In Search of Sam by Kristin Butcher Page A

head toward them. On the way I see a fishing pool for kids. There’s no water in it, just plastic pellets and tiny toys encased in bags sealed with metal clips. The children are armed with fishing rods dangling magnetic bait. If squeals and giggles are any indication, they’re all having a good time and even catching a few toys.
    As I step outside I pass a dunk tank just as a young man wings a baseball at the target, sending the pretty girl perched on the platform plunging into the water. The mini playground is in full use, and a half-dozen kids are kicking a soccer ball around the field. The bazaar organizers clearly planned for kids. They also thought about lunch. Several barbecues are set up, churning out mouth-watering smells of hotdogs and hamburgers.
    â€œFive minutes.” One of the chefs raises an open hand.
    I nod and smile. “I’ll be back,” I say and head over to the corral, which — unlike the last time I saw it — is in full use. Ponies carrying little kids parade in a circle, each one led by a cowboy or cowgirl. On the outside of the corral, the next round of riders impatiently awaits its turn.
    I lean on the fence to watch. It takes me back to Webb’s River and my riding lessons at Greener Pastures Ranch.
    A voice interrupts my thoughts. “You a rider?”
    I look around at the ancient cowboy standing at my shoulder. Where did he come from?
    â€œI’ve done a little, but I’m not very good,” I tell him. “Twice around the corral, and these little people will be better than me.”
    He chuckles. “Kids are naturals. I been working with them most of my life. My son and his wife raise horses down the highway a few miles. I live with them. I used to rent this corral and offer riding lessons, but as more and more folks moved away, I just couldn’t make money at it.”
    My heart does a mini flip. Could Sam have taken riding lessons from this man? The cowboy answers my question before I even ask it.
    â€œOf course, I wasn’t here when Farrow was really in its heyday. That would’ve been mid fifties, and I didn’t move here until ’93.”
    My hopes do a nosedive.
    â€œFarrow was dying even then, but it was still a nice little town. Hard to believe now,” he says, “but there was a time when this corral was busy all the time. There used to be a barn and a grandstand right over there.” He points across the way.
    â€œWhy a grandstand?”
    I frown. “Why do you say that?”
    â€œEvery year more people move away. The bazaar has always drawn a big crowd, but it’s a lot of work to organize, especially when there aren’t many bodies to do it. It’s been around for sixty-four years, but this is the last time. It’s a real shame, I tell you.”

Chapter Eleven
    Though it’s only 12:20 when I get to the cemetery, I’m worried that the flower lady has already been and gone. I hurry to the graves of John and Hannah Swan to find out.
    There are no fresh flowers, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
    But by one o’clock, the woman still hasn’t shown up, so I start reading the headstones to pass the time. Most of my friends think graveyards are scary — or at least morbid. They imagine bodies devoured by maggots and worms, or decaying zombies pushing up through the ground to attack the living. I, on the other hand, find cemeteries peaceful. There’s something comforting about walking among people who are at rest.
    By two thirty I’m familiar enough with the graveyard to conduct tours. I know that Barnaby Wacker’s grave is the oldest and Melanie Dufresne’s is the most recent. I know William Hornby Jr. was the youngest person to die — four hours old — and Mable Myerson lived to be 101. I know Drake Hodges was killed during a dispute over a mining claim and the entire Foligno family died in a house fire. Just by reading the markers I have a sense of who