About 1,100 words

ENDEARED MEMORIES OF THE MISSISSIPPI STATE FAIR

One day last fall my teenage son confidently announced that, this time, he was going to the Mississippi State Fair with his buddies and that he would be taking his car—if it was okay with his dad and me, of course. As he walked out of the house to rendezvous with his entourage, I was left to the usual solitude of den and recliner. It is during these times that the most poignant of memories flood my mind. Such is my recollection of the 1961 Mississippi State Fair:

I was but a seven-year-old, demure farm girl. The sixty-five mile, then arduous trek northward to the state’s capital was my family’s most anticipated and expensive outing of the year. I guess some of the wealthier landowners in the Deep South took island vacations back then, but if they did I certainly didn’t know about it since we didn’t know any wealthy landowners and, therefore, didn’t have the opportunity to socialize in such circles. Yep, the real “biggie” for us was the state fair.

Momma and daddy would awaken us at dawn on the day of our pilgrimage and it would be late morning by the time we reached Jackson. Seems as though the boxy old sedan had not settled to a complete stop before my brother and I were piling out and over each other, oftentimes toppling onto the grassy parking area adjoining the fairgrounds with shrieks of unspeakable joy. Even the October sunlight was somehow different there in Jackson—brighter, yet shyly feeling its way through the metropolitan haze that shrouded the entire area. A tattered audience of russet, crimson, and golden leaves greeted us on those autumnal mornings and scratched the air as if applauding with the occasional dry breezes. In symbiotic relationship, the breezes carried delectable odors of every kind of exotic and not so exotic fair cuisine. The smell of freshly mowed hay from the showbarn co-mingled with appetite inspiring odors of tangy, smoked barbecue; spicy pickle relish; and pungent onions. I felt right at home in this curious “barnyard-picnic” environment.

I sauntered down the asphalt midway that was spider-webbed with great, rubbery cables measuring about four inches in circumference. As far as my little eye could see, the expansive area teemed with fairgoers mesmerized by the kaleidoscopic colors of the thrill rides and amusements. To me it seemed as if the whole wide world had turned out for this wonderful event—and rightfully so!

After a long walk up the midway, a subtle yet distinctive aroma tickled my nose—the invisible, air-borne fingers of a savory, “elastic” confection loved and dreaded by all attendees who wore dentures or partial plates. It was irresistible and it seductively beckoned me closer. I found myself—mouth already watering—allured to Malone’s State Fair Taffy stand. With rapt attention I observed two rotund, yet muscular women yanking, stretching, and wrestling with the increasingly bleaching candy. I knew it was a battle that they were destined to lose for the semblance was too much like that of Brer Rabbit and Tarbaby. Intrigued with the prospect of a good fight though, I squeezed my tiny hand into my stiff, severely starched, blue-jean pants pocket. (In those days a momma’s domestic ability was judged to be proportional to the amount of starch she used and momma’s finished pieces would stand alone for three days.) In spite of the difficulty, I retrieved a gleaming quarter from the pocket and proudly placed it into the tanned, calloused hand of an aproned old man whose furrowed face of wrinkles and creases indicated he had been peddling taffy for a hundred years or more. A faint smile briefly crossed his face as he handed me a hospital-white bag filled with hospital-white, “Rock of Gibraltar” candy. Tightly wrapped in translucent, waxy-feeling paper and neatly twisted on each end, the candy did not appear to be a formidable foe.

Aware of awakening a sleeping giant, I cautiously eased a singular piece onto my moist, unsuspecting tongue. Pursing my lips, I realized in a few short seconds that a drooling mouth is a set-up for taffy and is all that is necessary for it to mutate, become ornery and double in size. The indomitable, sinewy stuff seemed to have a mind of its own and first targeted my teeth. Thankfully, I was not one of its elder victims whose mouth had been pathetically ill equipped to handle the assault. My youthful vigor and dental health allowed me to contain the aggressor with ninety-mile-an-hour mastication. The substance soon retreated into the consistency and texture of smooth peanut butter, and my mouth relished the ebbing taste of truly sweet victory.

As the day wore on, the breezes would inevitably become cooler and feistier, nipping at my short-sleeved arms and whipping my board-straight, brown hair into my face with repeated and resounding stings. The wind had been the unwitting conveyance of delightful calliope music. I skipped along like a clone of Alice in Wonderland toward the music’s direction until the enchanting opus grew in strength, gracefully establishing preeminence over the strained, raspy outcries of “barkers” hawking items from their makeshift “stores.” Others, too, had been wooed to its fanciful tune that day for the carousel contained riders of all ages.

Exquisite, hand-painted images of ponies in a rainbow of deft strokes of color gently glided up and down while toddlers clung to the silvery, cold poles with a life-or-death, vise grip. Older riders confidently waved or ate pink, puffy clouds of cotton candy as the carousel lumbered along on its redundant, yet joyful journey.

The captivating music had emanated from the center of the merry-go-round which was solidly encased round about with ornate, gothic mirrors intricately edged with elegant, gold leafing. It was a reflective pool, that lovely mirror, and as I peered into it so very long ago, the world of the carousel and the fair seemed to extend endlessly in my young mind.

But that was back then and, well, now is now. Nothing, they say, is for certain except death and taxes. However, I was forced to rethink that famous platitude and compelled to edit it somewhat when Aaron returned from his day’s excursion into the wonderful world of fairdom.

“Hey, Mom?” he queried with an easily discernible, sheepish grin on his face. “Want some Malone’s State Fair Taffy?”

“Ahhh…death, taxes, and Malone’s State Fair Taffy,” I muttered under my breath as I reached for a piece of the addictive candy.

“What’d you say, Mom?”

“Nothing, son, at least nothing that you’ll understand for a very long time. By the way…did you happen to ride the carousel?”