Blue Ribbons and Diving Mules

Our family stood at the side of our house with binoculars in hand. When it got to be my turn to look, I would peer through the lenses to see them—the paratroopers with colored smoke a-blazing signified that the Utah State Fair was in full swing. In a matter of days the Perry-Munson clan would be crashing the party.

We would wander through the commercial booths marveling at the man who would melt a penny with a blow torch to show the quality of his fiberglass insulation. We’d throw a dart in hopes of winning a small bag of potato chips and fill a plastic tote bag with all sorts of brochures and calling cards. We planned to read up on coal stove and gazebo companies later, but by the time we got to the midway, the bags ended up in the trash.

The midway was amazing. Where else could you see the World’s Tiniest Horse, a Two-Headed Baby and a Diving Mule all within the span of a half an hour? A man with a jet pack would sail overhead to the wild applause of the astonished crowd.

The carnival games were rigged but we had a good time with them anyway. One year, my siblings and I won at least one goldfish apiece, much to the chagrin of Mom and Frank who asked “just what in the hell we were going to do with all of them.” They all ended up in our backyard pond but died a week later when Mom cleaned it with too much Clorox.

Then there was the Bandstand. It was the little stage in the middle of he fairgrounds where you could see all sorts of burgeoning talent. Our junior high Special Ed teacher, Mr. Gnadt juggled chainsaws one year. Another year we watched a little group of unknowns  called the Oak Ridge Boys. But the bandstand’s big moment in history came in 1971 when mom, in true Gypsy Rose Lee fashion, dragged me kicking and screaming up to the stage to be part of the freckle contest. I still remember Cupcake the Clown proclaiming that I was that year’s winner. I won a crown, a trophy and a front page story in the next morning’s Salt Lake Tribune.

The Grandstand was the crown jewel of the fairgrounds—the stage where all of the big acts would play. Candy Candido was the manic, mustachioed emcee every year. The older segment of the audience thought his shtick was a hoot. We kids just rolled our eyes at his lameness. The Starland Vocal Band—a one-hit wonder—played there one night and made the mistake of singing “Afternoon Delight” at the top of their program. Sensing there were no more hits on the way, the crowd evacuated in a quiet and orderly fashion. I still remember one of the singers pleading for us to “please stay.”

One year, Hank Snow was the headliner. Mom and Frank loved him and brought along an album for him to autograph. A security guard said “No way.” As the guard stood at Hank’s trailer door, Mom told us kids to go off and create a ruckus to distract him. We did and Mom ran up the trailer and got Mr. Snow’s autograph.

My favorite part of the fair was visiting the Fine Arts building with my friend Brian. There is nothing more fun for a snobby artiste than mocking other “less-thans.” Fawns in pine trees, Picasso-esque portraits of grandma with two eyes on the side of her head, an eagle riding a cougar were just a sampling of the masterpieces that would give us the church giggles so bad we had to run from the building and guffaw until our guts hurt. 

Those were the glory days. I’ve only been to the fair once in the last twenty years or so. That evening, when a few of my cosmopolitan friends sauntered through the livestock barn, a cow was lying on her side, mooing in agony. Her body was heaving and her eyes were rolling in the back of her head. Obviously, she was about to give birth. In awe, we stood there for the better part of fifteen minutes until we grew bored and headed for the beer booth. Later on, our curiosity got the best of us and we returned to the barn. Farmer Joe was sweeping hay in the stall, whistling like nothing had happened. We asked if Bossie had had her calf. He replied “Oh, that? She had him this morning. She was just trying to expel her placenta.” Well, a half dozen dry-heaving queens is not a common occurrence at such a bucolic affair. We ran screaming “ewww!” all the way to the zucchini building.

Today, I have plans to return one more time to the fair. Rumor has it that its days are numbered. My friends have reminded me what a fun, kitschy, deep-fried event it can be. Alas, my freckles have faded so there will be no trophy this year. I have no need for a coal stove or a gazebo. Let’s see if the carny can at least guess my weight. 

Somewhere between a Vietnamese potbelly and Big Bill, the Poland China Hog.