The scarring for life was free

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.   

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