There’s a curious hush in Chesterburgh these days, the sort that fills the air just after a slow rain. Maybe it’s the damp earth seeping into every crack, or the way the clouds hang low, like the sky’s leaning in to listen. It’s the kind of quiet that invites stories, those half-whispered tales exchanged on porches or over chipped mugs of coffee at Millie’s Diner. And this week, one story has cropped up everywhere — the return of the Chesterburgh Cheese Fair.

If you’re a longtime Chesterburghian, you might remember the Cheese Fair from when you were a kid, or perhaps from your parents or grandparents’ stories. It used to be the grand event of early spring, drawing folks from all corners of the county to the town square with gleaming wheels of cheddar, crumbly blues, and soft, tangy chevres stacked high on rickety tables. At one time, the fair was the heartbeat of Chesterburgh’s food calendar—where neighbors swapped recipes, and kids chased each other with sourdough pretzels in hand.

But that was decades ago. The fair quietly slipped away, faded like old garden flowers, as supermarkets took over and the little creameries shut down one by one. The event became a community memory, tucked away like a favorite recipe that families rarely pull out anymore. Until now.

This spring, the fair is making a comeback, led by none other than Mrs. Edna Clarke, a sprightly 78-year-old with a laugh like warm honey and a will as steady as the Chesterburgh oak tree outside the library. I caught up with Edna on a brisk Monday morning, as she was setting up the first promotional posters near Main Street—those nostalgic, hand-lettered signs that look like they belong in a frame rather than taped on windows.

“I wanted the town to remember what it means to come together,” Edna told me, her eyes twinkling beneath her wide-brimmed hat. “Cheese is just the reason. It’s the excuse to catch up, to share stories, and to remind ourselves there's sweetness in our small world.”

The more I listened, the more I realized that Edna’s fight was about more than dairy. Chesterburgh has been shifting; new faces arrive, and familiar faces move westward or drift quietly away. The fair, with its mellow hum of laughter and clinking glasses, seemed like a gentle way of threading old roots back into this changing tapestry.

On the Wednesday before the fair, I wandered over to the old creamery building, now a cozy workshop where Jonah and Mia, two young cheesemakers just back from culinary school, are crafting small-batch cheeses. The air inside was rich and tangy, a mix of warm milk and herbs—there was sage, I think, mingling with something sweet like marigold.

Jonah, a slim guy with wire-rimmed glasses, wiped his hands on his apron and shared what brought him back to Chesterburgh. “There’s something about the pace here,” he said. “In the city, everything moves too fast—here, you can breathe, you can listen. And the community still values the handwork, the stories behind food.” Mia nodded, adding, “It’s like we’re bringing back a bit of the soul in every wheel we make.”

Hearing these young cheesemakers talk, I was reminded of my own childhood summers spent in my grandma’s kitchen, where she’d press fresh ricotta under a damp cloth and hum old folk songs. That scent—the steaming milk, the citrusy notes of lemon zest—still lingers somehow, folded into my memory like an old photograph of soft light draped over kitchen tiles.

Come Saturday morning, the town square was sprinkled with people, the air alive with a mix of sunshine cracking through clouds, and the earthy scent of fresh hay bales that lined the vendor stalls. Folks were wrapped in a patchwork of spring jackets, their cheeks rosy from a crisp breeze. Amidst them moved Edna, wearing a vintage apron stitched with tiny cows and smiling as if the whole world were her kin.

At one corner, the Chesterburgh High School choir sang softly, th