Column: Tales from Exit 22

It was hot enough that I could have literally melted into the crowd.

It was time for the annual ritual of grease and humidity.

Fairs take up a good hunk of summer. Ours is the best county fair in the county. It’s like a big mall with livestock instead of air conditioning.

Near the fairgrounds, I spotted a lawn sign reading, “Parking $5. During the fair only.”

Anyone can park on my lawn any time for $5.

I checked my attention span at the gate and entered the Emerald City.

With countless cents and some walking around sense, a person can make a day at the fair, where the scents of deep-fried foods, manure, sweat and used hay mingle.

Some of the carnival workers (I’m sure they are all fine people) look like guys who own large collections of guns and don’t hunt. One asked me if the weapon of choice in Minnesota was the snowball. Another fellow had two black eyes. That’s the maximum.

The midway is a place where you pay to be a crash-test dummy, and it had been the first place I’d ever gone for a ride without asking, “Are we there yet?”

High-velocity rides that twirl hellishly make a passenger feel like a bug about to hit a windshield. Leaving a comfort zone is good but not if it involves projectile vomiting.

I like to walk around the midway carrying a large bolt, stop by a ride, and ask in a loud voice, “Where did this come from?”

Someday, I’m going to have a stand on the midway selling stuffed animals to people without enough money to win one.

Food is the Lucky Charms portion of the fair — magically delicious. I ran a gauntlet of food stands. Happiness is hooked to the digestive system. My motto is, “Eat fast before you lose your appetite.” A malt too thick to eat with a spoon is my weakness. The fair is where love handles go to relax in a parade of gluttony. Skintight meals are the norm. I added three pounds just thinking of going to the fair. It’s a shipless cruise where people eat until their shoes no longer fit. Our bodies are temples and the fair is the building fund. There was nothing-on-a-stick for those on a diet. The cotton candy may have been rayon, but who cared? Folks come for the food and stay for the food.

I greeted men wearing seed caps and those who really needed the pickup trucks they were driving. A natural herding instinct caused me to stand in a line to the Rube Building, an edifice filled with booths manned by slicked-up and down folks who looked like they were in their first day of class at a Bible college.

I cottoned to the vendor who cleaned my eyeglasses for free. I polish mine regularly, but this guy was the maestro of the spotless spectacles.

The Republicans and the Democrats had booths across from one another. That made it possible for them to glare at any party faithful fraternizing with the enemy.

The cows looked more contented than the fairgoers. That’s because the bovine bathrooms were more conveniently located. If you want to know what’s up, look down. Wise fair-goers wear old shoes.

When I was a lad, the fair was where you got together with buddies and learned mischief. I recall one miscreant relating to miscreants-in-training as to how he had called his teacher’s house and left a message for her to call a phone number and ask for Mike Howe. The number he left her was for the local meat packing plant.

Every year on Senior Citizen’s Day, I hear someone say, “I still get excited about the fair. I just can’t remember why.”

A man carved things out of margarine. They weren’t good. Next year, he’ll do butter.

I watched a judge at floral hall put the medal to the petal.

The Human Cannonball told me he was shot and needed a nap.

My neighbor Pushy Paulson and his wife show chickens each year. She wanted to ride on the merry-go-round, but Pushy said he was too old for such shenanigans. His wife went alone. She went round and round until she lost her balance. She fell and landed at Pushy’s feet.

“Are you hurt?” asked Pushy, as he helped her up.

“Of course, I’m hurt!” his wife replied. “Five times around and you didn’t wave once!”

The Paulsons stayed fairly friendly until the chickens had gone home to roost.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.