Fresh-cut grass. Damp, lush fields of green. Sunlight peeking out from behind the cloud, melting like a pat of butter on a hot grill. Sunday morning, June 21st, 1991, a little after 10 a.m., is when a torrent of rain hit the small carnival in Beaverton, Oregon. Me and the girl I had just met were hiding underneath a tractor-trailer stuffed to the brim with cheap stuffed animals imported from a source in China. Thousands of these plastic-wrapped animals were packed in boxes from the floor to the ceiling. She was adorable, not precisely the kind of person you’d expect to see at a sideshow fair. On the other hand, her boss was just what you’d expect; overweight, short, receding hairline. Check. Australian accent? Not an American? You can’t make that up, but I can tell you it wasn’t what I expected!

“Oiy! Jules, git on over ‘ere! We gots work ta do!” Jules gave me a quick peck on the cheek, smiling, and ran over to her boss.

“Keep your shirt on, Kyle. We got most of it put up before it started.”

“Yeah? Well, we gotta git that,” he pointed at the metal flap that kept the game dry and safe during transport, “down and locked in place. Is your friend over there,” he thumbed at me, “gonna help us out? All hands on deck and all that jazz, yeah?”

Jules smiled again, blushing slightly and waving at me under the trailer. “Come on then, Jaz. You can help out, right?”

I met her Saturday evening, wandering around whatever the fair was called. I remember it was a week before the Rose Festival, not the best time to hold an outside event in Oregon. There is good reason you can find various shades of green in the Pacific Northwest, and it’s summed up with one word: rain. Lots and lots of rain! With mountains like Mount Rainer, Mount Hood, and Mount Baker on the eastern half of the state and the Pacific Ocean to the west, it’s no wonder the rainfall was astronomical!

To be continued . . .