We have this yearly tradition around
here called the
Bluffton Free Street Fair. For outsiders, it’s a
bizarre concept. Even for someone who
has lived in Indiana for more years than he’s willing to admit, which would be
almost 20 now, my husband still doesn’t quite grasp it. The downtown area is closed off, streets are
blocked, concessions stands move in, rides go up, carnies abound, bees buzz and
look for potential victims, parades march almost nightly, and this is just the
way it is each year during the third week of September. Yes, it’s a huge pain in the hindquarters to
get from one end of town to the other with the detours and all. But, it is only one week a year.
After his first year in Indiana, this
week has also marked
the start of the discussion my husband and I have yearly. “Do I really need to go to the fair?” he asks
me.
Does anyone really NEED to go to the
fair? Well, not really, I suppose. There are years I want to go. Years I don’t care if I go. However, I think there’s some unwritten law
that if you live around here,
you have to go to the fair at least once during the week, much like you must have a basketball hoop on your property, or within playing distance of
your home. It's an unspoken rule.
My
husband, a native upstate New Yorker, hasn't the first clue why anyone would
want to brave the crowds. He just
doesn’t get it, and I suppose it’s the same for others who have been
transplanted to our area. They also seem
hell-bent on pointing out the whole “free” part. “Free?
What’s free? You have to pay to
park unless you want to park two miles away and walk. The only free part is the walking. You can walk through the Industrial Tent for
free, but the people in there try to sell you crap, and there’s nothing free
about that. Get stung by a bee or
fourteen, and the Benadryl to treat that is far from free. You get thirsty. A soda is $5.
Nothing free about that.” Yeah,
okay, at one time, it was probably more “free” than it is now.
Most
of us, though, have been dragged to the fair before we could form memories. Street Fair is an ingrained part
of our lives. I grew up with my
grandma’s tales of the fair from the 30s & 40s about sideshows, many of
which were freak shows. I can’t
imagine. It's a far cry from bearded
ladies and fat men, but the strangest, most exotic thing I ever saw was a
tapir. They advertised it as some sort of mutant wild pig. I felt
so bad for the critter; I paid money twice to go in to see it to pet its nose
through the cage.
According to my grandma’s
stories, it was the naked lady shows that really got the most attention with
men lining up outside the tents for blocks.
That’d go over like a lead balloon at the fair these days, but I find
watching some of the carnival workers the best free freak show you’ll ever get. Well, unless one hangs out in some of the
bars towards the bewitching hours towards the close of the fair on Saturday
night, and it’s hard telling what you might see. Or, I should say I’ve seen some things that
rival what gentlemen paid a nickel to see back in those early days of the
fair.
The Bluffton Free Street Fair certainly
has left me with many memories through the years. Petting that tapir through its cage is
perhaps one of the most bittersweet.
However, my earliest memory of the fair involves another
animal. I begged to ride on the ponies - the ones that walk in a
circle, go probably 1/2 mph at their top speed inside the enclosure, and are
about as harmless as a toothless Chihuahua.
My
grandma lifted me onto the pony of my choosing, and I was fine until it started
to move. My presence alone did something to the beast causing it to go
from a slow crawl to a break-neck trot. Grandma held onto me tightly to
keep me from falling, or getting whiplash. If I didn't somehow set them
off to start with, my blood-curdling shrieks didn't help matters. I
was terrified.
Grandma
didn't seem too sure what to do next, either. She jogged alongside the
pony to keep me from sliding off. Me, I just cried and screamed all the
louder. About that time, my grandpa yelled something at the guy in
charge, and he tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to simmer the ponies down
and get them to stop. At this point, most of the kids were crying and
yelling for their folks. But, of course, there's one demented sort in
every crowd who seemed to be delighted in getting the ride of his life. That child was not me, I can assure you.
I
got off that pony and swore that I was never going back to the fair. I
also swore I'd never ride anything with four legs. The latter of which I've
held firm to...because I've not been on a horse or anything of the sort, not
even a camel or elephant ride at the zoo, since that day probably a good 39
years ago.
However,
I've returned to the fair many times. One just can't help it. Years
after graduating high school, Street Fair draws those back who left the
area. Old friends reunite on the streets
of Bluffton in the midst of the concessions and the crowds. Even though college, the military, and our
paths in life took us away from the city, Street Fair weekend brings us back
again. It has been almost an unspoken
pact that we would see each other at the fair when the night air became chilled
and autumn was upon us.
When
my kids were little ones, it was Saturday afternoons I saw the most familiar
faces. I bumped into my classmates and
old acquaintances with their own children sporting bracelets for unlimited
rides. We all go back, taking our kids,
and sometimes, dragging along spouses from other areas who never truly
understand why we find it so important to go at least once.
It’s
been quite a few years since I cautiously walked by the pony rides, sometimes
crossing to the other side of the street to avoid them, remembering the time I
had the ride of my life. I guess someone
decided it wasn’t a good idea anymore, which is fine by me.
Actually,
I’m glad that while the fair beckons to me, the ponies don’t hear their calling
to return.
I've created a fan page on Facebook here:
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