At the demo derby, of course.

I cast aside my life of so-called privilege last Saturday night. Instead of having a close-up view of the Vankleek Hill Fair's demolition derby as a reporter on the ground, I attended as a spectator, bringing an out-of-town visitor along with me to this annual spectacle which attracts so many fans.

Having given advice for years to others to arrive early to get a good seat for this event, I thought knew what to do. But I worried that I was missing something. So I asked for advice.

Little did I know that blankets are an important part of the demo derby. Arrive early and spread a folded blanket along the bleachers or on the grandstand according to the number of places you need to reserve. Everyone respects each other's blankets, according to my insider. Sure, I thought. As if.

But indeed, upon my arrival at 3 p.m. in the rain, I jockeyed myself into position on the grandstand as people left when the final horse hitch classes were cancelled.

I set up my blanket just like the others I saw neatly folded along the seats in the grandstand. More often than not, the blankets were there, but no people.

I sat and waited, talking to people I knew. This was okay, I thought. And as time wore on and people kept filing up the steps into the grandstand, I noted that yes, indeed, blankets neatly laid out went untouched.

I watched mothers with babies, young children and older people  not too sure of their footing inch up the grandstand stairs.

Our demo derby might be seen by others as a redneck event, but the loyal cheering on of family members and friends as cars entered the ring and the courteous sharing of tight seating sort of made me feel like we were in one of those survivor movies, where we all knew everything about each other and were in this until we were rescued -- except that no one needed rescuing from a long-anticipated hometown event.

From her seat behind me, Judith, back home for a visit from her own home in Hamilton, told me about Billy, a driver who had spent 10-and-a-half hours painting his car with zebra stripes. Many of the cars were painted with care and fun in mind.

"Git R  Done" was painted on more than a few cars.

Getting things done is what came to mind as I looked across the fairgrounds at the midway, the food concessions, considered the homecrafts, baking, vegetables, crop displays, the livestock barns, the improvements to the old exhibit hall, the beer tent. The fair is that worth-coming-home-for event that brings so many former residents back to where they know they can find that for the most part, things have not changed.

I am sure that the fair organizers work to change things for the better each year. But they are smart enough to keep intact the parts of the fair that make it what it is.

The demolition derby holds appeal on so many levels that it is hard to sum it up. Perhaps it is the young people -- or the veteran drivers, competing in a lively field of dust and bravado. Perhaps it is the look of the cars themselves; modified and painted for the event with care and/or with humour only to be twisted and crushed within minutes of the flag.

Or maybe it is being part of the crowd and watching the daylight fade as the midway lights twinkle behind the trees, the smoke and the steam from the derby cars.

It is usually fair weekend when I feel the summer turn to fall and more serious endeavours loom closer.

But as I sat there on my blanket last Saturday, amid the roar of the cars and the cheering of the crowd, it struck me once again that small towns are the best place to be.

When times are good or times are bad, we are each of us surrounded by our fans, who cheer us on or groan when things go wrong. You could say that our community is like the warmest blanket.

Who knew that a blanket could be so important?