As a high achiever, I’ve earned a shelf full of county fair ribbons and awards.

In my dreams.

Actually, my winnings consist of a participant badge signifying I’d shown up.

I was a late-comer to county fairs. When I was in high school, a farm woman asked me when I was going to the fair. I’d never been to one before.

With my parents’ consent, the woman took me and my brothers to the fair. Wow! What excitement! The fair food! The livestock barn! The handcrafts! The baked goods! The artwork! I never knew our county folks possessed such talents and skills. Our parents brought us back to the fair another day — and they were hooked also. The fair became an annual family excursion.

Through the years, I considered submitting an entry for judging.

At one time, a younger brother raised homing pigeons. He gave me and the other brother each a pigeon to raise. On test day, my two brothers and I fastened cages to our bicycles, tucked our pigeons inside and peddled into the country. We parked, took out our birds and tossed them into the air. My brothers’ pigeons circled and headed out. My pigeon kept circling as though he was in a holding pattern at the airport. We jumped on our bikes and pedaled like crazy for home. My brothers’ pigeons beat us home. My pigeon didn’t show up until the next day. He looked as if he’d stopped off to party with friends living under a bridge. He fluttered down to the pigeon coop disheveled and definitely not blue-ribbon material.

In time, our children enjoyed county fairs and achieved success with their entries. Still, I remained reluctant to enter, until one summer when vacation plans changed and I was off work before the fair started. I resolved to enter the county fair competition.

I started with fruit, having long admired the beauty of bottled peaches. After a sweaty afternoon in the kitchen, I realized my sliced peaches turned out looking as though they’d been hacked with a hand ax. On to my “no-fail” cookies. I slid the cookie sheet into the oven where the measured clumps of goodness proceeded to puddle into a pond of cookie dough.

My mistake — I’d uttered the words “county fair entry” out loud. At which point, the tomatoes dropped off the vines, now brown and mushy as bugs tunneled through them. Grasshoppers and earwigs hung out near the Oriental lilies waiting for the buffet of blossoms to open. Potatoes turned knobby like deactivated hand grenades.

I heeded advice to “be creative.” I creatively tried to dehydrate lettuce. There was no spot for edible entries that look like green lint.

County fair competition for me, I’ve discovered, is as much about learning as winning or not winning. I developed a deeper appreciation for the work of others.

I’m off to the fair. The food! The livestock barn! The handcrafts! And what I don’t accomplish now, I’ll work on for next year.