I wasn’t a 4-H kid. There were no livestock shows in my youth, no ribbons earned in the arena, no early mornings in the wash racks. I didn’t sleep in a lawn chair next to a goat or memorize the feed schedule for a market steer. At the time, I didn’t know what I was missing. But I loved the fair. I grew up just west of the fairgrounds, out on the Ormsby, and when you lived out there, Monday of…