I slapped myself onto the side of the bleachers at the Stanton County Fair, my body slouched into a scourge of a pout. Over my shoulder, my friends were exploring the midway while I sat there, watching dalmations prancing around the stage in colorful tutus. We’d paid our admission at the gate, so my Dad was determined to get our money’s worth by watching the grandstand show.
Rusty from The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin, or Mark, The Rifleman’s Son, could have worn tutus on stage and I wouldn’t have cared because my friends were on the midway, soaring over the world on the Tilt-a-Whirl, scraping the moon on the Ferris Wheel, picking up ducks to see the lucky number on the bottom and cranking a drag line to win, well, nothing.
Besides that, they were all going to sleep in the barns that night to keep an eye on their 4-H calves. The neighbor girl had bawled her eyes out after her calf strutted around the 4-H calf sale ring and the auctioneer cried “Sold.” “There’ll be none of that,” my dad said, so I took snickerdoodles and a dirndl skirt to the fair instead. You don’t get to stay overnight at the fair to guard a dirndl skirt.
My brother, who also didn’t get to take a calf to the fair, became a state fair judge in the woodworking department. He enjoys interview judging, which for the uninitiated is the terrifying experience in which a 4-Her meets with a judge on judgment day. Oh, I mean judging day. I remember it explicitly, as I was drug—along with my dirndl skirt—in front of a judge who asked me extremely personal questions like, “Why did you choose this seam finish?” or “Why did you machine sew this hem?” I would either slink down in my chair, shrug my shoulders, and whisper “I dunno,” or I would slink down in my chair and whisper “That’s what my mom said to do.”
My brother goes to state fairs early; he gets caught up in the busy little community there. Vendors carry in shaved ice, turkey legs, bags of pink and blue cotton candy, and lots of something on a stick. In the beginning days of the fairs, as they're being set up, carnival workers lay out complicated railroad tracks of electric cords, their arms the sun-ripened tan of deep-fried turkey legs. Pieces of the Tornado, the Fireball or the Super Shot are laid out in long lines: hanging seats, walkways, and marque lights to shine up the OMG, already swinging overhead like a giant two-headed guillotine.
When my dad finally did release me from the grandstand show, I scurried over to the swings where I wound them up tight before they let them rip. I picked up a duck and won a little silver bracelet. I buckled myself into the Teacups just before they took off, and as it spun around for its 76th dervish of a revolution, the effects of motion sickness began to overpower me. Life became a blur, and as the tornadic forces finally, mercifully stopped and I staggered off, someone else had up-chucked his entire cone of cotton candy along with some corndog and a mess of turkey leg, in a glorious display on the concrete under my feet.
So, today, I’m content. The dalmations are pretty fun to watch, black dots speckling their cute little faces, their sparkling tutus glittering under the grandstand lights.
LaRayne Topp
Rusty from The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin, or Mark, The Rifleman’s Son, could have worn tutus on stage and I wouldn’t have cared because my friends were on the midway, soaring over the world on the Tilt-a-Whirl, scraping the moon on the Ferris Wheel, picking up ducks to see the lucky number on the bottom and cranking a drag line to win, well, nothing.
Besides that, they were all going to sleep in the barns that night to keep an eye on their 4-H calves. The neighbor girl had bawled her eyes out after her calf strutted around the 4-H calf sale ring and the auctioneer cried “Sold.” “There’ll be none of that,” my dad said, so I took snickerdoodles and a dirndl skirt to the fair instead. You don’t get to stay overnight at the fair to guard a dirndl skirt.
My brother, who also didn’t get to take a calf to the fair, became a state fair judge in the woodworking department. He enjoys interview judging, which for the uninitiated is the terrifying experience in which a 4-Her meets with a judge on judgment day. Oh, I mean judging day. I remember it explicitly, as I was drug—along with my dirndl skirt—in front of a judge who asked me extremely personal questions like, “Why did you choose this seam finish?” or “Why did you machine sew this hem?” I would either slink down in my chair, shrug my shoulders, and whisper “I dunno,” or I would slink down in my chair and whisper “That’s what my mom said to do.”
My brother goes to state fairs early; he gets caught up in the busy little community there. Vendors carry in shaved ice, turkey legs, bags of pink and blue cotton candy, and lots of something on a stick. In the beginning days of the fairs, as they're being set up, carnival workers lay out complicated railroad tracks of electric cords, their arms the sun-ripened tan of deep-fried turkey legs. Pieces of the Tornado, the Fireball or the Super Shot are laid out in long lines: hanging seats, walkways, and marque lights to shine up the OMG, already swinging overhead like a giant two-headed guillotine.
When my dad finally did release me from the grandstand show, I scurried over to the swings where I wound them up tight before they let them rip. I picked up a duck and won a little silver bracelet. I buckled myself into the Teacups just before they took off, and as it spun around for its 76th dervish of a revolution, the effects of motion sickness began to overpower me. Life became a blur, and as the tornadic forces finally, mercifully stopped and I staggered off, someone else had up-chucked his entire cone of cotton candy along with some corndog and a mess of turkey leg, in a glorious display on the concrete under my feet.
So, today, I’m content. The dalmations are pretty fun to watch, black dots speckling their cute little faces, their sparkling tutus glittering under the grandstand lights.
LaRayne Topp
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