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Dutchess County Fairgrounds

Oct 2025

The Llamas sashayed down the little road between two enormous barns – tall unsheared creatures, desperately trying to look dignified, desperately failing. Then came the big soft sheep some with large ears, some with horns, and finally the teeniest tiniest baby goat that soon lost the struggle to keep up with them. Music, laughter and the sound of excited voices filled the air. Everywhere you looked, you saw sweaters – loud colorful sweaters, exquisite quiet ones and everything in between. They competed with the reds, oranges, purple and yellow of the trees shining against a crisp blue air. The sun shone gently through a few clouds, making it a perfect Fall Day in New York. This was the New York State Sheep and Wool Festival, a festival with humble beginnings in 1980, when a few shepherds got together to sell their wares; to this weekend’s event with over 300 vendors and 30,000 visitors.

August 1987

The smell of food wafts on the hot breeze – fried dough and oddly, popcorn. Children run around. There are a lot of animals and something called 4H. Standing in the John Hancock Insurance booth I barely register most of this. The heels of my pumps keep sinking into the soft earth – the long wobbly walk from the parking lot had been a nightmare, "How will I ever make it back ?" I wonder. My colleague Tim is discussing sheep, goats, farm equipment, sports and whatever else with the passers by. If nothing else, he talks about the weather. Sometimes he talks about insurance and hands out a business card, sometimes he writes down a name and phone number. “It’s about establishing contact, getting them to like you. The sale will come later.” my manager had said about working the fair. All I can think about are the trickles of sweat working their way down my back. This suit was a really bad idea. "You're from India, you should be used to the hot weather," another colleague remarks. I nod. I have given up trying to explain that it is possible to avoid the heat by travelling earlier in the morning and after the sun has set and staying indoors the rest of the time. "I'm never going to make a living selling insurance. Perhaps, I should just go back to India. I don't belong here."

October 2025

I’m exhausted, my feet hurt, so do my legs and back. Yesterday I walked for 6 hours, this morning I've been on my feet for 3 hours. Its way more than my usual 30 minutes. I lower myself into a metal chair behind the makeshift desk that serves as the information center for the fair. “Will I ever be able to stand again?”, I wonder. Five young women come by. They are wearing beautiful hand knit sweaters – same pattern, different colors. “Hello, nice sweaters", I can't help it, they really look amazing together. They walk over, and forgetting about my pain, I stand up to talk to them." The woman with the delighted grin purrs, “I designed it, they found it on Ravelry and made their own sweaters.” We talk some more. And then they move on, I sit back down. A young man walks by. “What a beautiful scarf!”, “I made it myself,” he walks over so I can have a closer look. “And you see this yarn? I dyed it. My friend built the design around this color…” He moves on, I sit down. There's a woman buying coffee across from me. Something about her sweater intrigues me. I walk over. "What is different about these granny squares? It is the usual pattern, but there is something about them". “My mother-in-law gave me this blanket from her grandmother, originally made in 1902. I took out the granny squares and repurposed them into this sweater” she beams. Three hours flash by with me bobbing up and down every few minutes as I see something I like. I’ve lost count of the numbers of passersby I have greeted, and while I occasionally remember my pain, mostly I'm just caught up in the awesomeness around me. A woman walks by. She is wearing a ribbon that says “Crochet, First Place Winner”. "Crochet, really?" And I know I've found my tribe.

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Original Version

Dutchess County Fairgrounds Earlier Today

The Llamas sashayed down the little road between two enormous barns – tall unsheared creatures, desperately trying to look dignified, desperately failing. Then came the big soft sheep some with large ears, some with horns, and finally the teeniest tiniest baby goat that soon lost the struggle to keep up with them. Music, laughter and the sound of excited voices filled the air. Everywhere you looked, you saw sweaters – loud colorful sweaters, exquisite quiet ones and everything in between. Yes. I was at the New York State Sheep and Wool Festival, a festival with humble beginnings in 1980, when a few shepherds got together to sell their wares; to this weekend’s event with over 300 vendors and 30,000 visitors.

Dutchess County Fairgrounds August 1987

The smell of food wafts on the hot breeze – fried dough and oddly, popcorn. Children run around. There are a lot of animals and something called 4H. The young brown woman at the John Hancock Insurance booth notices very little of all this. The heels of her pumps keep sinking into the soft earth – the long wobbly walk from the parking lot had been a nightmare and she wonders how she will it make it back there. Around her, her colleagues are greeting fair goers cheerfully, engaging them in conversation about the weather and the fair and their livestock. Occasionally they discuss insurance and hand out their cards. “It’s about establishing contact, getting them to like you. The sale will come later.” That was what her manager had said about working the fair. All she can think about is how hot it is and what a bad idea it was to wear this suit. Why did she ever come to America? And why did anyone think she could make a fortune selling life insurance? She didn’t even know how to engage these people.

Yesterday

Here, high up on a bridge, in the middle of the Hudson River, the air was fresh. The water reflected the blue skies and the green of the foliage around. Fall is a little late this year, the yellows and reds shyly peeking through mostly green trees. A painful eyesore during all the time I had lived in the Hudson Valley, the bridge, the longest pedestrian walkway across a river, attracted tourists from all parts of the country. It is a spectacular testimony to what a little determination and generous donations can achieve. Earlier in the day, I had driven up I-684 past the glass pyramids carved into the side of the hill –the Temple of the Gods, we called them – IBM divisional headquarters. Like me, they had the air of has-beens unsure of if and when they transitioned from vital to irrelevant.

Dutchess County Fairgrounds Right Now

I’m exhausted, my feet hurt, so do my legs and back. I lower myself into a metal chair behind the makeshift desk that serves as the information center for the fair. “Will I ever be able to stand again?”, I wonder. Five young women come by. They are wearing beautiful hand knit sweaters – same pattern, different colors. “Hello, nice sweaters, I call out.” Big grins and one of the young women speaks up, “I designed it and posted on Ravelry.” “Did you all know each other?” I ask and the conversation flows. They move on, I sit back down. A big white man walks by. “What a beautiful scarf!”, “I made it myself,” he grins. “And you see this yarn? I dyed it. My friend built the design around this color…” He moves on, I sit down. They’re just regular granny squares on that sweater, aren’t they? “My mother-in-law gave me this blanket from 1902. I took out the granny squares and repurposed them into this sweater” she beams. By the time the woman with the winner’s badge comes around, I’ve lost count of the numbers of passersby I have greeted. “They have a crochet category in the contests? Really? You made that? I think I will submit an entry next year. How….?”