Call us wild and crazy, but my wife and I enjoy attending small-town summertime celebrations. The most recent such event was Arlington Days, held — brace yourself! — in Arlington.

There are approximately a hundred municipalities and locales named Arlington in the United States, so we chose the Arlington that’s located about 15 miles from our house. We might be wild and crazy, but not to extent that we would travel the nearly 1,500 miles to the hamlet of Arlington, Oregon (population: 620.)

No small-town celebration is complete without a bevy of booths where vendors can promote their products. There was a surprising amount of local artistic talent on display, but I was most impressed by a woman who was selling “forever earrings.” My understanding of ladies’ jewelry is hazy at best.

Are earrings normally prone to dissolving?

No small-town celebration is complete without a parade down Main Street. There were numerous entries in Arlington’s parade, although the most populous category seemed to be antique tractors.

Politicians walked the parade route, working the crowd, gladhanding voters, smiling and waving, mugging for photos, and generally behaving like politicians. I saw it as no coincidence that the pols were followed shortly by an antique tractor that was pulling a manure spreader.

A meticulously restored 1971 Plymouth Duster 340 rumbled slowly down Main Street. Even when it was standing still, the Duster seemed to be screaming, “Give me a speeding ticket!” It was a cool ride then and it’s a cool ride now, although its lime green paint job was so vivid that it would probably keep me awake at night.

Right behind the Duster was a humungous feed truck. Nothing screams “farming community” louder than a sporty sports car being followed in a parade by a feed truck.

No small-town celebration would be complete without live music in the city park. Highway Call, a local band, crooned tunes that included hits by Buddy Holly, The Eagles, and Credence Clearwater Revival. They played a remarkably authentic version of “Pancho and Lefty.” I especially enjoyed their rendition of “Ghost Riders in the Sky.”

There are few things more pleasurable than sitting on a park bench with your Significant Other on a balmy summer afternoon and listening to some good music. Especially when the music is free.

A softball tournament was held in the park’s ball diamond, and a youth fishing derby took place in a nearby manmade pond. One unusual and amusing event that was held in the park was the Blind Golf Cart Races.

The participants weren’t visually impaired; their vision was intentionally obscured with a blindfold. Bystanders shouted instructions to the blindfolded cart drivers in a comical effort to guide them and keep them from meandering off into the next county. I doubt if any speed records were set. If there were, they were likely measured in the form of negative miles per hour.

Being an old — excuse me, I mean “classic” — Baby Boomer, I was naturally drawn to the lineup of classic farm tractors that had been in the parade. Some of the tractors were so dazzling that my reaction was, “Holy cow, you almost need shades to look at that paint job!” Other tractors were dressed in their work clothes, proudly displaying the grimy effects of decades of hard work and the ravages of time. I deeply empathized with those tractors.

One tractor that especially stood out was a pristine Farmall 1206. Not only did it look better than new, it was also much smaller. For some reason – perhaps it shrank after being washed and put in a dryer that was set at Reactor Core Meltdown – the tractor was half the size it should have been.

I spoke with its owner, Roger Pirlet. Asked where he acquired the diminutive red workhorse, Roger replied, “I had it custom built by a guy after I retired from farming. I had to have something to do, and I enjoy taking the tractor to parades and tossing out candy for the kids.”

Roger recited a litany of tractors he had owned when he farmed, a virtual who’s who of classic International Harvester iron. He also mentioned having a few John Deeres, so I forgave him.

After chatting with Roger a bit, I learned that his uncle was George Pirlet. When I was a kid, George was a fieldman for the dairy processor that purchased our milk. And it turned out that George was my niece’s husband’s grandfather!

Those are the types of pleasant things that can happen at an annual small-town summertime celebration. I just wish that such festivals would take place more often than once a year.

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide