August 14, 2002

County fair memories still linger

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
       While the Ferris wheel stopped spinning days ago, the sawdust and cotton candy county fair scent still lingers. As does the dried demolition derby mud clinging to my shirt, shorts and shoes.
      Unlike any other event, covering the Northwest Michigan Fair brings back small town memories. Blue ribbon peach pies, squealing swine and bashing bumper cars. One walk past the 4-H stalls and I'm nine years old again, wearing husky Wranglers and a dusty cowboy hat.
      Hardly an epicenter of entertainment on any AAA road map, my hometown did have the honor of hosting the county fair. As a kid, this last week of July meant two things: the Zipper and saddle soap.
      Hanging out at the county fair was a rite of summer - like laying out at the beach or loitering outside the lone gas station in town. Like a moth to a blinking 100 watt bulb, the lights of the midway drew me and my pocket change. Sadly, it didn't take P.T. Barnum to part this fool and his money. When it came to games of chance - ring toss, dart throw, shooting gallery - I stood little.
      So after making a cash withdrawal at the parental lending institute, it was off to cheat death. Now eating a carnival corn dog served by Bertha the Bearded Lady could be considered tempting fate. Riding the Zipper, however, was a death wish Charles Bronson would pass up.
      Every summer it was the same scenario: walk pass the whimsical merry-go-round and straight to the whirling dervish known as the Zipper. As fright factors go, this ride had them all. It spun round-and-round and upside down. It also appeared to be held together by a single rusty cotter pin. The Zipper had the longest line, the loudest screams and the highest throw-up quota.
      It took me two years just to work up the courage to stand in line. Then one summer I found myself in the teeth of the Zipper. Whether it was the blaring Black Sabbath or the ride operator's hypnotic tattoos, I was suddenly strapped in for the ride of my life - the few seconds that remained.
      The entire ride I wondered if the wayward penny crashing around the caged car could imbed itself into my cranium. Two minutes later I was back in line, ready to give the penny another chance.
      Aside from horsing around on the midway, the county fair was also about horses - or in my case one fiery Pony of America.
      For several summers, I donned a cowboy hat and showed horses with my cousins through the local 4-H club. Truth be told, I was no Gene Autry; although I did get back in the saddle again and again and again. Falling face first in Western Pleasure riding competition pretty much summed up my cowboy career.
      Part of the problem was my tumultuous relationship with a nine year old named Lucy. Though she stood only 12 hands high, reigning in Lucy was no easy task. She had a bit of mean streak hidden beneath her black spotted markings. In Lucy's eye, I was Charlie Brown to her football.
      However, I still have a box full of grand champion and reserve ribbons earned by this pertinacious pony. Something about a show ring made her square up her stance in halter class. I just happened to be along for the ride - figuratively speaking.
      Hands down, the best county fair memory belongs to my wife. As a young girl, she and her siblings raised goats and rabbits. In order to show their animals at the fair, my future father-in-law loaded up the goats into the family VW microbus. The next eight miles consisted of four relieved goats, four screaming kids and one Volkswagen going from Fahrvergnuegen to Fartvergnuegen.
      No matter how deep we breathe, the smell of sawdust and cotton candy starts to fade. Even demolition derby dirt disappears in the rinse cycle. Memories, however, have a way of imbedding into our cranium - hopefully not like a wayward penny.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com