1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: STATE FAIR OF TEXAS

 Big Tex, a 52 foot tall cowboy dressed in Dickies blue jeans, a red  shirt ,  a gigantic cowboy hat, and bright red boots,  always greeted us in the best Texas fashion when we skipped through the gates at the State Fair of Texas in Dallas.  We anticipated  the daytrip, a yearly tradition, as soon as the leaves started to change from green to yellow and red in the fall.

"Howdy folks" he'd boom in his lilting baritone, smiling down benignly on us as we hurried into the fairgrounds.

"Welcome to the State Fair of Texas. Have a gooood day." His voice followed us even as we three girls zipped past, trying to get out of range of his all-seeing eyes.

"He started out as a papier mache Santa Claus made in Kerens, Texas," my mother told me one October day as I ran past him, fearing he'd topple over.

"Then he became Big Tex," she finished, her long strides allowing her to catch up with me, "so he gets a lot more exposure this way. Besides, it's too hot in Texas at Christmas to wear that Santa suit all of December. This is definitely better for him." The way she talked about him, you'd think he was her kid brother.

My dad liked to tell about the time he took my mother to the fair for the Centennial Celebration in 1936, sometimes known as the first world's fair south of the Mason-Dixon line, and  she nearly got arrested for picking a flower from the large landscaping display at the entrance, even though my dad warned her sternly not to. She loved beautiful plants and wanted to take just one petaled flower so she could figure out what it was and buy the species to grow for herself. "What will it hurt?", she argued with my dad., though they were newly dating.

 They had met at the Knights of Columbus Hall in Ennis, her hometown, where his band was playing at a dance she attended.  She had been home for the weekend from Dallas, where she was living and working after graduating from high school. Because she loved to dance so much, and some Baptists apparently thought you shouldn't,  later, she'd tell us kids, "I'm a Baptist, but I've got a Methodist foot."

The policeman who spotted her bending over and plucking the pretty bloom took it seriously, blew his whistle, stormed over, and gave her a withering tonguelashing. My dad turned away, suppressing a laugh, but Mother was properly chastised. The officer threatened to arrest her when she kept talking, trying to win him over to her way of thinking.

"Lady, if 50,000 people attend the Centennial today,and they each pick a flower from the displays, the fair would be bare of color and plants," he had snarled, turning on his heel, crushing the tiny bud under his substantial weight.

As soon as the policeman left, she sniffed, "Well, I don't know why he got so mad over one little flower." And she picked up the tiny petal, now lying crumpled forlornly on the pavement, and dropped it quickly into her purse.

My dad opened his mouth to respond, but she ignored him and was already walking quickly toward the Women's Building to see the crafts and clothing. He probably should have realized what a strong personality he would be up against, but he liked her energy and optimism, so it would not be long before he proposed.

We looked forward to the food at the fair,  and as was always true, my dad put no restraints on us.  Just about anything we wanted to eat, he'd buy with no complaint.  My mother didn't like our eating all that food.  "You'll founder," she said laughing, knowing we'd realize she was talking about what horses do if left alone with too much food, but we ignored her completely on this day and ate everything we wanted, or thought we wanted. 

There were perfectly fried corn dogs with mustard, beautiful red candied apples, rich brown carameled apples, pink cotton candy, multicolored and flavored salt water taffy (we always talked Daddy into buying several boxes to bring home with us), fried chicken, hot dogs,  and other enticing treats.  We ate, rode wild, spinning rides, then ate some more. 

We must have had stomachs made of castiron, for we never got sick like some people who hurled their recently consumed treats upon other patrons of the rides and those below on the midway.  The most spectacular examples of this were often those on the top of the huge ferris wheel who were unable to wait to be sick until their car made the gentle ride down to the asphalt below.  They could be seen,  heads hanging over the side of the car, while unsuspecting fair attendees below wandered aimlessly, unaware that their day was about to be ruined.

