It occurred to me today that there is one thing that I’m not missing from the fair.
SECTIONS OF THIS ARE TAKEN FROM A PIECE THAT I WROTE YEARS AGO IN RESPONSE TO THE EVENT DESCRIBED BELOW. IF THE POST AS A WHOLE FEELS DISJOINTED, I’VE TRIED MY BEST TO MARRY THE TWO PIECES –TODAY’S POST AND THE OLD JOURNAL ENTRY– TOGETHER.
Right around this time of the year, a lot of people in my neck of the woods get excited about our local fair. It’s a fun time for people to get together at the fairgrounds, and to enjoy what the fair has to offer. Our family has been involved in the fair for many years; my children exhibit their projects in multiple different barns, and my wife and I have volunteered at the fair for longer than we’ve been married.
COVID-19 cancelled this year’s fair, unfortunately.
One of the great things about being an exhibitor at the fair, depending on whom you might ask, is that you get a week pass, which is unlimited free entrance to the fair for the week. Unfortunately, parents can’t get free entrance to the fair for a week. But… volunteers can.
My wife and I have volunteered for the fair for more than twenty years, mostly in the Craft Barn and with other organizations, but for the past few years now, we’ve been exclusively volunteering as ushers for the grandstand. The grandstand is that location, at the fairgrounds, where the big shows and entertainment events happen, during the week of the fair. Kirk Hansen and the team of volunteers that my wife and I work with in the grandstand work really hard to make sure that events are coordinated, safe, and enjoyable for everyone. It’s been a great thing to be involved in. In 2021, if you’re looking for a way to get into the fair, off the sweat of your brow, there’ll probably be an usher organizational meeting in late July.
In any case, you sign up for the events that you want to be a part of, and then Kirk assigns you to different areas, based on your skills and comfort level. You have to work a minimum number of events to qualify for the week pass to the fair, but it’s a reasonable number. And… you obviously get to be in the events that you work without having to buy a ticket –> of course this means that you’re working, as opposed to being a spectator, but it’s kind of the same thing. My wife and I like to work the children’s circus, usually, because that’s fun, and we also like to work certain other events.
We also usually sign up to work the demolition derby.
I hate the demolition derby.
* * *
The first year we volunteered for Kirk Hansen, we signed up for the demolition derby, since we were new to the scene, and we didn’t have any idea what we were signing up for. But then, being there that evening, I was greatly saddened by the experience.
If this seems strange to you, let me explain.
I have always loved cars. When I was a kid, I loved learning about cars, and my brother and I would sit out in front of our house –we lived on a local highway– and identify the cars as they went by. I love classic cars and modern cars. I collected matchbox cars as a kid; I had dozens of them. My two favorite television shows, as a kid, featured cars. I built model cars from the model kits that you could buy at the G.L. Perry variety store in town. I remember my dad took my brother and I to a car show in South Bend when I was a kid, and I got to sit inside the KITT car from Knight Rider.
I’ve always loved cars.
On that night a few years ago, as I was standing near the entry gate of the grandstand, looking at my first ever demolition derby, I thought it was gross; I got physically nauseous.
But, I think it also taught me something about death –not because anyone died– but because the death of a thing is still a death, in a way.
Their engines were roaring, and the roars sounded so much like screams, only to echo the screams of the watching fans, wanting to see the death of the things. The smoke was oily and thick in the air, and it was the dying exhalations from those cars. I was breathing in the dying breaths of those dying cars.
It reminded me of a bull fighting demonstration that I saw in Spain when I was in college. I think it must also be what dog fighting or cock fighting is like, not that I would know. It has something to do with a fascination that we have with fighting, with battle, with gladiators, with conflict and combat and confrontation.
With destruction.
They were just cars, of course, but that didn’t matter to me. I have always loved cars and I couldn’t watch them be killed, so I stopped. I just sat down, near the entry gate, and put my head in my hands and stared at the ground, waiting for the whole thing to eventually be over.
I felt, when I was watching, like I was watching something dark. I felt like it was connecting to something inside of me that is dark. Continuing to watch meant continuing to allow my darkness to be exposed, to be connected to what I was seeing. I didn’t want that.
And then, there were the looks on the faces of the people around me. Those faces, those blank and excited stares, made me think that the same thing was happening to them, but they kept watching; I couldn’t. They were joined by the people who’d gathered near the gate to try to peek in, who hadn’t paid to see, but they still wanted to see.
* * *
Now, I said earlier that my wife and I usually sign up to work the demolition derby. You might wonder why, if it bothers me so much. I’m not really sure that I can answer that, at least not completely. I think I go now, every year –except for this one– as a reminder about destruction. The worship of destruction, the sick levels of attention we pay to what is destructive in our society; we’ve got to knock that right off.
It Occurred To Me Today 