Round and Round

I was at the Scott County Fair this past week, and I was reminded that the classic carnival rides, the Ferris wheel and carousel, are still my favorites.  Plus, they may be the only ones I can tolerate anymore, and I’m not too sure about the Ferris wheel. When I was younger it seemed that the Tilt–a–Whirl, the Octopus and the Scrambler were the thrill rides. I no longer need to be thrilled that way – besides the new rides are way too scary for me.

But there is so much more to the Fair than just rides. It has taken me several years to appreciate that, however.  When my children were younger, they were involved in 4–H and spent almost all day at the Fair, which meant that I would spend quite a bit of the day there as well.

What I didn’t see or notice then was the Americana aspect of the animal and art projects. Kids in jeans and boots playing cards with their friends over bales of straw; a 110–pound girl leading her 300-pound cow around the show ring; a boy proudly displaying his finished wood project.

At the time I didn’t understand it, and perhaps I do not yet fully appreciate the positive effect it has on both the kids participating it the fair and also their parents who support their efforts. But, of course, there is more than just 4–H at the Fair.

This year the Fair had a bluegrass festival following a church service. The church band featured a guitar, mandolin and banjo. Earlier in the week I played my banjo with the band, No Stone Unturned in the beer garden. Although my skill level is not what it should be, there is a thrill of playing outdoors with the sights and sounds of a county fair surrounding you. If I hadn’t been concentrating so much on my banjo rolls I may have teared up as the emotions rolled over me.

From the stage I could see the food vendors selling pizza, onion rings and other healthy snacks; In between songs, I could hear the fair office announce upcoming activities such as the tractor and tractor pull held later in the evening in the grandstands. People were milling about in front of me, sometimes stopping to wave (or distract me). Just beyond the picnic tables I could see the flashing lights from the carnival. 

Behind me in the cattle barn was the Miracle of Birth center. Now in its second year, the center has matured and grown into one of the most popular Fair attractions. What began as just a concept is now able to stand on its own two (or four) legs.

The five days have come and gone again for another year. What used to be a chore and an obligatory activity for me has become something I enjoy and look forward to. I can easily imagine that I will be helping my grandchildren with their 4–H projects someday. You may say I have merrily come around in my thinking.

Building Blocks

While struggling over what to write it occurred to me that since I have lived in the country for about twenty–five years, I no longer think in terms of city blocks for walking or riding, but last Saturday it all came back to me when I went to Belle Plaine, my hometown. Guessing that I couldn’t get much closer, I parked at the end of a street and walked the remaining blocks to the park.

During the third weekend of July, Barbecue Days is celebrated in Belle Plaine, with the center of the activity in the South Park (I suspect a new name has been given to the park by now, but for me it’s still the South Park). The whole town becomes quite busy as people for the first or the fiftieth time come to town. The three day celebration has a parade, music, fireworks, games, rides, food and drink.

I park across the street from a house once owned by my high school principal. I notice that the toilet paper no longer hangs in the trees. As I walk further, I see the warming house for the ice skating rink and I imagine the odor of wet socks still lingers inside.

I cross the street where the high school is on one side and the elementary on the other. For a moment I am back in Mr. Peterson’s 6^th grade class and my first “classroom party”. It’s Halloween and music is played on a portable record player. The high school I attended is hidden behind an addition that was added many years after I graduated. Still, in my mind, I can see the halls and hear the sound of slamming lockers.

Once inside the park, I check in at the barbeque stand; one of the best spots to volunteer during the weekend is behind that counter. As I gaze across the park I see the other food stands, the games, the folks milling about, and I listen to the “Church of Cash,” a Johnny Cash tribute band. People come by and give me their tickets in exchange for a sandwich, pop or water. Plus, I give them a little conversation – no extra charge.

I get to talk to a lot of people – some I know, some I don’t. The time passes quickly, as I enjoy the company of Shirley, who is also working the counter. Shirley, along with her husband and five young children, lived in the neighborhood where I grew up. My younger brother and I played with her boys and her daughter graduated with my younger sister.

