So the car was in fact OK, except for two tires and one rim. What with the holiday weekend and incredibly complicated logistics (there is NO cell phone service at the Cummington fairgrounds unless you happen to be on Verizon, and even that is iffy), I figure I’m lucky yet again that it was possible for the car to be drivable and available by the time the show was over: wearing two new tires in front and the donut spare in back, I came home sl-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-owly and carefully - and uneventfully.

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, I must say it was a marvelous weekend. Don’t know yet how we did from a business standpoint - hey, if I made enough to offset the cost of my Close Encounter of the Rogue Mattress Kind I will consider it gravy - but we sure did have us a fine time with our friends. There is just nothing like Cummington for that.

As usual these days I will be late to the party with stories and pictures and details and loot - for one thing I kind of feel like I need to start off with the wounded-car pictures, and I don’t have those yet because they’re still languishing in Jennifer’s camera. But also as usual I can coast for the moment on other people’s reportage - by way of appetizer you can feast your eyes on the blog of A Certain Overachiever, as well as some great pictures on Kathe’s Flickr photostream.

To put the cart before the horse for a moment, though, I must just mention that on the way home I discovered the slow lane’s silver lining: stopping en route to fuel myself and to give the donut a little breather, I discovered what has to be one of the Top Ten Diners on the PLANET. Seriously. Just off Exit 9 on Rte 84 in Newtown, CT, the Blue Colony Diner. From here on out, I assure you, any remotely northward trip I take will include, if necessary, a considerable detour to get me there again. I can’t believe I almost didn’t go in; I can’t believe that I considered just going in for take-out. It was a fortunate impulse that seated me at the counter and kept me there.

The food was really good, but I’m not sure I would have cared if it had been fried cardboard; what swamped and enveloped me was the realness and neighborhood-ness of the place. It’s a good clean really-truly diner, family-run, with plenty of pride and integrity; there’s not a trace of faux gentrification or delusions of grandeur about it, and it just exudes warm down-to-earth-ness. With a sense of humor. Salt of the earth ain’t innit. Nearly everyone there was a regular who knew the staff by name. Hell, by the time I left there I was a regular who knew the staff by name. As a rule I’m not one to go volunteering my life story to strangers, but I guess somehow these people weren’t strangers.

So when you go there - and go there you should - be sure to look for “Greek Diane” and for the waitress who nicknames herself “Rude” (and is anything but), and tell ‘em hi from the lady who got attacked by a mattress on the highway. Tell ‘em I’ll be back.

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