Marcia, Marcia, Marcia

I was born short ... just 18 inches long. With a father 5-foot-9 and a mother 5-2 there wasn’t much hope for me. In eighth grade I reached 5-feet tall and at 5-foot I have stayed.
My brother Mike measures 6-feet tall. I’ve always figured he got his height from my Grandpa Dutch.
Me, I’ve always wanted to be 5-foot-3. How different my life would have been had I just grown three inches.
Three inches may not sound like much until put into perspective. What it would be like to have that extra reach ... a longer inseam ... a taller profile?
Last week this short person spent lots of time at the York County Fair. It was fun. The 4-H’ers and their families are great. Not only does covering the fair provide me the chance to reconnect with all these lovely people I basically spend time with once a year ... it’s also very educational. 
This year I learned all about poultry-tipping from judge Gary Tordrup. The kids learned about it too. Four-H’ers watched skeptically as Mr. Tordrup, a renowned chicken expert, tipped their birds upside down in order to count tail feathers. And guess what, it worked. After kids saw that, you wouldn’t believe how much chicken-tipping was going on. Over went the chicken, out fanned the feathers ... over went the chicken, out fanned the feathers. As the afternoon show progressed I noticed more than one parent mouthing the words, “Quit tipping that chicken” as their child waited to visit with the judge.
At the fair I learned it’s possible for dairy cows to lose points because they need to improve their “dairyness.” That was a new one. Apparently dairy cows are the queens of the barn. All I could think of after I heard that was, “Excuse me your dairyness,” “Does your dairyness need anything else,” “Will your dairyness be going out today?,” “I have prepared the pasture for your dairyness.”
While taking photos at the swine show I heard one little girl in open class tell the judge she’d picked out the hog she was showing “because it had nice ears.” I also learned it’s important for pigs, like people, not to toe-in when they walk.
This year, for the first time ever, I took in the 4-H Sheep Show. After watching 40 pound kids handle 100 pound market lambs I think an appropriate name for the event would be “4-H Sheep Wrestling.” Over the years I’ve seen photos of 4-H'er Edie Nickel in the paper with her champion sheep. Until this year, little did I know what it took to actually wrangle a sheep into the proper showing position — eek.
Breaking ‘the pattern’ is a real no-no, was the message I took home from the 4-H horse show. That, and, it’s very difficult to pivot a horse, they don’t like it much.
On Friday evening, after spending a hot day in the Small Animal Barn, Jay and I hit the beach. The hog roast was great. We enjoyed the Executive Steel Drum Band and the Trade Wind Polynesian-style dancers. But it wasn’t until The Landsharks kicked it into gear I discovered something about sand and dancing in it. As I said, the fair is ever the learning experience.
I’ve watched my share of Elvis movies. I enjoy Frankie and Annette as much as the next Baby Boomer. I just never realized or thought about the fact that when you dance on sand you get shorter. Anyway, Jay and I just couldn’t resist ... we love Jimmy Buffett, the temperature had fallen, the stars were out, the conga line had just returned to the sand after weaving through the crowd ... aww, what the heck. So bad knee and all we slid some sand and danced to a few of our favorite tunes.
It was during “Cheeseburger in Paradise” I noticed something happening ... all of a sudden there I was staring right at Jay’s belly-button. Boy was I glad he was wearing his favorite Hawaiian shirt. FYI, his belly-button is nearly a foot lower than the part I usually stare at while we are dancing, which is the middle of his chest. I was getting shorter. I had danced myself deeper and deeper into the sand with each carefully choregraphed step I had taken. My bare feet had virtually disappeared. This I didn’t need.
I pulled my legs up. One at a time my feet popped out of the sand. I took a couple of steps to the side looking for high ground. I sang (or yelled with the crowd), “I like mine with lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57 and French fried potatoes,” only to find myself shrinking a line or two later. Finally my knee gave up and so did I. How did Elvis do it? All I can say is the beach party gang must have had a piece of plywood under the sand as they swam, shimmied and frugged their way through the ‘60s.
Yep, I learned lots at the fair this year ... including the very useful fact that dancing on the sand makes you shorter.