TEXARKANA MAGAZINE
excitement of my younger self, sitting at my desk at Texas Middle School, anxiously awaiting that clock to strike 3:45 so my friends and I could run to the car and get straight to the fairgrounds. I would be gripping my unlimited-ride wristband like it was the key to the kingdom and stuffing my face with funnel cakes because, let’s be honest, funnel cakes bring happiness to all. (Seriously, if you are not a fan of funnel cakes, just know I am side-eyeing you right now.) The fair is loud, sugary, neon-drenched magic. But magic, by its very nature, is fleeting. If there is one thing I have been trying to learn lately, it is how to let go of fleeting things. I have always had the hardest time accepting that good things have to end—nights with friends, laughter that makes your stomach hurt, moments so golden you wish you could bottle them up and keep them forever. Why can’t we make the good stuff last? Why do we have to wake up the next day and return to that old version of ourselves in the mirror? The thing about the fair and life is that it is built on the instant gratification we as a society crave so vehemently. The bright lights, the cotton candy, the rush of a ride that sends your stomach into your throat—those things are all about a single moment, and for years, I have longed for those moments like they were all I had. I hate when the party has to end, but does that mean I love the fun things in life enough to want them to keep going, or does it potentially reveal more about a fear I have of what comes next? Cotton candy is delicious, but it dissolves the second it hits your tongue. Some things are just meant to be enjoyed in a moment, not held onto forever. We are not meant to be 21 forever. We are not meant to stay the same version of ourselves forever. As I have grown up, I have admittedly felt like a rodeo clown a time or two. I have felt like my purpose was to entertain people, to make them laugh, to be the one keeping the energy up. And when I wasn’t doing that, I did not feel valuable to some. However, I am aware of a quiet yearning within myself to want people to take me more seriously. Just like the fair packs up and moves on, maybe it is important to ensure the same is true about the versions of ourselves that no longer serve us. Eighty years of the Four States Fair means 80 years of nostalgia, of fun, of the exact same funnel cakes bringing joy to generation after generation. But it also means growth. The kids who once ran wild through the fairgrounds are now bringing their own children. They may see the world through a different lens—realizing that while the magic is still there, it just feels different now. We change. We evolve. We outgrow things, and that is okay. There is so much beauty and freedom in transformation—in waking up and asking yourself, “Who am I going to be next?” The fair taught me that. It taught me that there is magic in the temporary. Just because something does not last forever does not mean it wasn’t real or did not have a significant impact on your life. Growing up does not mean losing joy—it just means finding it in new places or with a new perspective. One thing never changes, and that is change itself. If we don’t grow, we die. Life keeps shifting, and the best thing we can do is shift with it. The lights dim, the music fades, the carnival moves on, and so do we—and thank God we do.
E very April, nostalgia is in the air with the smell of funnel cakes and fried everything floating on the winds of Texarkana. The Four States Fair and Rodeo rolls into town, bringing with it neon lights, screaming kids, and at least one friend who swears they can handle the spinning rides but will, inevitably, prove otherwise. This year marks the 80th anniversary of the fair, and for me, that number is more than just a milestone. The fair is a reminder of time itself, of how it moves, how it shifts, and how it never stops for anyone. Growing up, the fair was an event… a tradition. The fair felt as permanent and certain as the seasons change. I can still feel the GOOD EVENING TXK COLUMN BY BAILEY GRAVITT
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