When I got home from the park Saturday I sat down and read from the “Letters of E.B. White.” It’s a collection of hundreds of letters White wrote over the years. In 1956 he wrote to a woman, “I tend to write about events or circumstances that raise the level of my perception.” I liked it so much I reread it out loud to my wife.

Today, as I write about the events of yesterday, I think of something my friend, Pat, told me he had heard somewhere, “The most unordinary thing in the world is two ordinary people, a husband and wife, working hard to support their family and raise their children to be good people.”

Talking with Shirley made me realize that she and I had the same goal: to raise our children to be good people. I wish that were as ordinary as writer’s block.

Enough Rope

I’m not sure how I feel about the effects of secondhand smoke. I once worked in a bar where I would come home smelling like an ash tray. I have shared the cab of a garbage truck with a gentleman who smoked almost non–stop. To leave out the middle man I considered taking up the habit in college because I thought it would be cool and make me warm as I walked to school during winter days and nights. It turns out smoking would have only made me colder as I tried to look cooler.

I don’t smoke, but I support the rights of others to smoke, unless, of course, it’s in my home or office or next to me in a restaurant or airplane. Smoking outdoors is fine by me (but maybe not right by me), after all – I like a nice camp fire. I try to be uniform in my beliefs whenever it suits me.

It seems, however, that I am not always consistent. I took one of those on–line quizzes where my value system was placed on a grid according to how I answered the questions. The questions asked me to examine how I felt about economic freedom, governmental influence, assisted suicide, mandatory seat belt laws and other topics Americans like to argue about.

I felt my answers were logically in tune with one exception. I do not support assisted suicide (go ahead and tell me why you think I am wrong, but please get in line), and I don’t support mandatory seat belt laws (again – please be respectful of the others ahead of you).

I apologize if you are way ahead of me – but allow me to walk through this. I don’t think we should be helping people kill themselves, but apparently I think we should allow them to increase the risk of death if they want to live dangerously. We don’t force motorcyclists to wear helmets or seat belts (nor should we), yet if you surround yourself with glass, metal and airbags over four wheels the rules change, and your freedom to drive is restricted at the lap and shoulder.

There are plenty of incompatibilities in our society. You are free to burn one type of flag, but you risk being arrested for flying another one. The exercise of religious freedom is encouraged and protected, but only for certain religions. Murder is wrong, but sometimes it is more or less wrong than others, depending upon the political interest served. Yet, when an unborn baby is involved we choose to call it something else.

So, the question remains, do I think people should smoke? No I don’t, but if they want to shorten their lives and break the hearts of the ones they leave behind I won’t stop them. Still, I believe we have certain responsibilities to our friends and family. A sudden suicide, death by car accident, or a disease that takes the life of one who has smoked for years not only takes a life, it forever hurts those left behind.  I have experienced those effects firsthand, and I’m not just blowing smoke.

Your Move

I drove through Hendrum, Minnesota, the other day. You can get to it by taking any of the nine exits off of US Highway 75. That kind of language makes it sound like a large city, but in fact, Hendrum is rather small; about three hundred people call it home. Whether you approach it from the north or south, a sign at the city limits welcomes you to Hendrum, “Next 9 Exits.”

Coming perilously close to missing my chance, I took the ninth one. Hendrum is a nice, quiet town, filled with nice, quiet people I suppose. I didn’t notice anything too remarkable in my short visit, and yet if I hadn’t turned I may have spent the rest of my days wondering, “what if?”

You can go insane rather quickly by second–guessing every move (trust me), so the trick is to avoid those situations whenever you can. Many years ago Jesse, a friend of mine, said “Should haves don’t help us. There is nothing we can do about the past.” A missed chance is gone.

I think one of the great unspoken “should–haves,” is the lament of those who are making a life change to “spend more time with my family.” I recognize that life’s obligations often requires time away from family to earn a living, but I also think that sometimes people finally open their eyes and see the years flying by. Better late than never, I suppose.

