Childhood Memories: Fun at the Fair

(I first published this story in July 2016.)

My friends and I walked down the festival midway like we were benevolent kings surveying our court. In reality, we probably had only had a few wadded up bills and change between us. Still, we sauntered up and down the two rows of the fair like we owned the place. We’d pass the various booths selling hamburgers and soda. There were other stalls where you could try to win a stuffed animal or toy.

As a kid, I looked forward to the two fireman’s festivals in the community where I grew up. The first one would be held in mid-July. The second would be held the first weekend in August on our old baseball field.

Summer fun

The fire companies used the three-day festivals to raise money to buy new equipment and supplies. If the weather was nice, they were in luck. If we got rain, they were in trouble. They would have to make the money up with extra fundraisers throughout the year.

The organizers would schedule a local band for entertainment each night and have small kiddie rides and games. They would sell chicken barbecue or a wide assortment of deserts and ice cream. Just imaging the Amish Chicken Corn Soup makes my stomach rumble with hunger.

In my little neck of the woods, every local town or village seemed to have a fair or festival. My local fair was my favorite. My father volunteered every year. He would be holed-up in a hot construction trailer, helping to count each night’s receipts. We wouldn’t leave until the overhead lights were turned off around midnight.

My mother usually made herself home near the Bingo. She would position herself on a picnic table and would be the “safe spot” for the evening. She would usually have three or four Bingo cards spread out in front of her. I knew I could always find her there when I ran out of money or needed a soda.

Games of chance

Now it was a different time, a different place. My friends and I took full advantage of our freedom. We had our run of the park. We’d gossip about the upcoming school year and play games. When we were really young, we’d play the Go-Fish Game. You’d swing a fishing rod over a seven feet tall tarp. A volunteer behind-the-scenes would attach a cheap toy. A few years later, we graduated to the penny pitch or the ping-pong ball throw. The goal was to try to win a live gold fish, stuffed animal, or a glass with the logos of various baseball teams. The volunteer in charge would caution us about leaning over the rope.

From there we moved onto the Mouse Trap Game. A local volunteer would man the game with a microphone in hand. By day, he worked as a construction worker or roofer. For three nights out of the year, though, he turned into a traveling circus emcee. He’d bark at people walking up and down the fairway. He encouraged them to put a few quarters down on the game. Whatever he said usually worked. The game was always busy.

And what a game? Imagine James Bond in Monte Carlo. Now, mix in the Dukes of Hazzard. It was roulette gone country with a real live mouse to boot. The goal of the game was to place your quarter on the number hole that the mouse would land once it was let loose on the homemade roulette wheel.

 Around and around the lil’ mouse goes, where he lands, nobody knows!

Atlantic City and Las Vegas may have been the hub of gambling in the U.S. They had nothing on the Mouse Trap Game. Yes, I understand now. Animal rights groups would have had a fit if they knew about the game. For a small kid growing up in the middle of nowhere though, this was big stuff.

If the barker saw that things were starting to slowdown, he would liven things up, by letting one of the mice slip through his grasp. The mouse would seek its freedom on the midway grass and then onto a nearby cornfield.

Oh, watch out everyone, we’ve got a mouse on the loose! Run lil’ friend, run.

Dunk a friend

In our teen years, we might take a turn at the Baseball Pitch. We would try to submerge a teacher or friend sitting in the dunking booth. I could throw a baseball to the Moon and back. My aim, though, left something to be desired. So, I tended to watch rather than waste my money.

By the end of the night, we’d make our way to the Kelly Pool Table. The game involved players standing around a table. Each player would get a small wooden pill with a number. The guy in charge would roll a cue ball across the table. The number where the ball landed determined the winner. Let’s just say it was my first introduction to big time gambling in small town, rural America.

My mom would always warn me about spending too much time at Kelly Pool. I’m sure she feared me becoming addicted to the gambling urge. Funny enough, the game taught me a valuable lesson: I hate to gamble today. The frugal miser in me is careful with my money.

A lifetime of memories

For a couple of nights each summer, our worries took a back seat. My parents’ seemed happier. I didn’t worry about school or homework. My friends and I played and goofed off. A simple cherry or grape snow cone cured whatever ailed us.

The fair taught me much about what it means to volunteer and to help others. Residents came together for a greater good. They gave freely. They volunteered their time and their treasure for something bigger.