A Fair Proposition

The Fair’s in town. Is it carnival-house-maze-scary or local culture at its finest? You decide. A memory from 2001…

“So, are we going to the Fair today, or what?” asked Mama over the phone.

It was that time of year. The sticky days of late August had turned into the sticky days of early September, and the Tennessee Valley Fair had rolled into town. The Fair was a quintessential part of a classy Knoxville summer, like saluting the fireworks waterfall finale at Boomsday or drinking warm beer while floating on an inflatable in Melton Hill Lake.

Acres of rides, hundreds of prize-winning entries, and dozens of varieties of foods on sticks conquered every inch of Chilhowee Park during the Fair. All who attended departed with a sense of appreciation for local culture as well as heartburn, depending on how many deep-fried pickles one ate.

There was no question whether we were going; the only question was when.

“You bet,” I told her. “I guess it will just be the two of us this time.” Sissy had recently begun her second year of college, clear across the state, and I was living alone in my very first apartment. I had made some great friends working in cosmetics at the mall, but my friends and I rarely had the same days off. And when we did, we were usually nursing sore feet and sore heads caused by long nights at Cotton Eyed Joe’s.

“It used to just be the two of us before Sissy got born, anyway,” said Mama. “Your daddy had to work so much, he might as well have been on the road with the rest of the carnies.”

I wasn’t sure how to reply, but she wasn’t wrong. “I’ll be over in a little while.”

By the time Mom and I arrived at the fairgrounds, the sun was high in the sky and people were everywhere.

“Let’s start with the petting zoo,” I said to Mom. “The petting zoo is the most Broccoli place on Earth.” Broccoli was a character I invented in high school. She was part broccoli, part little girl, and completely weird. Even in my twenties, I couldn’t shake her countrified charm. She and I had more in common than I would have liked to admit. I also acted six years old, at least sometimes, and I shared Broccoli’s opinion that cows made good friends. Pigs, too, although cows were better listeners. Pigs ran away when you started complaining too much.

Mom and I entered the petting zoo tent and made our way to the middle, where a wooden pen was built on top of a ramp. The setup allowed ducklings to patter their way to the top of the pen and then slide down a plastic run into a small pool.

We watched in complete adoration as the ducklings slid down frontways, sideways, and backwards, and then plopped into the water. Although touching the baby ducks was not allowed, Mama couldn’t help herself.

She lightly mashed the fuzzy heads of the ducklings near her.

“Boop! Boop, boop,” Mama said aloud.

“Mom! You’re not supposed to touch them!” I hissed. I was a born rule-follower, much to the annoyance of my free-spirited mother.

“Ohh…lighten up, Heather Pooh,” she said. “Nobody cares.”

We had been at the Fair less than ten minutes, and Mom was already making me nuts. That was probably some sort of record.

“Fine. Why don’t we walk around for a while instead?”

“Ok,” she said. We left the tent to find out what else the Fair had to offer. We walked in the direction of the Knoxville Zoo, passing the Himalaya ride and a half-dozen game booths.

“Do ya wanna go fastahhhhh?” yelled the ride operator over a scratchy version of “Rollout” by Ludacris. I remembered the time as a kid when Sissy and I had ridden the Himalaya and almost fallen out, held only in place by my chubby fourth-grade leg and a fervent prayer.

“Absolutely not!” I yelled back, annoyed he’d even ask.

“Let’s get out of here and go play us a game,” said Mama, “although I do like this song.” She did a little dance, shrugging her shoulders in time with the beat as we walked out of earshot.

It took three games and nine dollars to pop a balloon and win a postcard-sized mirror printed with a picture of Gollum on it. The prize mirrors were Fair staples, and I had enjoyed winning a few over the years, but this year’s selection was lacking.

“Do you want this?” I asked Mom. “It doesn’t really go with my décor.”

“Sure. I’ll tell people it’s a picture of my boyfriend.”

Some people would believe her, too. “I could see that,” I told her. “He kinda looks like he would live in a trailer park and try to bum smokes off you.”

Quickly, we walked through the barn full of poultry titleholders next to the Jacob Building. It was loud and smelled to high heaven, but it saved us from having to walk up the million-or-so stairs at the main entrance to get inside.

Mom, who had grown up on a farm, made sure to respect the victors even though we were only there to cut through.

“Yay! Yay, chickens! Congratulations to you all,” she said with a sweep of her arm, gesturing to them like the grand marshal of a parade. She might have embarrassed me again, but she was barely audible over the winners’ squawks.

