The Minnesota State Fair starts in a week, and I’ve got jalapeño cheese curds on my mind—and stories.
Do you have a story about a trip to the fair (any fair) too?
If you’d like to share your fair memories in my blog next week, follow the instructions below. I’ll get us started.
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“When was the last time we came here together?” seventeen-year-old Flicka said as we passed through the entrance to the Minnesota State Fair.
I shrugged. “Well, we had the double stroller, so it’s been a while.”
No stroller this time. We would cover the place with three teenagers who could walk on their own. Who knew the state fair could be this easy?
At the girls’ request, we frittered away time in the livestock barns, shuddering at the largest boar who was slabbed out in his stall looking more like a three-quarter ton rock than an animal. We oohed at the cows who cuddled with their owners while they awaited their show times. We aahed at the sheep and goats who often shoved their heads through the bars to get a scratch behind the ears just like our own creature at home.
We floated through the agriculture building and the global market, the art exhibits and the butterfly room. We breezed through the gathering of humanity like we were riding a bike on a freshly tarred road, unlike the baby days when it seemed we were rollerblading through sand. And we ate many goodies: walleye cakes, fried pickles, multi-flavored cheese curds, poutine, honey ice cream, chocolate chip cookies. No sugar-induced meltdowns this time.
But as we sauntered by food offerings too numerous to conquer in a day, one particular aroma wafted me back to another time.
I was twenty years old again and drifting through the state fair with Boyfriend. We had managed to pay the entrance fee, but we were college students on a suffocating budget. Once inside the gates, we were strapped. Not even a dollar between us.
“That roasted corn sure smells good,” Boyfriend said.
“The best,” I said, eyeing the charred husks, the butter dripping off a patron’s chin after she chomped from a fresh cob.
“Maybe next time.”
But I had an idea. “Or this time.”
I shared my plan, and we strolled the fair with new purpose, our eyes trained on the ground. We most often found pennies, but went ecstatic when we spied silver.
“A dime,” Boyfriend said, his face splitting into a grin. “Lucky break.”
For an hour we were as alert as a dog hanging out under a dinner table, but soon, the mother of all ideas sparked: the arcade. Why hadn’t we thought of it before? We entered the house of games and searched every coin return slot.
I was breathless. “Three quarters!”
Finally we had what we needed for one cob. We scurried to the corn stand and dumped our fistful of change into a worker’s hand. We took our first bites. Now our chins were slick with butter. We sighed; roasted corn had never tasted more delicious.
Hardship probably creates the best memories. But visiting the state fair with a few easy teenagers and enough money for a cob of corn is okay too.
Now it’s your turn. What are some of your fair memories?
To have your writing published in my blog next week, submit it HERE. Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email. (Please include your CITY and STATE with your submission. And if you have a photo, I’ll run it with your story.)
Until then, enjoy the mini donuts!
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.