Year of the Fish

Much like the Chinese calender system of naming years after animals, Siskiyou County residents mark the passing of time by naming years after Siskiyou Golden Fair events.  1994? Ah, the Year of the $6 FFA Hog.  '86? the Year of the Tilt-A-Whirl Upchuck Disaster.  Dylan and Grady have picked up on the practice and 2012 will be remembered as either the Year of the Carnival Game Scam, or the Year of the Minimum Height Requirement.

Dylan came to the fair this year with two goals: be tall enough to ride the Ferris Wheel and to spend money like a 5-year old with no concept of the value of things.  She tackled the Ferris Wheel first.  When she backed up to the "You Must Be This Tall" sign, she was at least two inches over the minimum, so I took off her platform shoes and got ready to ride.  Then she looked up and chickened out.  "Maybe tomorrow," she offered.  We tried again the next day, and again she wavered, but I couldn't go another year of Ferris Wheel regrets, so I loaded her up and up we went.  She loved it.  She walked around the chair and peered over the sides.  She reminded me of a 1930s Golden Gate Bridge construction worker.  Unfortunately, I lost my nerve when I hit the top of the ride and spent the rest of the time nervously trying to talk Dylan into sitting and fighting off the cold sweats.  I let Regina take her up after that.

Grady, too, was finally tall enough for rides slightly more exciting than his two choices from last year:  the "Slow Train to Nowhere," and the Carousel.  We'd zip down the super slide, hit the Boingy Cars, roll on the Topsy Turvy Scurvy Ship and end up on the Go Gator -- a small roller-coaster that he loved.  The 105 degree afternoons were the only thing that slowed our roll, otherwise we'd probably be in an old RV, following the carnival across the west.

Dylan really got sucked in by the carnival games this year.  I wanted her to learn that the prize isn't worth the investment without emptying her (or my) entire piggy bank.  She packed $10 in her Hello Kitty purse and set off.  The first hawker was for a game so that is so ridiculous, and easy, that they prey on the young and weak.  You pay $3, pull a rubber duck from a water trough, and get a prize.  That's it.  Of course, Dylan wanted to spent all her money there, but this year was about learning lessons, so we moved on.  The Dart at Balloon lady wanted Dylan to give her $5 to toss a couple of darts.  I tried to explain that that seemed a little high for a little girl who was more likely to stick the dart in her toe than pop a balloon, but she wouldn't budge on the price.  I let my "Board President" badge reflect in the sunlight but she couldn't see it through her red eyes, so we left.


We skipped any game that involved tossing heavy balls at even heavier milk bottles, or ones that the prize was a "Slippery When Wet" mirror, or any that required one to toss a basketball through a hoop that was smaller than the ball.  Then the fish caught her eye.  For a couple of bucks, Dylan got fifteen ping-pong balls and had to land one in a jar with a tiny mouth.  It's an impossible game unless you want to spent $40 on a goldfish that has a lifespan of twelve minutes.  Perfect.  Low investment, long play time, no worthless return, and a valuable lesson learned.  I was pretty smug until I heard the plunk of a ball landing in water.


So, we came home with two fish that didn't live to see the following weekend.  Dylan is now a carnival expert and Grady treats every car ride like he's back on the Go Gator (he unbuckles and stands up with his hands in the air).  Minus the cigarettes and poor dental hygiene, Regina and I are like the carnies.  We make sure they stay safe, we buckle them in, and we give them crappy prizes when they do something good.  And 2012 is now officially the Year of the Fish.

Five Days of Fair

The carnies have snubbed out their last cigarettes, the corndog grease has been carefully preserved for next year, and the chicken poop has been hosed out of the poultry barn -- the fair must be over.  Fair time is always a little bittersweet: kids never want it to end, but, like holiday weekends in Amsterdam, if it lasted just one more day they'd probably end up in a gutter.  On Saturday, I explained to Dylan that there was only one more day left of the fair.  I should have kept my trap shut because it led to a twenty minute conversation on why we can't go to the fair every day of the year.  The Amsterdam analogy didn't work so well on her either.

This year, we were fair-heros, at least to Dylan and Grady.  We took them every day.  We learned that Grady loves sprint cars, but hates the earplugs we made him wear.  This made for him being happy-sad-happy-sad at fifteen second intervals.  The cars would scream past us and he'd smile, but when they hit the back stretch he couldn't see them so he'd yank his ear plugs off and start to cry until they zoomed past again.  Smile, cry, smile, fuss.  Over and over.  It was even exhausting for the strangers who sat near us.

