In these past few weeks, with springtime in full bloom, I’ve certainly enjoyed being out and about. It seems that a year’s flown by under lock and key, and now, it’s up to all of us to rebuild our communities. little by little. Working on plans for my personal summer camp, I’ve compiled a list of things that would be fun to try. Even something as simple as going to the library to get my very own card is on my list of “To-Do’s”.
I’ve felt an increasing impatience at being trapped at home. Not that Winterpast is a bad place to be trapped. On the contrary, it’s a lovely oasis surrounded by beautiful mountains and the bluest sky. But, “plane watching” in the hot tub can only amuse one for so long.
Changing the name of almost every single place in town is something I do for privacy’s sake. This is just too rich to alter. In my little town, there are three parks. Not lush, or well manicured, but heavily used for all kinds of fun activities from dog walks to Little League Baseball. One park is named In-Town-Park. Another is named Out-Of-Town-Park. The third is between Main Street and the railroad tracks, which could be Between Park for all I know.
These are names engraved on signs in front of both parks, and quickly became one of the reasons I fell in love with my little town. Indeed, the I-T-P is IN TOWN. The O-O-T-P is OUT OF TOWN. Brilliant in simplicity and functionality. The names speak of a time long ago, filled with picnics and children flying high on swings. Neighbors munching on fried chicken and potato salad, while visiting, mask-less. You just social distanced from those you with whom you chose not to converse.
The fact that Sheriff Smith or Rancher Ron hasn’t insisted that the park be named after them speaks volumes to the type of people that live in my little town. They are townsfolk, not egotistical morons. The parks belong to everyone.
The carnival had pulled into town on Friday morning, setting up in O-O-T-P. It looked suspect. There were six adult rides that were too shiny and new to be really exciting. The best part of roadside carnivals was the thought that you really could die, or at the very least, lose a finger or foot. That was, if you made it back to the car before being snatched by the Carnies. These were brand new, shiny rides. The town-folk were a-twitter with excitement for the weekend event.
At 4 PM, I drove over to the little carnival to look for funnel cake. Never having tasted it, I had a hard time envisioning what it would be until I brought up a picture on his phone. Interesting. I would much rather have cheese curds or a slice of pizza, but, I would be up for trying funnel cake, which I had heard was a food created by angels.
Under the big cotton wood trees, the high school was holding Sober Grad Night. Graduating seniors look younger every year. Right? There were balloons and squeals of laughter from the mechanical bull, set up to the side. It looked like their celebration would be a very long and fun night, free of masks and social distancing.
Continuing towards the midway, there stood six adult rides, two children’s rides and some games of chance down the middle. Somewhere in the mix, there would be funnel cake. With a Ferris wheel calling to me, I went to buy tickets. Until I stopped. Six rides — $30. EACH. Had no one told them this wasn’t Disneyland on wheels? These were little carnival rides that would be packed up and moved Sunday night. A one minute ride on the Ferris Wheel would cost $10. Floating up into the air with a chance to die just wasn’t that important, so I changed course.
Turning to the Games of Chance, I could win this little lady a prize. These games were obviously set to the house advantage, ruining the fun. Besides, each try cost $5. Each TRY. No “greased plate dime toss”, or “glued together bowling pins” ready to tumble if you hit them just right. The games were all computerized for controlled outcomes. Huge prizes hung overhead for gullible victims. Certainly, not me.
Well, there was always the funnel cake. Until, there wasn’t. Nope. There were corndogs, caramel apples, cotton candy, and popcorn, but, fresh funnel cake was not sold at this carnival. They only sold ready made food pre-sealed in plastic. The time? 4:30 PM. The travel and investigative leg work took only 30 minutes.
The Nevada State Fair (another carnival with the same silly rides) was the same weekend. They would have funnel cake. But the drive wasn’t worth it. I chose to stay close to home and visit the Tee-Pee Bar and Grill for a nice dinner before returning home.
Thinking back on carnival’s of the past, something precious was lost along the way. Cake walks with freshly baked cakes as prizes. Square dancing. Beer gardens. Animals, big and small. Rusty carnival rides that might or might not make it another night. Sparkling lights in big old oak trees, with shadows where the young lover’s might steal a first kiss. A place where family men could be the hero to their children and let them ride anything they wanted, all night along. A sense of community at an event people waited for all year long.
The next morning, the headlines were grim. At the Nevada State Fair, one hour’s drive to the West, three had been critically stabbed the night before. With no suspects apprehended, the thought was sobering. A decision to take a simple drive in search of funnel cake at the Nevada State Fair could have taken me to the very site of the stabbing. Something so precious has been lost. Freedom to enjoy a fun evening without fear.