This is one ride I’m not gonna miss
Some of them arrive four or five days early, packed up and just sitting there on the Haywood County Fairgrounds like gigantic metal suitcases that won’t quite close all the way. The rest come later. The Scrambler, the Flying Bumblebees, the Pirate Boat, the rickety little coaster that somebody has to snap together like Legos. The booths that house impossible games, rows of cheaply sewn stuffed animals, the biggest the size of couch cushions. Overinflated basketballs and rims the size of pie tins that are never quite level. Five thousand plastic toys made in China, none of them bigger than a candy bar. Three throws, five bucks, everyone’s a winner.
“You want that big Scooby?” the barker says, leaning in. “Just five more dollars. Come on, dad, show her how it’s done. No? Maybe next time. Here’s a lizard, kid.”
There is something about the fair that dips me like an apple into the sweet, bright syrup of nostalgia. Every day, I drive by on my way to work and glance at the rides and booths and tents all just sitting there in the early morning mist, silent and waiting, maybe a curious groundhog or rabbit peering in on this new and temporary little township, and I feel the years wash over me, the flotsam and jetsam of memories floating by in the current, barely out of reach. A raccoon I won throwing darts when I was 12. My son, many years later, racing down a big red slide on a burlap sack, legs akimbo, mouth agape.
Schools are already back in session, but it is the fair that is like a bridge between summer and fall, between the reckless, shapeless, lazy days of summer and the routines, rituals, and requirements of the school year. It is still warm out — even hot, most days — but cooler weather is moving in fast. Pretty soon, the flowers will shiver in their pots and we’ll be tempted to throw on a sweater or a hoodie before trudging up to the bus stop to wait on old 27 to round the bend past the Williamses.
Once the fair packs up and we sneak a peck on the cheek from Labor Day, it is just a short sprint to bearing up against the first frost, to exchanging the chenille bedspread for the heavy down comforter, to firing up the furnace and warming our feet on the vents, to reveling in the annual blast of color across these mountains, tourists choking the highways to get a glimpse and snap pictures from overpasses and wider places in the road.
And then the holidays, the vise-grip of winter. Hot chocolate and snow days. Hauling out the sleds and trying to find gloves that match in the bottom of the closet.
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It goes so fast, this carousel.
Yesterday, I waved at my daughter as she whirled around in one of those bumble bees.
“Our baby,” my wife said, her arm around my waist, pulling me closer. “She’s big enough to ride by herself, daddy.”
Now she is in high school. Next summer, she’ll be driving a car. She’s as tall as her mother, and as beautiful.
Yesterday, we wedged Jack between us on the Tilt-a-Whirl so his little body wouldn’t be tossed like a tennis ball from one side of the car to the other. Both of us had an arm around him, just in case, to keep him safe and secure.
Now he is so big that I can comfortably wear his flip flops when I take the dog out for a walk. We ask him how he likes his new teacher and he says, “She’s funny, on occasion.”
As a writer, I’m all too aware of these carnival clichés. The carousel. The rollercoaster. Growing up too fast, what a ride. But what else can we do? We bought our tickets years ago and we’re strapped in.
Enjoy it while you can, friends. It may be a temporary township, but it’s bright and colorful and there are quite a few thrills and laughs to be had along the way.
Finally, if you are lucky enough to see your daughter on that bumble bee, wave at her as long as you can. Act a damn fool if you have to, as long as she sees you’re watching her. She’s going to be driving soon, you know.
(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher. His more recent book, The Way We Say Good-bye, is available in bookstores and at Amazon. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)