In my on–going effort to avoid spending my waning years wallowing in regret, I traveled with part of my family to visit another part of my family. We traveled north to Norman County, Minnesota, where they were having their county fair.

Most every county fair (including Scott County) has its own characteristics. Up north in Norman they have a historical village, car and tractor show, school bus races (without children on–board) and a life–size foosball game with real people doing the kicking. The team made up of members from a culture where soccer is the sport of choice dominated the game.

One of the vendors in the commercial building had a sign on his table that said “$1 for a chess lesson.” Aware that a dollar here or there will not break me, plus knowing that my chess game could be better – I handed him a buck.

After fifteen minutes I was really getting my money’s worth, even though I had offered more. In that time I learned a move with a French name (en passant) that involves the taking of a pawn, how to effectively castle, how to beat someone in four moves, and how to lose to a county fair vendor in eight.

But most importantly, I learned some life lessons. A peaceful existence is best. Never pass up an opportunity to experience something new – provided of course it is not illegal, immoral or unethical. Every player needs to follow the rules and to keep their options open.

In the beginning the whole game is in front of you, even though your range of motion is limited. In the middle there is a variety of options available to you, but as the game nears the end you are left with very few moves.

Until I reach my final exit, I plan to keep playing and moving. Clearly, there is nothing humdrum about that.

Past Time

“You sure write about the past a lot,” a guy told me the other day. He said it as if he didn’t approve. I couldn’t argue with him; I do. I have much to tell.

A little over forty years ago, I and a couple friends hid a fugitive from the law. That may be exaggerating a bit – but the police were involved and we hid someone.  As was our habit in those summers, we had pitched a tent (large enough for twelve men or fifteen boys). We had our flashlights, blankets, pillows, sleeping bags, some junk food, a little bit of money and a warm summer evening ahead of us.

Jim lived on the other side of town from me, with Steve somewhere in the middle of us. Moms and station wagons made up the local transit system. My mother gave Steve and me a ride to Jim’s, and Steve’s mother would bring us home the next day. It was a good system, except we were without bikes, and it would be three or four years until we could drive, so if we wanted to go anywhere we had to walk.

Early in the evening we decided to walk uptown; they were handing out free food – cooked and barbequed right there on the sidewalk in front of the bars, offices and stores. There were a lot of people milling about the streets eating meat. Don’s Popcorn stand provided the side dishes of sno–cones and popcorn for under a dollar.

It was beginning to get dark, and we had agreed to be back in the tent before dark, so we wandered back to Jim’s. We had been in the tent for a couple hours laughing, telling stories, eating and drinking when the zipper on the tent went from the bottom to the top and a girl walked in; we weren’t scared, barely even startled. Our flashlights made it look like she was making a grand entrance at a movie premier.

We recognized her right away; she was a few years older than us – two of our brothers were her classmates. She lived nearby and had noticed the tent in the backyard as she was running by. Thinking that perhaps the older boys were camping out, she took a chance and walked into our tent. She told us she had run away from home after arguing with her dad, and that he would have the police out looking for her. 

It was rather exciting. We had an older girl in our tent, and she was wanted by the police. We asked her what she planned to do. She wasn’t going home, and she had no where else to go. Being young gentlemen in every sense of the word, we invited her to stay. 

We shared our food with her, gave her the extra blankets and a pillow. Jim, Steve and I climbed into our respective sleeping bags, and she curled up in a corner.

Sometime after midnight the police came. You could hear them outside and see their flashlights through the canvas. With no warning and no invitation, they walked into our tent with guns holstered and flashlights drawn. After a quick inspection they were gone. I don’t know how they mistook a sixteen–year girl for a twelve–year old boy. Even I knew the difference back then.

In the morning she walked home, and Steve and I got a ride home. Later in the day my folks had heard about the run–away girl and where she had found refuge. I was never questioned or lectured, but my older brother Dan got it with both barrels. I guess he was guilty by association. I caught just enough of the language to hear how it could have turned out differently with older boys.

We are past the point in time where this story would have a happy ending if it happened today. That’s why I write about the past.