Notes from a messy desk…
Some people call it the fair, others the exhibition. Either way, it’s been part of summer in Prince Albert for over a century. The fun kicks off with the parade on the first day and finishes with fireworks on the last.
My first taste of the “P.A. Ex” came via my older sisters. They returned from the fair bearing gifts for my little sister and me, in the form of celluloid kewpie dolls suspended from shepherd’s hook bamboo canes, and blow-up plastic “babies” called hug-a-bugs, with arms and legs designed to curl around your own and stay there. And oh yes, candied apples – yum!
At some point we got old enough to accompany said sisters to the grounds. Way to widen our world! Those kiddie rides! Imagine captaining a little boat in 2 or 3 feet of water, complete with your own steering wheel (an ineffective one, but who cared?) Or riding a real live pony! The poor creatures obediently paced in a circle, bearing excited little cowpokes holding on with all their might to the saddle horns.
In time, we were allowed to attend the fair with a group of friends. Parental instructions were clear: stick together, hang on to your wallets, and go on the rides before eating, not after. Of course we all followed these rules religiously, so nobody lost any cash, wandered off, or threw up on a ride, right?
Every year the exhibition held new surprises. Like the thrill of actually winning a stuffed animal because it turned out you were a crack shot at water pistols. Or proving stronger than you looked when wielding an enormous hammer to slam a big button that rang a bell. Prize, please!
A less pleasant surprise was discovering which end of 3-kids-in-a-Scrambler-seat guaranteed you’d be squished with every round. Oof! And who knew your Tilt-a-Whirl cage spun faster than most because of that one friend pressing down on the metal bar that locked you in the seat? Gak. At least nobody had eaten yet.
Why did nobody warn you that the ferris wheel is wa-a-y higher than it looks? Or mention how, when you reach the top, some sadistic operator slams on the brake, causing you to swing unnervingly under the open sky like your father’s longjohns on the clothes line, for far too long an interval? The words “don’t look down” pop into your mind right after you’ve done exactly that. Gulp.
By the time you’ve perused the vendors in the Armoury, devoured a hot dog and corn-on-the-cob in that shelter with the sawdust floor, watched an apron clad lady spin pink cotton candy onto a cardboard cone, and indulged your spudnut loving friend with one last stop at the booth that sells them, you’re ready to be picked up at the appointed place by the appointed responsible adult; there being no such thing as a cellphone to summon one’s chauffeur.
Around your neck hangs a souvenir of a super day: one heart shaped aluminum pendant with your name engraved in scribbly cursive by an old guy with a beard and half-specs. And you remember that all of this is the reason you saved up your allowance and pop bottle money for the last 3 months. And will do the same again next year.
End
Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops.
Her column appears the first Friday of the month.
