Much of my family comes from the small town in Wisconsin called
Plymouth, where cheese and brats are bread and milk, where stock
cars thunder every summer Saturday night, where the Sheboygan
County Fair is more than music and rides, even more than 4-H and
livestock.
In Sheboygan, the fair is a reunion: seeing neighbors and old
friends, for some seeing family, once a year.
Much of my family comes from the small town in Wisconsin called Plymouth, where cheese and brats are bread and milk, where stock cars thunder every summer Saturday night, where the Sheboygan County Fair is more than music and rides, even more than 4-H and livestock.
In Sheboygan, the fair is a reunion: seeing neighbors and old friends, for some seeing family, once a year.
It’s countless baby carriages. More cowboy hats than cowboys. Cliques of teenagers goofing off. Grandmas giving grandkids $2 to play senseless games for worthless prizes. People indulging, because it’s the fair, which makes it OK, and required.
There, the county fair is rural heritage, age-old tradition. For me, it became an annual reminder, the comfort of knowing how a hometown looks and feels, how it smells and tastes. All of which are good.
Until I grew old enough to like girls, drive a car and watch R-rated movies, the fair was the high point of every year.
I spent those weekends at my aunt and uncle’s home three blocks from the fairgrounds, where they maintain a booth every year promoting their family photography business.
I’d go Thursday through Sunday with my like-aged cousin Brandon. We spent mornings, afternoons and evenings at the fair. Gladly, nights were just for sleeping.
We’d get a $10 a day allowance – five bucks in the morning and five in the afternoon – to spend on whatever we wanted, which was, without exception, always carnival games.
That money, about a whopping $50 through the whole event, was precious, almost to the point of guilt. Plus, we got extra cash for eating and drinking.
On days when those carnies running the games had all the luck, which were most days, my cousin and I, Brandon as the mastermind, would oftentimes deviously ask for supplemental beverage money from my aunt or uncle.
We were starving and thirsty but not for food or drink. We spent the money on our games because we fancied the biggest stuffed animals the carnival carried. Bigger than us if possible.
That extra two or three dollars, sometimes four or five, could make all the difference in a day’s success. Most of the time, however, like addicted Vegas gamblers who swindled a grand and then blew it all on a couple average hands of blackjack, it didn’t.
While hours of daily mental preparation went into minutes of throwing away our parents’ money, the fair was much more than tossing darts at balloons or pitching softballs at bowling pins.
By the time I reached high school, I stopped dreaming of stuffed animal rapture. I just walked around, sort of like an adult, and started appreciating the enduring tradition.
With age, I increasingly appreciated the fair experience – the lunatic puppet driving the grounds in a mini-Model A, lumberjack shows, arm-wrestling contests, business and organizational booths, elementary school-aged art, barns full of livestock. Good people.
At my second San Benito County Fair over the weekend, I didn’t burst with joy at being there. Nor did I fill with sadness at leaving. I just appreciated.
Even for a local fair novice, the rich tradition and folksy feel sprung a comfortable familiarity.
There was a carnival area with dirty rides and dirtier carnies. There was the poignant smell of smoky foods and, 100 feet away, the tolerable stink of livestock.
At the San Benito County fair, there seemed, by estimation, to be nearly as many cowboy hats as cowboys. In the booth Pavilion, people fanned themselves with handouts to manage the heat, while watching out for friends, neighbors, classmates and teachers, just to say hi, for many of them, just once a year.
Outside, where small children rode ponies and fed farm animals, I stared into the eyes of a giant horse while petting its giant snout, the whole time praying it didn’t engulf my head.
Like in Sheboygan, the fair in San Benito County, where tri-tip rules the grill, reminded me of how the town looks and feels, how it smells and tastes, all of which are good.
