A rumor was circulating on the streets that there was a carnival in town. And not just any carnival. The grandmother of all carnivals. That's right, the Tennessee Valley Fair was here, and once again, was the talk of the town. The old fair, the pinnacle of Appalachian pride. The Tilt-a-whirl. The Pirate Ship. The Ferris Wheel. The World's Smallest Lady. The World's Largest Mustache. Various deep fried items on a stick for sale. Yes, sir, it's all there at the ol' Tennessee Valley Fair! This is an event whose origins date back to at least 1916 AD, according to Myrtle next door, who has faithfully attended every year since its inception. She told me the whole history in meticulous detail - how its success and popularity over the years came with the advent of stilts, where it reached its roaring peak in the early-1920's. But, an unfortunate mishap had caused it to plateau shortly thereafter. She explained how everything changed in the year 1924. You see, up to that point, stilts were all crafted by the skillful hands of carpenters, but with the allure of mass production and industrialization, stilts were soon being mass produced by labor unions in large factories. The fatcats of the stilt manufacturing business were in the process of cutting back on costs, trying to offset the increasing demands of the labor union. Luckily for them, a traveling salesman by the name of "Dapper" Dan Dewey was in town. And, with the help of some fancy high-flutin' charts, Dapper Dan dazzled them all with a novel idea - using pressboard instead of real wood. These chairmen, Myrtle explained further, all agreed that this move could really boost their profit margins and motioned to implement the plan. The first shipment was sent to Knoxville, to be tested in the Tennessee Valley Fair. The whole town was abuzz with the news, so much excitement in the air. The evening radio broadcasts sang the praises of pressboard and how it would revolutionize the whole fair. At least that's what the "Dapper" Dan the traveling salesman had said. The fatcats were all high-fiving each other when suddenly the telegraph started going crazy with the terrible news about Betsy, Myrtle's dairy cow. It was the grand opening day of the fair that year, and the new stilts had been left outside in the rain, causing all the pressboard to grow soggy, weaken and snap under the weight of the stiltwalkers. One of those stiltwalkers had fallen right onto poor Betsy - the fair's pride and joy, the "finest bovine from Knox county lines" they called her. Betsy was alright, but was so traumatized by the event that she could never produce another drop of milk again, which disqualified her from future competitions. It was a tragic day in Rocky Top history.
(I'll give you a few moments to gather yourselves.)
And, here I was, almost 90 years later. Oddly enough, nothing had really changed. The Ferris wheel was most likely the very same one that Myrtle rode that fateful day in 1924. The footlong corndogs were most likely fried in the very same fryer that her's was fried in. The trick basketball hoops that were bent in such a way that it was nearly impossible make a shot were, well, in all probability, the same hoops. It was like, ever since that fateful day with Betsy, time had just stopped dead in its tracks. The very same ticket booth was still run by Walter, who was nearing 120 yrs of age by now. You had two options at Walter's ticketing booth: either buy tickets individually for 5 bucks a pop, or elect to go for the fabled $22 wristband so that one could indulge oneself in unlimited rides. This seemed to be the popular choice.
Can one assume that you chose the wristband over the individual tickets, dear Mr. Johnson?
Heavens, no! As they say, "wide and broad is the path that leadeth unto destruction, and many enter through it!" There was no way in Hades that I was about to bear "the mark". Not even the sagacious Myrtle could convince me.
You are perceptive as you are wise, my son. But, what about all the rides? The Tilt-a-whirl? The Defibrillator? The Eviscerator?
Well, it's funny you ask that. I was talking to Myrtle about this earlier. I explained to her that, while I looooove the Eviscerator, I also value my life, my appendages, and my hopes of one day reproducing. I think she understood where I was coming from. I also explained to Myrtle my concerns about sanitization in general. "Isn't it funny how", I said, "when you're a kid, you don't mind that Susie Q had just lost her lunch all over that seat about an hour ago? You don't remember that Little Jimmy next door lost a pinky finger to this very ride a year ago. You don't realize that you could contract some vile disease from touching that scary man. You don't realize that these 'rides' are just rusty old contraptions that just barely passed their minimum safety inspections last month, and can be easily be the cause of your portrait being in the obituary next week. These things don't even cross the mind of a 10 year old." Myrtle seemed to understand. She responded, "Well, that seems to be the beauty of childhood - being completely oblivious to all the danger and infectious diseases around you, and just enjoying the ride." There was some truth in what she said.
So, Myrtle, in all her wisdom and expertise, decided to help me out. She wrote down the names of a few of her favorites attractions. "Here", she said, "these are my favorite attractions. They're safe, and generally sanitary." So, there I was. With her list in hand, I knew all the hot spots:
"Make sure you look at the World's Smallest Horse! It's sooo small!", she said.
