The Bohunk, along with our daughter Jess and granddaughter Chloe, joined 138,872 people for opening day at the Minnesota State Fair in St. Paul last week. Turnout set a record for opening day attendance, breaking the 2019 record by almost 5,000 souls– which is not far below the entire population of Cook County.
Although I wasn’t invited to join them, I would never agree to attend the “Great Minnesota Get Together” anyway. There are too many people and noise, and I get antsy when three or more people are in line with me at the grocery store.
The fair was central to my childhood summers living in suburban Minneapolis. It’s a place where the ordinary transforms into the extraordinary, a magical escape before the harsh reality of ‘back to school’ sets in.
The neighborhood gang and I mowed lawns, peddled papers, saved allowances, and hit up friendly uncles for a buck or two to fund a full day of independence at the fair.
On the chosen day, we were filled with anticipation as one of our dads would load us all in the station wagon and drop us at the gates on their way to work. We had more than eight hours of freedom ahead of us, with a vague plan of all we would do, see, and eat.
Machinery Hill was a regular stop for us. It glistened with brand-new tractors, combines, and front-end loaders that impressed our young minds.
One of the first things we did was visit the Minnesota DNR building. Bigger than I’d ever seen, Northern Pike swam lazily in the giant aquarium. With a DNR bag to carry the treasures we’d find, we headed out.
We made our way, clutching our dollars and quarters, into the Midway. The workers were exotic, tattooed heroes to a bunch of white boys from Richfield. They figured us as suckers for the games of chance they were promoting. “Aw, you didn’t knock down all those bottles this time. Better try again.” Another dollar disappeared.
We rode the Tilt-A-Whirl, bumper cars, the double Ferris wheel, and anything else that looked terrifying.
Then, we rushed to the motorcycle “Ride of Death.” It was a wooden, silo-like structure, and we climbed to the top to watch the show. Scary-looking riders slowly circled at the bottom. Then, in an ear-shattering acceleration, they rode up and around the sides of the silo, coming so near the top that we jumped back from the edge. It was a thrilling experience that we would talk about for days.
The fair took on new meaning for me when I was dating the Bohunk. The Merry-go-Round and Ye Olde Mill (tunnel of love) were the rides of choice. We went every year. We saw concerts by the Carpenters and Alabama at the grandstand. We ate our fill of mini-donuts, pronto-pups, and Sweet Martha’s cookies. We rode the Sky Ride gondola and Space Tower after dark.
The fair continued to be a tradition as our kids arrived. One year, our oldest, Stephanie,about seven or eight at the time, loved haunted houses. That year’s fair had an excellent one, and we heard the wailing and shrieking beckoning us to come closer. Going there turned into a favorite family memory.
As we neared the house, a trio of nuns walked toward us, wearing their finest, all-white habits from head to toe. Little Jessica, not long past a toddler, pointed at them and screamed, “GHOSTS.” I remember the nuns chuckling at us, and Becky, the lapsed Catholic, was embarrassed.
This year, I had but one request from the fair. A trucker hat I’d seen that said, “Mind Your Own Damn Business,” apparently a golden rule in Minnesota, according to the Governor. I thought they might be available at the fair.
My beloved partner of more than 50 years didn’t find a hat, but she did find a pin that said the same thing at the DFL booth. It might be considered too political, so I don’t wear it publicly while working, but it is in my pocket.
When someone annoys me, I flash it out. “Mind Your Own Damn Business,”
