State Fair

Yesterday, we took our annual trip to the Illinois State Fair. I wouldn’t say it’s a high point of the summer, but it’s at least noteworthy. Something the kids definitely look forward to.

State Fairs strike me as a principally midwestern phenomenon (apologies to North Carolina, which is also quite pround of its Fair). Growing up in Pennsylvania, the closest approximation seemed to be the Farm Show, held every January. The Farm Show was a lot of things, most of them genuinely enjoyable, but it wasn’t a Fair. There was also the Bloomsburg Fair every autumn. I went to college not too far from Bloomsburg, and we made the pilgrimage a couple times. But even Bloomsburg wasn’t a STATE Fair.

The idea of a State Fair seems directly proportional to a state’s agriculture industry. Iowa’s is probably the most well known, as it makes the national news every four years when would-be Presidential candidates descend to show everyone how “real” and “normal” they are as they make big displays of their willingness to eat deep fried pickles and various types of meat-on-a-stick.

The other thing about State Fairs — or Illinois’ version of one, anyway — is how frozen in time they feel. Everything feels straight out of the 1950s, or even 30s. Traveling carnival rides, rigged games, farm animals on display, and a cornucopia of different foodstuffs all but guaranteed to give indigestion.

Also, the color. Nowhere is the color more vibrantly on display than in the carnival midway area, where my kids’ growth can be measured not only by the “You must be this high to ride” signs, but by the rides they are now either brave enough to try, or disdain as “for babies.”

 

 

Unknown-1This year’s highlights included the Crazy Mouse, a sort of spinning roller coaster light years more daring than any ride they’ve attempted before, as well as annual highlights like the Farmer’s Little Helpers display, and the butter cow, which made headlines this year for the misspelling of the word “Bicentennial” that no one noticed until its unveiling on the Fair’s first day.

Perfectly imperfect. Just like the Fair itself.

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