fascinators and fascinations at the Devon Grand Prix (final photographs)

Grand Prix night at the Devon Horse Show. The hats and fascinators are out in force. The speed demons get the sand to churn. The reverend waits to sing the national anthem, and the bugler checks the time. The horses fly. The crowd is electrified.

Leaving, I see a Radnor High School friend. "Are you ready for next week?" he asks me.

"Yes," I said, with rare confidence. "I am."

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Quintessential Devon Horse Show, Memorial Day

Memorial Day Monday. My father and I head down my street for the Devon Horse Show. My neighbor's dog performs its tricks on the way. Sarah Beth's young sons show off their cuteness. By the time we reach the admissions booth, we're told that my father—who served two years during the Korean War—is invited into the fairground for free, with seats in the stand no less. I, as his chaperone, can join him.

And so we play Skee Ball. We go in and out of the booths. We watch the adult jumpers in the stands and the Shetland pony races by the fence. We walk in and out of the stables, past the girls with lemon sticks. We sit with cookies. We talk.

My father, wearing a pin, is thanked for his service.

I thank him—and all those who serve—as well.

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Devon Horse Show 2016 (so far)

The fairground rattle. The stable stills. The noise and the direction of gallop. Every year we wait. Every year the wait is answered. The horses come.

My favorite part is the neighborhood stuff. It's my friend Jane and her family and friends, which Jane shares with unilateral generosity. I stand or sit beneath the shade of her trees and conversation happens. Once-a-year conversation, which I miss the minute it is done.

Later, I will write about the horses. Put them into the novels I write (The Heart Is Not a Size) or the occasional Philadelphia Inquirer story. Or I won't write anything at all. It won't be necessary.

Some photos from the show. So far.

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