Once, while riding between Susan and I on the Octopus,  a spinning ride with seats at the end of extended metal arms that resembled the sea animal, Jan decided she wanted off, and each time we passed the man operating the machine, she yelled "Stop right now.  I want off!!"  She wasn't sick, she just thought it was going too fast.  The man looked at her like she was invisible, and he certainly made no move to stop the machine.  It spun and rotated madly, pressing us hard against the side of the car and each other. 

"Get off me!!" I yelled at both of them like they could help it,  as the centrifugal force pressed us all against one side.

Susan and I alternately laughed and gritted our teeth,  hoping just like Jan that the ride would stop, but too controlled to scream out or show our abject fear.

"Why didn't you stop?" Jan whimpered quietly in the operator's direction as we exited the ride. 

He glanced at her, a cigarette drooping loosely from the side of his mouth, the tattoes covering his arms and chest visible around the boatnecked sleeveless undershirt he wore.  My dad wore the same kind, but much cleaner.  We were scared to look at his tattoes too much, with too much interest, though we wanted to read them.  They made him look hard and dangerous.  We ducked our heads, glad to be off the ride.  Taking up our concerns that he didn't stop the ride soon enough, somehow didn't seem quite so important now that we were on solid ground.

"Let's go to the 4-H Styleshow," Susan suggested.

Jan and I agreed, but only on the condition that we not stay very long, and that she go with us to the showbarns to see the animals afterward.  She reluctantly agreed.  Those smelly barns were not her idea of a good time, as watching the style show was not mine. 

"I pledge my head to clearer thinking," I began, mimicking repetition of one part of the 4-H pledge. 

"That's not possible," she said, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. 

Sometimes on the Midway, you had to hold hands, and push hard to stay with each other because of the crowds.  There were always carneys trying to get you to come in and see the smallest woman in the world, or the bearded lady, or the blue man.  It was always tempting, but there was a lady in Purdon who had a pretty advanced beard, and we didn't even have to pay to see her.  Besides, that wasn't too appetizing, and we were focusing on eating, trying our best to "founder".  I wondered if my toenails would come off like I heard horses' hooves did after they overate. 

We managed to push our way until the path cleared a little going toward the 4-H Styleshow.  We walked into the cavernous building and seated ourselves on the metal bleachers up about six rows.  We could easily see the young girls enter, model their sewn creations, and hear the moderator's dull comments.  Most people sat at attention, but you could tell they were bored lifeless.  I thought we could have done a better job of announcing, creating a little excitement. 

"See, here is Jodie in her summer sundress, all ready for vacation," the moderator intoned dully.

"See, here is Jodie," I whispered,  leaning against Susan, "all ready to prance around in front of the boys showing off her..."  Susan gouged my leg hard with her sharp nails. 

"I just thought I could liven it up a little," I pouted, already bored beyond my capacity to tolerate. 

The girls entered in denim jackets, pink seersucker shortsets, frilly blouses, cotton plaid dresses in pastel colors, and dressy organza Sunday school dresses that must have taken hours to make.  I wished the emcee would tell how many times each girl had to rip out the side or shoulder seams, and how many fights she and her mother had before she got the zipper in right.  They should also really tell if the mother or someone else actually put in the zipper rather than the girl modeling the clothing.  That would have disqualified them though, so it was sort of like scout's honor, only it was 4-H honor , that the kids were supposed to do the work themselves. 

Susan had gotten a red ribbon for the dress she entered in the Navarro County 4-H Styleshow, but she didn't advance to state.  She did a good job of modeling at the local contest, coming to the front of the stage, hesitating, and turning around and walking back like a queen.  I don't know who went on to state from Navarro County, but I would bet it was some girl whose mother stood over her for months and made her redo every seam and zipper three or four times.  

Susan made several  items for styleshows,  but I never did.  My shoulders started aching as soon as I sat down at the machine.  And I could just as well have stood on my head, which I loved to do, and looked at the pattern upside down and made more sense of it than looking at it head on.  Mother made so many things for us:  dance recital costumes, school clothes, evening gowns for Neila - that I thought I should want  to do it too.  But it just wasn't in my genes.

