I’m 72 years old. Or as my mother used to delight in telling people…” you’re in your 73rd year.”
I have always loved the fair.
Just like Santa Claus, the “Fair Train” mysteriously arrived overnight at a railroad spur on Rankin Street. The Fair was run by Royal American Shows and traveled from town-to-town on their own train, complete with several colorful Pullman sleeping cars, as well as scores of flat-bed cars hauling all the rides.
My grandfather always took my brother and me early Monday morning before school to drive down Rankin Street and through the early-morning mist gawk at the exotic fair people already unloading the box cars and flat beds.
Later that week, my family would wait until dark and head down and expose the Smith family of the mysteries of Royal American Shows. We always parked on the east end of Capitol Street, near State Street, and save a few bucks forgoing parking in the dirt lots on the fairgrounds.
Our parents never let us eat anything.
“You don’t know where the food has been, and if these fair people even wash their hands,” my mother warned.
After an eye-opening trip around the “World’s Longest Midway,” we trudged back up Amite Street to our car.
But…we always made a stop at the Krystal on Capitol and President to wolf down a couple of Krystal burgers and an order of fries.
Mother declared them “safe,” and we were satisfied that we all avoided a trip to the emergency room later that night, suffering from Fair Food Poisoning.
Years later, I was an eighth grader at Enochs Junior High. We got out half a day to go to the Fair. I pled with my parents to allow me to go with my friends and promised to go easy on the fair food and stay out of freak shows and Club Lido.
Reluctantly, they agreed…however with one more warning from Mother.
“Years ago, a band of gypsies camped out in the Pearl River swamp.”
“A child went missing, and rumor had it that they had carried the child to the next fair stop in Shreveport.” “Fortunately, the child was returned, but you better watch out for strange-looking people.”
Friday afternoon, my buddies and I walked the few miles from Enochs, plopped down our 50 cents for admission, and began looking for ways to spend the remaining $9.50.
My first stop was the footlong chili hotdog booth. I have been fortunate to dine in some of the finest restaurants around the nation during my career. But I’m not sure the taste of that hotdog, soaked in chili and saturated with yellow mustard, was the finest meal I’ve ever tasted.
Must have something to do with the idea of the “forbidden fruit” in the Garden of Eden. Same concept…. forbidden stuff just tastes better.
A few years ago, I pretty much lost my appetite for fair food, however. I wanted a footlong pronto pup and searched out one of the “original” pronto pup stands…. You know, the stand with the picture of a pronto pup on the logo wearing a sombrero.
I plopped down the exorbitant price and was handed the pup, slathered in mustard. But after about two bites, I realized my pronto pup was stone cold. I walked back up and told the guy about the cold pup, expecting him to give me a new one.
“Give it here,” he barked. Then, he plopped my half-eaten pronto pup back in the fry basket and a couple of minutes later handed it back and said, “try that.”
Needless to say, I threw the warmed- up dog in the nearest wastebasket.
Pity the next customer!
These days, my food selection consists of a free biscuit, a hamburger from the Mississippi Cattlemen’s Association stand, and topped off with a pineapple whip cone.
Checking those off the list, it’s time to head for the exit and out into the new, well-lighted parking lot, courtesy of Ag Commissioner Andy Gipson.
But you can be sure, I’m looking over my shoulder all the way to the car for a bunch of people with baggy pants and strange looking hats chasing me.
Have fun at the fair….
Kendall Smith is a Northsider.
