"There is nothing hip or cool about the Minnesota State Fair," Garrison told us between his trademark whistled "ssss" into the microphone. It is true, we Fair lovers are uncool. We don fanny packs, comfortable shoes, and chubby tummies. We juggle fried food eaten from sticks while maneuvering our way through crowded barns and the Midway. We snap our fingers when Bluegrass comes a-calling at one of the free stages.
As the world outside changes the State Fair does its best to keep up with trends. They remodel and update, add foods and attractions. Sure we admire the modern Heritage Center and eventually some food gimmicks (cheese curds, anyone?) become staples.
But we non-hip folks don't come for the new stuff. The real draw for us is tradition.
We come to eat a corn dog and gawk at the animals. We come for the Skyride and Ye Old Mill. We march up Machinery Hill and recall when the place with littered with tractors and farmers. We drink cold overpriced beer as though it is manna from heaven, because it is. Kids still beg parents to ride the Ferris wheel just one more time. Teens still flirt at the Fresh French Fries stand. Fallen cookies still litter the sidewalks around Sweet Martha's and there is always someone who "doesn't look so good" at the All You Can Drink Milk stand.
The Minnesota State Fair is our tradition. We count on it to return at the end of every Minnesota summer. We need its familiarity to prepare us for what is to come: autumn's harvest and, yes, winter's chill. Soon enough we'll be raking fall leaves and shoveling driveways and ringing in 2015. But for twelve glorious days every year time slows down and we are reminded of all we are grateful for in this beautiful state of ours.
Today we took our final stroll through the 2014 Minnesota State Fair. We hit the Fine Arts Building one more time and made sure we'd seen everything we could in the Bazaar, the hort building, and Midway. T had a footlong and a corn dog and we decided the lines for Lobster on a Stick and Fried Pickles were too long. We shared the Deep-Fried Buckeyes (goopy gooey peanut butter lumps skewered on a stick, coated in chocolate and batter, then deep fried and handed over to the sap who shelled out $6 for the thing). Our group was split on whether these newfangled Buckeyes are winners or if they'd be better off in Ohio.
And then as if to nudge me back to reality one of my beloved orange sandals broke. I knew our time together was growing short. Like summer and the Fair, the sassy orange stappies weren't long for the world. They probably should have been retired years ago but I insisted they had one more summer, one more mile, left Some spry young studs at the cotton candy stand donated a few inches of duct tape and my sandals took their final steps before dying doing what they loved best: walking the Fairgrounds. Someone suggested I spread the ashes on Dan Patch Avenue.
Now all that's left to us are memories, and hope that next year we shall return to the Fairgrounds as we always do. Next year we'll still be terribly uncool, sporting neato fanny packs filled with the essentials (Tums, floss, and cash). We will return to admire the Butterheads and the artwork of some amazing school kids. We will be in awe over our 4Hers and celebrate our rural past. We will sit in the Grandstand loudly singing along with Garrison Keillor and we will be filled with Minnesota pride when the fireworks go off. Until then we shall overflow with nostalgia and ache for the traditions that draw us back year after wonderful year.