 I got the "no-sew" genes, probably from both my grandmothers.  My paternal grandmother had a treadle machine, but if she ever used it, it was long before my birth.  It sat abandoned in her back bedroom, but it made a great diversionary toy.  We could get that treadle going fast by pumping it with our foot.  She didn't like for us to do it and would stop us if she heard or saw us because, as she put it, " It's  a good way to get a finger mashed  off."  And my mother's mother, well, the only domestic thing I ever saw her do was fold a handkerchief that she had in her lap.

The girls modeling the summer clothes wore white patent leather shoes or tennis shoes.  Some of the girls showing school clothes wore penny loafers with white bobby socks. Just about all of them wore frozen smiles as well, making me wonder if anyone really wanted to be there. 

"Let's go," I poked Susan in the side with my index finger.  She shoved the digit away and heaved a loud sigh. 

Three or four more girls walked across the stage, turned on their heel, and sauntered toward the back of the stage where the curtain swallowed them.  I wished it would swallow the monotone announcer.  Where did they get her anyway--behind the textile factory?

"Ok," Susan whispered.  "Let's go on three....1,2.3...." and she rose and walked demurely down the steps and out the door of the Women's Building, toes pointed, head held high like she herself was modeling.  I limped along behind her,  pulling Jan, who was still trying to eat a sticky red candy apple that had left pieces on her face and hands.

"We need to meet up with Mother and Daddy at the livestock barn," I reminded her. 

"I hate that smelly place," she said.  "I'll wait out here for you."

"Okay, but we might be in there a while," I warned her.  "We want to look at the cows."

She made a show of rolling her eyes.  Jan and I traipsed inside and found Mother and Daddy admiring a hereford bull, the kind of bulls they had at Corbet.  I loved their squat red bodies and white trim.  They seemed kind, not like Brahama and other types of mean cattle who looked like they would rather butt you than walk past you.  I was never scared of the Herefords, even the bulls, with their long, wide horns.  You could shoo them away if they got too close in the pasture.   They might give a little snort, but they'd amble away, like they were humoring you.

Jan somehow got some hay stuck to the red sticky stuff on her face, and it looked ghastly, so Mother took out a tissue, spit daintily on it, and rubbed her face hard until she got most of it off, leaving just red streaks in several spots. 

I'd begged to raise a lamb to show in the livestock exposition for 4-H, but my dad steadfastly refused, saying that the wolves would get it.  "You'll get tired of feeding it," he had said, but Jan and I had fed his dogs for years.  And they weren't even cute, like lambs.   "You won't want to sell it at the end of the year," he went on.  I didn't oppose him on that idea, knowing it was probably the truth.  Anyway, I gave the lamb raising idea up once I saw that he wasn't going to give   He knew how attached I got to animals, and he probably knew it would break my heart for my lamb to be sold, possibly for slaughter.

Our parents were soon ready to leave the livestock barn, and we picked Susan up outside the door, making our way down the crowded midway, pushing past the carnival barkers, the enticing games you could never win, the brightly lit food stands and the trailers with their garish lettering that housed all those people with various oddities.

I really never liked to go in there much, though once we did, to look at the headless lady.  Actually, we looked at her head, so she wasn't headless.  We looked down on her, and her head seemed to be sitting on a board, a small hole surrounding her neck.  She insisted on greeting everyone and trying to make conversation which made me feel very uncomfortable.  We spent approximately 30 seconds in there, so at the rate people were parading across the little platform in front of her head, I figured, she should be rich, judging by the cost of the tickets.

 I felt ashamed to stare at the human oddballs, and I felt sorry for them.  It didn't seem like much of a life, but I thought maybe they got to ride the rides for free when no one was around.  That was at least some consolation.  Maybe they could have some fun with the other carneys.  And  I mollified myself by thinking that  maybe they got to eat salt water taffy and cotton candy any time they wanted.  How bad could a life like that be?















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