Going back to the fair

Southern Living, Oct 1997 by Millburg, Steve

It's all still there: the rides, the food, the prize pigs, the.. . blow-dryers?

The crowd circulating slowly through the Children's Barnyard contains more adults than children. Most of the older folks seem to be doing exactly what I'm doing-reliving a fondly remembered part of the past.

A mother tenderly lifts a sleepy puppy for her wide-eyed little boy to touch. An excited little girl shouts, "Look at the baby cow!" A woman bemusedly inspects a flock of exotic chickens crowned with wild bursts of feathers and says to her daughter, "Tiffany, they're having a bad hair day."

I'm at the state fair. This happens to be the Arkansas State Fair in Little Rock, but it could be any of the dozens of other big fairs across the South. They're like low-tech time machines, carrying us back to a simpler, more rural lifestyle.

Cooks anxiously offer up jams, jellies, preserves, cakes, pies, and other gifts from their kitchens, hoping for a blue ribbon. Farm and ranch kids fuss over their prize hogs, cattle, and sheep, sometimes even sleeping in the same pen-though I don't remember the 4-H kids I knew fluffing up their animals with blow-dryers. The video game generation tries its skill at tossing a ring or knocking over milk bottles with a ball.

Except for the addition of booths selling temporary tattoos, state fairs seem hardly to have changed over the decades. I, on the other hand, have. I gaze warily at the rides, most of which seem to spin you dizzily out into space or fling you in several directions at once. The only ones I want to try are the ones I'm too old for, like the carousel and the giant slide.

Two boys about 13 years old careen noisily down the carnival midway like a couple of tin cans tumbling in the wind. They fetch up suddenly in front of a tent that garishly promises a glimpse of "The X-Files Mutant Predator." (In my time it might have been "The Human Fly Mutant Predator.")

The boys dig out a crumpled dollar for two tickets. Eyes shining, one points to his right. `There's one down there that says `the World's Smallest Woman.' Gotta see that one." He points to his left. " World's Biggest Gator.' Gotta see that one too." He and his buddy duck under the tent flap.

I grin, knowing that the show promises far more than it will deliver, but that the youngsters nevertheless will still pay to see them. I amble around the fairgrounds, aimless and content I smell funnel cakes frying atop bubbling oil. Crunchy corn dogs. Hickory smoke and barbecue. Sticky-sweet cotton candy. Buttery caramel apples. The faint tang of lemon from "lemon shake ups," a variant of lemonade that I've encountered only at state fairs. Ordinarily I don't care for most of that stuff, but at the fair it seems not only tasty but even nutritious.

The aroma of hot dogs and sweet onions lures me to the Hall of Industry Building. Once past the concession stand, I meet the state champion watermelon (162 pounds) and pumpkin (167 pounds). I wander the aisles full of gadgets, gimmicks, and special discount offers. "We don't claim miracles," says a man hawking a nutritional supplement, "but our customers do."

Nearby, a pitchman for waterless cookware, whatever that is, rattles through his spiel. "Adam and Eve lived to be 900 years old, and they never heard of salt, preservatives, or McDonald's," he intones like an old-time preacher. "They ate plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables." Prepared in prehistoric waterless cookware, no doubt.

I reach the Arts and Crafts Building just as the judging ends for a baking contest. A flock of veteran fairgoers has been hovering, waiting for just this moment. They descend like locusts. Within minutes, only a few crumbs and dollops of frosting remain.

Outside I catch the acrid whiff of the Swine Barn long before I see it. I know that scent well. Inside the vast enclosure, I stroll past a beefy, bearded man wielding electric clippers. He's giving a plump white gilt (a young female pig) a haircut. I rest on the worn wooden benches next to the showring. A young woman is guiding a cranky, squealing pig around the space. Several of its penned compatriots amplify its complaints.

An angelic blond boy, about 3 years old, seems stunned by the noise. "What do they want?" he asks.

"I think they want food," I say. It's a safe answer. I grew up on a hog farm, and hogs always seem to want food.

The Pork Chop Shop restaurant sits right next to the Swine Barn. No wonder the pigs are squealing.

Rock and country music roars through overworked speakers at the carnival rides, mingling with the gentler sounds of the Robinson Family performing genial country and gospel on a nearby stage. Lights flicker to life across the midway-garish whites, reds, yellows, and blues that truly look beautiful against the darkening sky. The steamy lassitude of the day fades with the evening light, giving way to the youthful energy of the carnival at night.

Maybe I will try one of those rides after all. In a minute. Right now I hear a funnel cake calling my name.