We left the poultry behind and entered the west side of the Jacob Building. The stuffy air of the chicken barn was replaced with the slight coolness of the large, two-story structure. The low chatter of those inside echoed off the walls pleasantly, and I took a relaxed and stink-free breath.

As far as Mom and I were concerned, the exhibits inside the Jacob Building were the highlight of any trip to the Fair. The bottom floor was crammed with booths while the top floor housed more prize-winners. Although some of the booths were business-oriented or political, lots of them were agricultural and non-profit. These were the most fun. For every aggressive Longaberger rep trying to strong arm us onto her mailing list, there were two bohemian papaws handing out free 4-H ink pens and pamphlets about fire safety.

Mom grabbed a headband with a feather attached to it off a table decorated with information about water quality. A handful of other interested parties, all under the age of ten, stood alongside her as they surveyed the items.

“You want one of these?” she yelled across the top of a kid’s head.

“Sure!” I yelled back. She handed it to me, and I put it on firmly so it wouldn’t slip off in the melee of water conservationists.

“Hey! The Army guys are doing face paint!” Mom suddenly screeched. I watched her yellow feather recede in the crowd as she bopped over to some muscular reservists wearing fatigues.

“Well, hi there!” she said cheerfully. “You wanna paint an old lady’s face, honey?” she asked, resting a petite paw on a reservist’s forearm.

I knew exactly what Mama was doing. I had learned my most awkward flirting techniques from her.

Luckily, the reservist was unfazed. “Why, yes ma’am! I’ll paint your face.” His volume dropped conspiratorially. “Now, are you gonna join the Army Reserves if I do?”

Mama honked with laughter. “You don’t want to give me a gun, honey. I’d get myself in trouble in no time,” she said, and swatted his arm lightly.

Sensing that Mom would be occupied for a while, I strolled a few booths over to the honey display. Glass jars of thick amber essence sat on a lighted display shelf. Most of the jars had prize ribbons attached, and while I wanted to get close enough to inspect them, I couldn’t, because of the bees.

The bees were the bane of my fair-going experience, even more than the Himalaya or the Pirate ship ride, where I had once puked chocolate MoonPies all over my favorite shirt. Every year, some lunatic plopped a honeycomb crawling in hundreds of bees into a plexiglass container for display.

I could never stand to watch them for more than a few seconds, and I certainly didn’t want to get too close. I also didn’t want to think about the miracle of honey and how it was made, which was nothing more than insect barfing followed by French kissing.

I steeled myself and quickly walked beside the bee table towards the jars of honey. I focused on the prize-winners, scrutinizing the jars to see what the blue-ribbon winners might have over the red. I tried to forget the crawly, stingy things behind me.

Just then, I felt a tiny dab of pressure on my back. I gasped.

I spun around, every nerve in my body on high alert, ready to sprint outside to escape the bee that had landed on me.

“Boop! Boop, boop,” said Mom.

“Oh my God, woman! You scared the crap out of me!”

“Sorry,” she shrugged and squinched up her face in an apologetic smile.

She was maddening. “You smeared your camo makeup,” I told her. I handed her my camera. “Here. At least take a picture of me with these terrifying things.”

I bent down next to the hive and pretended to scream. She clicked the shutter button.

We headed upstairs to look at more prize-winning exhibits. Everything from place settings to giant pumpkins lined the concrete floors. Unlike the honey, the second-floor winners were easy to discern, with the exception of the brown and soggy-looking tobacco plants.

“How do they pick a winner with tobacco?” I asked Mom. “It just looks like a haunted cornfield over there.”

“Let’s smoke some and find out,” she said.

I was sure anyone who ever uttered that phrase had lived to regret it.

To distract Mom, I walked to the railing and surveyed the floor below. I watched the visitors and vendors of the Jacob Building for a moment. I had looked over this railing a dozen times before during a dozen different Septembers. The lively hum of the exchanges was something familiar yet special.

All at once, affection for every sunburned patron and hustling small business owner alike swelled my heart. The Fair, equal parts trashy and sublime, was a part of me. There was no escaping it.

Mama joined me. “Hey, Punkinhead, I dare you to drop one of these blue-ribbon chili peppers on somebody,” she said jokingly.

My sensitive contemplation pulverized, I exhaled noisily. But she, and the Fair, had already won.

Accepting my fate, I gestured toward the Styrofoam plate full of peppers and pretended to dump the whole batch on a bald man below.

Almost getting kicked out was tradition, too.