old friends?
“Hi, Alan. Gosh, long time no see. What are you doing these days?” For some reason I didn’t care
how he answered, or if he answered. Frankly, I don’t remember what he said. Fortunately, his sis-
ter was taking her turn in the bumper cars, so I managed to escape without his following me.
From the kiddie rides, I hit the first block of food booths. The smell intoxicated me: bratwurst,
fudge, elephant ears, kuchen, pizza, apple cider—anything to tempt the taste buds. Oh, but
just look at the people queued up to buy whatever tidbit rewarded them at the end of the long
line! Changing to a 105-mm lens to photograph them unaware, I stood back, watching. There!
The woman with a string of caramel draped at least a foot from her lips to the caramel apple
she was eating. Then that guy with the sauerkraut dangling from the corner of his mouth.
And that kid taking his first bite from a wonderfully buttery, cinnamon-sugared elephant ear—
elephant ear from ear to ear! What shots!
“Hey, Hotshot, what’s with the camera bit when there’s all this wonderful food?”
I turned to the voice I recognized, tempted to take Sherry’s picture, too. Indeed, she would have
made quite a picture, a cup of apple cider wedged in the crook of her left arm, a stacked ham
sandwich, half eaten, in her left hand, and a bag of three French waffles swinging from her right
hand.
“Hey, Hotshot, yourself,” I responded, trying to sound casual. “Just on assignment, that’s all.
What’s with the horde of food? You on a diet?” I tried to be funny, an effort to cover up my ten-
sion. Why was I frustrated? Sherry, of all people. One of my best friends. We should share a
few jokes, revel in our mutual joy of finding each other at the festival, and head out to have a
great evening together.
I couldn’t wait to get away.
So that day melted into the following ones. By week’s end, I had filled a couple of memory
cards and popped some exciting candid shots. The editor’s rare moment of praise added a
satisfied glow to the week’s work. Lurking in the shadows, though, was something less than a
glow. It gnawed and irritated, like a stone in a shoe. I’d spent the week at the festival, seldom