"And, don't forget to say hello to the World's Smallest Lady! Her name is Thelma", she said.
"And, oh yeah, you've GOT to see the Hypnotist and his Hypno Dog! What a hoot!", she said.
"While you're there, make sure you watch the Knox county arm-wrestling contest! Those guys sure are impressive, tell ya what!", she said.
"And, try out that cow-milking exhibit in the petting zoo! The plastic utter feels remarkably authentic!", she said.
"And, PLEASE pay your respects to #957, the reigning dairy cow champion! Let her know how beautiful she is, and how much Myrtle misses her!", she said.
And, so I did. The World's Smallest Horse, which, thanks to my height, I was able to get glimpse of without paying. The World's Smallest Woman, Thelma, was a nice lady. The Hypnotist and Hypno-dog were unfortunately not scheduled to appear until later, so I couldn't make that. But, fortunately, I was able to watch the arm-wrestling. It was a hoot! I wasn't too impressed with the makeshift cow utter, but I didn't tell that to Myrtle. What I was impressed with was #957. Myrtle wasn't exaggerating - what a gorgeous bovine! I stroked #957's massive head, whispering a few words of endearment into those furry ears. I told her how well proportioned her hind thighs were, how well-defined her color markings were, and large her eyes were. And, although I exaggerated a little, I told her how respectable the size of her utter was. It was about this time that #957 released a tremendous fart. I think maybe that was her way of saying thank you. We really bonded, #957 and I. And I thought, this must have been how Myrtle and Betsy felt long long ago, almost 90 years ago at the 1916 Tennessee Valley Fair. If Betsy looked anything like #957, then no wonder Myrtle took such a likin' to her.
The one thing Myrtle made sure that I did at the fair was ride the Ferris Wheel. "You can't go wrong takin' the ol' Ferris Wheel for a spin!", she said. So, that's where I found myself - swaying to and fro, suspended high in the air, then brought back low to the earth. And, over and over. It's slow. It's relatively safe. Now, this was my kind of ride. I sat there, pondering the profound mysteries of the universe, slowly devouring my footlong corndog, biding my time, and trying to ignore the ominous sounds of the giant metal assemblage that creaked and grinded on its rusty hinges. I tried not think about the people who had assembled it - they were a people who apparently did not fully understand the benefits of regular flossing, a people who I would not trust to change my light bulbs, and a people who probably had as many screws loose as the massive machine itself. But, Myrtle said they were good people, and that's good enough for me.
The giant wheel turned and churned, stopping occasionally to allow new passengers on and old passengers off. Each time it started or stopped, it would crack, snapple and pop, serving as a potent reminder of your mortality here on earth. But, while I was fully aware of the possibility that this potential wheel-of-death could collapse at anytime leading to a horrid demise, for some reason, it didn't bother me. After all, the view was nice. The air was fresh. The sun was out. The breeze was blowing through my hair. "Hey, maybe life isn't so bad after all?", I thought as I took another bite of my footlong corndog, oblivious of its origin or ingredients.
I was beginning to like this fair. The breeze blew quietly. The lake reflected the clear blue sky above. The trees rustled and swayed below. The crowd was bustling, but couldn't be heard from up here. It was peaceful. All the colors from the myriad of exhibits all seemed to blend together into one mosaic. I could see everything. There was the local town juggler "Jugglin' Dale Jones" down there. There was "Orville the one-legged Unicycler" down there. There was "Hector", a local favorite with the Latino community, who was actually a man dressed up in jalapeno costume. There was Jeremy, the flamboyant man, who pranced around. Then there was "Big Mama's Deep Fried Stuff on a Stick", with a line of people 20 deep all anxiously awaiting there turn to order. Across from her was "Jimmy's Cracked Corn", another local favorite. Across the way the locally famous "Uncle Ray and the Whiskey Drinkers" band playing their smash hit tune, "40 cent meat and 10 cent whiskey". Then there was that Bluebell Chicken contest that everyone had been talking about in town. The general consensus was that Dean Chicowski had the best lookin' chickens in Rocky Top, and from what I heard later, he took home the top prize. It was all so beautiful from up here on the Ferris Wheel.
I could tell that my turn was almost up, so I polished off the corndog as the giant metal assembly screeched to another halt. This time a scary man with bushy eyebrows motioned for me to exit, so I did. All in all, it was great day at the ol' Tennessee Valley Fair. We make the best of what we have in life, as Myrtle says, and I had made the best of my day at the fair. Nonetheless, there was much work to be done back home. I bid farewell to #957, wishing her luck in all her competitions, and high-tailed it back to the prairie.
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