Fair time

The shrill whine that’s resounding throughout the land tells us that summer is officially winding down.

Some of this clamor comes from kids who are complaining about going back to school, but a lot of it is being emitted by kids who are enjoying the emesis-inducing rides at state and county fairs.

I can clearly recall my initial experience at the South Dakota State Fair. First came the interminable ride to get there, which took nearly an hour. Upon arriving, I trotted onto the fairgrounds and was walloped by a flood of bizarre smells, sights and sounds.

The rides at the fair were powered by portable diesel generators. Back then, there were very few diesel tractors, so the fair gave me my first whiff of diesel exhaust. Even now, all these years later, I still feel an involuntary surge of excitement whenever I smell diesel exhaust. My nose is telling me, “There has to be a Ferris wheel around here somewhere.”

Fairs are curious events wherein we encourage our children to flout many of the precepts we have struggled to instill in them.

For instance, we’re constantly telling our kids to eat right and not even look at junk food, but what happens when those same kids arrive at the fair? They immediately begin to gorge on such things as cotton candy, caramel apples and taffy. Every kid who attends the fair consumes enough sugar to supply an industrial ethanol plant for a week. I have no proof but suspect the selection of fair food vendors is controlled by an evil cabal of dentists.

Then, there’s all the deep-fried stuff. Some very weird food items have been dipped in batter, fried and served on a stick. I’m waiting for the ultimate fair food item, which would be something along the lines of a caramel apple that was wrapped in cotton candy, skewered with a corndog, studded with cheese curds and then battered and fried.

Modern parents spend every waking hour worrying about their kids’ safety. They make their children wear helmets and pads for almost any activity, up to and including taking a bath.

But then we take them to the fair and turn their safety and well-being over to a scruffy guy who looks like someone who’s been featured on “America’s Most Wanted,” a guy who has so many tattoos that he could go without clothing and nobody would notice.

And what do you do? You watch with total elan as Tattoo Guy straps your offspring into a machine that will subject the child to innards-wringing levels of centrifugal force.

Plus, whose job is it to inspect this machine? You hope that it isn’t Tattoo Guy. How could he possibly squeeze in such a thing when he’s so obviously obsessed with acquiring new tattoos?

That reminds me of another thing that has more or less gone by the wayside: the sideshow.

My first visit to the state fair involved wandering down a row of shabby tents where the sideshows resided. For 10 cents, you could go into a tent and gawk at Alligator Man or the Bearded Lady. I never got my dime’s worth from those things. As a good Lutheran boy, I’d been taught it isn’t polite to stare at people. I thus had to resort to stealing furtive glances as I hustled through the sideshow tent, gravely studying my shoelaces.

Agricultural oddities abound at the fair. For example, there are often pumpkins on display that are the size of Geo Metro. What’s the point of raising such monstrosities? To prove that it’s actually possible for Peter Pumpkin Eater to keep his wife in a pumpkin shell? What does that say about our current housing situation?

These peculiarities aren’t limited to the vegetable world. There are often competitions at the fair for such things as the biggest boar. Please note that I am referring to the swine-related “boar” and not the human type of “bore” — although it’s often difficult to tell the difference between pig and politician.

Speaking of useless and ineffectual items, I once saw a fair display that trumpeted Elmer, the World’s Largest Holstein Steer. I ponied up the entrance fee so our two young sons and I could stroll into the display and marvel at Elmer.

Imagine our disappointment when we discovered Elmer was deceased. He had been stuffed and posed in a somewhat life-like position.

“Let’s go,” I said to the boys as I tried to hustle them out of Elmer’s tent. “I don’t know who he is or what office he’s running for, but we’d better get out of here before he starts to give a speech.”

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at jerry.n@dairystar.com.