SAGE ADVICE: Fair or not

My youngest was dragging my arm toward the carnival rides.
“I wish you were little like me,” he said, pulling just ever so slightly faster. “Then we could play together and be friends.”
Nothing would have made me happier, if even for only one slide down the thing that “looks like a crab from behind but really isn’t because it’s a cowboy when you get around to the front side. You’ll see.”
It was still light out, around 6 p.m., when he and his brother pulled me over to the rides. From then they rode, pretty much without break, until it wasn’t light out, around 10 p.m. They rode the swings, the crab thing that isn’t really a crab, the bull, the train, the big mouse thing with the cheese on top and the American Gladiator. They named the rides themselves, so yes, I let my children watch “American Gladiators.” And no I’m not going to apologize. After all, I watched it when I was young to no ill-effects, arguably. They rode the crab thing that really isn’t a crab but a cowboy at least 1,112 times, not that I was counting.
Point is they had fun, lot of fun, so much fun they wanted me to magically unage, shrink and join in. I had fun, a lot of fun, too. And if I could have I would have magically unaged, shrank and joined in. Instead I had to settle for the next to best thing. Throwing softballs at people I work with. Well, I didn’t really throw a softball at Jeff Simmons. I threw it at a lever that knocked him into a tank of water, which he said tasted a lot like vomit.
Bland County’s fair is hands down the best around. I’ve been to some big ones, as a fairgoer and as a journalist. I’ve done the whole gigantic midway, acres of cars, more animals than Noah could have imagined thing. I’ve seen the big-name country music acts, complete with the fans that love them to the point of dressing just like them and reciting way too loud their corniest lyrics into the ears of their dearests when they think someone like me isn’t watching and listening. I’ve been on the big turning around things that never seemed bolted all that well to whatever asphalt they sat on and always smelled, I’m sure, more like vomit than Jeff’s water tank. I’ve been to the places that felt sturdy, permanent and carefully planned to feel aswirl with activity. None of them hold a candle to the small affair, relatively, that Bland’s fair is. There the swirl of activity is real. It’s pulling your arm off toward the carnival rides, most of them inflatable, all of them geared for the younger kids. Bland’s entertainment’s local, but most nights every bit as good as the soon-to-be-washed-up country stars that fade on the bigger fair’s stages. Who wouldn’t want to see a bunch of 4-Hers dancing, singing, showing off magic tricks and such? I wouldn’t want to hang out with him.
The thing about the Bland fair is it’s manageable. The parking lot isn’t acres. You don’t have to ride a bus onto the grounds. Couldn’t if you wanted to I don’t think. Yet the vegetable displays are among the healthiest I’ve ever seen. Same with the crafts projects. And the paintings. And the flowers. And the decorated shoes.
The other thing about the Bland fair is it allows you to shrink, just little, unage a few years, and play like a kid again, especially if you’ve got a workmate, a couple softballs, a tank of vomitty water and some sort of fundraiser or another.