Fair minded . . .

I was reminded tonight of a memory.  The State Fair.

The conversation evoked an explosion of sensory memories, Aromas mixed and stirred by the late summer breeze, of hot dogs and hamburgers, brats and barbecue, cotton candy, popcorn and peanuts, the grease of the rides, the stench of the farm animals and their product, the sweat of the man who fastened me into the Ferris wheel, and occasionally the very unpleasant smell of someone who had lost all of the above foods after a ride on the Bullet.

The fair was a great place to have a private conversation.  There was so much noise,  The grinding and creaking of the rides that you prayed were in better shape than they sounded.  The calliope of the merry go round and the squeeze box carnival tunes.  The screams and laughter of children and young couples in love.  The patter of the guys who tempted you to come and throw rings at coke bottles, or balls at pins, or pick up ducks, or come in and see the pretzel woman or the two headed chicken.  The stern rebuke of mothers to their children who wanted to do any of the above. The moos of the cattle, the grunts of the hogs, the clucking of the chickens, the bleating of the goats and the baaing of the sheep.

And the sights.  The bright colored blinking light bulbs that outlined everything.  The rides that soared high into the darkness.  Families and couples and carnival  workers and farmers and young girls travelling in groups followed by young guys trying to cut one out of the group like a cowboy after a calf.  Rows and rows of vegetables and fruits in canning jars on display shelves, some sporting white, yellow, red, blue, or the coveted Grand Prize Best Bread and Butter Pickle in the Show ribbon.  The cows,pigs, sheep, goats, roosters and hens, ducks, rabbits and the occasional emu. The barkers standing outside the sideshows trying to make eye contact with a mark. The soft pastel clouds of cotton candy, the candy apples that dazzled like Dorothy's shoes, and the young men leaning over the games of chance that most thought had something to do with skill, sometimes with a girl beside them with a stuffed animal.

And lots of kids crying from having too much fun too late into the night on a load of too much sugar.

But mostly I enjoy the feelings.  The thrill of the carnival rides or the fact that you are on the ride with the girl that you wanted to come to the fair with and ride the scrambler or the Ferris wheel.  The fear of throwing up under those circumstances.  The guilt of wanting to disregard your mother's warnings not to go into those evil side shows, the ones with scantily clad women who had strange features or could supposedly do things that normal women could not. At that age I was not sure what was normal, but I sort of wanted to find out.  The excitement.  The pure, plain fun.  The contented weariness of the walk back to the car.

I miss that.  Thousands of folk, all made ordinary no matter their station in every day life,  because we were all at the fair enjoying this gaudy, authentic, wonder-filled display together. After all, a two headed chicken is a thrilling thing no matter how simple or sophisticated the observer.

We have some formidable problems in America these days.

Maybe it would help if we could all meet down at the fair.

It couldn't hurt.

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