County fair moves to its own beat

Oh, alright, I know there's always one grump out there who says he doesn't just because it's his only pathetic way of standing out in a crowd, but let's ignore the Grinches and Scrooges of the world for now, shall we?

I went out there last night to get a few pictures and a few quotes for a story. I didn't want to go. I wasn't feeling well. It was hot, it was humid and it was the end of a very long day.

But something happened as soon as I parked the van. I got out, took one whiff of the air filled with the smells of cow manure and funnel cakes. I saw the Hurricane ride's cars sweep by in a garish, glittering glow that made my sparkly migraines seem puny.

I had to dodge clumps of obnoxious teenagers who suddenly didn't seem that obnoxious. In fact, if anything, they looked excited, if that's an acceptable term for when a Goth child lets a grin sneak across the black lipstick and white pallor. They looked, like, I mean, totally, like, you know, they're going to have, you know, something like, well, fun.

See? Even teenagers get the fair fever.

I got it. I wanted to get on the Ferris wheel, eat dubious fried foods and try my luck at tossing ping pong balls into paper cups. I felt 13 again.

What I love about the fair is the amazing medley of Americana. In one booth, a kid with hip hop pants you want to jerk up to his earlobes is tossing darts to win a mirror etched with Michael Jackson's face. Just behind that booth, a group of musicians is singing "Will the Circle be Unbroken."

If you stand in the parking lot at just the right spot, you can hear the bluegrass and gospel music, the screams and rock-n-roll horror movie sound track from the midway, and the bellow of the beef cattle being led into the show ring. It's kind of like a barnyard Bonnaroo, with something for everybody.

I've been to New York twice in my life and both times, I realized what Thoreau meant when he said we all follow the beat of a different drummer. Manhattan is a snare drum, k-shee, k-shee, k-shee -- quick and steady, a subliminal pulse that leaves you breathing, walking and talking just a little bit faster than usual.

The fair is more like Buddy Rich, the original wild man on jazz drums ... OK, too early a reference. Keith Moon? No? Hold on, let me Google "great modern drummers." I'm getting old. I not only didn't recognize any of the drummers' names, I didn't recognize any of the bands.

But the point is, the fair's beat varies, from the wild staccato of the midway to the heavy thud of the adolescent boys getting tossed off the mechanical bull. There are the light, whispery beats of the children in the petting zoo, and the steady bass drums of their grandparents, listening to the gospel music and waving to their grandkids with powdered sugar fingers.

The fair is like a Gershwin number, a "Rhapsody in Rural" instead of a "Rhapsody in Blue," and whether you are in the home economics section, admiring pies and jars of honey, or you are sidestepping green-tinged teenagers who just got off the Zipper, the same subtle motif runs through it all. Community, history, heritage ... fun!

Mary Reeves is a Times-Gazette staff writer. She can be reached at mreeves@t-g.com.