Dylan got to sit front and center for the rodeo and, we thought, had the time of her life.  Then Lefty the Rodeo Clown didn't throw her a trick rope and she missed her chance at getting a free t-shirt and suddenly the rodeo wasn't fun anymore.  She told my sister the reasons as she counted them off on her fingers.  "One, I didn't get a yellow rope.  Two, I didn't get to throw the ball.  Three, I didn't get a t-shirt, and, four, I didn't get a blue rope."  She changed her tune when grandma gave her five bucks to buy the clown's "special trick rope" (four feet of cheap rope with a bead on the end), and now she wants to be a rodeo queen again.  Although, she still won't Mutton Bust (to my relief).  We asked her if she'd like to ride a sheep.  "No," she replied, "I'll just ride a bus."  Good enough.

Grady's at the awkward age and height where he can't go on too many carnival rides.  By "too many" I mean he can't go on anything but the little train.  While it was the only ride he could go on, it was the only ride I couldn't (too many corndogs in my belly), so we had to recruit friends, family, or random passersby to escort him.  Dylan went on all sortsakinda rides (her words), and couldn't get enough of the Fun House, until she fell on her butt and had to be carried out.  I was pleased that our spin on the Dizzy Dragons didn't make her as nauseous as it made me.

On the fair's last day, we packed in as many rides, fried foods, walks through the livestock barns, Smokey Bear hugs, and shaved ices as we could.  And it worked.  Grady fell asleep in his stroller (which he never does), and Dylan didn't protest at all when we told her it was time to go.  We have spent the last two days getting the fair out of their systems.  Fried fair food is fun to eat, and even more fun when it's released as a gas.  Dylan and Grady's farts would knock a buzzard off a meat wagon.  But, if that's the worst result from five days of debauchery, then we're doing alright.  It's sure cheaper then sending them to Amsterdam for the weekend.

Siskiyou Golden Goodness

I can't believe this year's fair is already over.  I still have corndog catsup stains on all my good shirts, and Dylan is reeling from the shaved-ice sugar implosion that she mainlined every day she went.  Grady even joined the fun and had his first corndog ... although that may have been a bit too much for him, considering the two days of diaper-bursting doo-doo we suffered through.  He was a brave little cowboy, though, and didn't complain a bit that he had to miss the diaper derby.

Regina and I have our fun, too.  Not back-in-the-day, stay out late and sleep in the back of a pickup fun, but, instead, responsible parents of two, home by ten fun.  But Dylan, a few inches taller than last year, was privy to an entirely new set of rides, and, consequently, a whole new realm of fun.  I'd always thought she was brave, but she really tested her mettle at the carnival.  We'd hit the super-slides, then run to the Dizzy Dragons, slow down a bit with a spin on the carousel horses, two more slide trips, grab a big kid for a bone-crushing ride on the Bumper Cars, then hop over to the Dragon Roller-Coaster.  She was riding the latter one hot afternoon with her friend Zeppy.  I ran to the truck to grab some water and when I returned I noticed the operator had stopped the ride to tell Dylan something.  I asked Sean, Zeppy's dad, what was up and he told me that Dylan had been standing on the ride.  I cringed.  Sure enough, the dragons took off and as soon as the tail hit the corner, Dylan popped up in her seat.  She looked like those crazies who stand on the wings of airplanes: forward lean, hair blowing in the wind, eyes squinting.

Zeppy wanted in on the daredevil action, so he tried a barrel-roll on the super-slide.  The skreeeeech of skin on hot slide sent shivers down my spine and he wound up with blistered fingers for his cool trick.

Regina and I sing, to Dylan, the only line we know from the late '80s rap song by L'Trimm: "We like the cars, the cars that go boom."  It's an awful song, but Dylan likes the line and has fun playing with the lyrics.  "I like, I like, the kitties in the room."  "I like, I like, the bucks that go boom."  And so on.  This is mostly irrelevant, except it helps explain Dylan's favorite ride in the carnival.  I don't even know the name, we just called it, "The Cars That Go Boom."  It was a pretty simple ride: colorful cars going around in a circle, except they had crazy hydraulics that made them bounce like Dr. Dre's Impala.

Once Dylan got on, it was hard, even for the hardened carnies, to get her off.  Once, after her second-straight ride, she hopped down, grabbed a giant stuffed monkey from the carnie's stash of giant stuffed monkeys, and climbed back in the cars.  She buckled in her monkey and took off, talking to the monkey for the entire ride like they were out for a Sunday drive in their hooptie.

After five straight days (with a few two-a-days thrown in), we'd done all we could do at the fair.  There were a few rides that Dylan was just a few inches too short for this year, and Grady's belly ought to be corndog-ready by next August, so we have plenty to look forward to.  We'll be there, in our shaved-ice stained shirts, riding in the cars, the cars that go boom.