Going to the Fair

The classic fairground centrepiece.

This evening we went to the church fair just down the road from my aunt and uncle’s place. It was held in the building’s parking lot, with your classic portable small-fair rides and carnival stands. It wasn’t big, but the kids were sure excited; I don’t know that they’ve ever been to a fair like this before.

It was an interesting experience for me, who has been to many similar carnivals in Canada. There was something different about this one; a distinctly American flavour, from the candy stand lady with the Southern drawl who called me honey to the colours of the American flag adorning everything. And there really were American flags everywhere – even splashed across the wristbands we bought to guarantee us entrance to every ride. You wouldn’t see anything like this in Canada, except maybe on Canada day; even then, it wouldn’t be held in a church parking lot with rented carnies.

The carnies, too, were a wonderfully mixed group: a portly gentleman who smiled when I thanked him, a guy with a shaved head and what looked like prison tattoos on his face, an African-American man with the Rastafari colours embroidered on the pockets of his capris. This isn’t something you’d see just anywhere; typically, they wouldn’t be in a church parking lot, either. As I was walking home, I saw that the people in the house across from my aunt and uncle’s had set up a pavilion to host a party in their backyard. This is the real East Coast American heartland, and I can’t imagine a better place for my cousins to grow up.