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Holy hell, it's Canfield Fair weekend.
If you grew up around here, those words alone probably unlocked a flood of memories. Funny thing is, we all experienced the fair differently. Heck, even the same person experiences it differently depending on the stage of life they're in.
As a little girl, the Canfield Fair was pure magic.
It was the animals that somehow smelled both terrible and wonderful at the same time. It was pony rides that made me feel like I was in a parade. It was cotton candy that disappeared before you even realized you'd eaten it. Candy apples -- which, for the record, I still don't like. It was endless rows of food vendors, balloon-popping games, water guns, flashing lights and prizes that looked much bigger hanging on the wall than they did once you actually won them.
Some of my favorite memories are of my uncles trying their hardest to win me those oversized stuffed animals. Looking back, I'm pretty sure they were more determined than I was. Whether they walked away victorious or not didn't really matter. We laughed, we wandered and I thought they could accomplish just about anything. Well…almost anything.
There was that one small exception known as the Ferris wheel.
I don't remember exactly how old I was, but I remember absolute panic setting in somewhere near the top. To this day, I maintain they had to stop the ride to let me off because I was having such a spectacular meltdown. If that story has grown slightly with age, my family will happily correct me.
What's funny is that decades later, I still convince myself every few years that maybe this time I'll enjoy rides. Spoiler alert: I do not.
Apparently some things never change. Speaking of things that haven't changed…
Can we talk about that row?
You know the one.
The showcases with the Bearded Lady, the Wolf Man, and every other mysterious attraction that promised something "unbelievable" behind a curtain. As a little girl, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with that entire stretch of the fairgrounds. It scared me to death. I would practically hold my breath until we were safely past it.
Even now, as a grown woman, it gives me the heebie-jeebies -- and not in the fun, Halloween kind of way. I don't know why. Maybe it's the giant painted signs. Maybe it's the mystery. Maybe my childhood imagination just never let it go. Whatever it is, you'll still find me picking up the pace when I walk by.
Then came the teenage years.
The fair wasn't really about the rides anymore. It wasn't even about the food.
It was about walking.
Walking. More walking. Then circling back to walk some more.
You weren't necessarily going anywhere. You were simply there to be seen, to see everyone else, to catch up with classmates, maybe flirt a little and somehow spend six hours accomplishing absolutely nothing except wearing out your shoes.
And then came the nightly scavenger hunt known as, "Where in the world did we park the car?"
I swear finding your vehicle after dark should have counted as an Olympic event. It wasn't until I moved away and eventually came back years later that I finally developed a parking strategy I could actually remember.
Now I experience the fair through completely different eyes.
Watching my boys discover it has been one of the greatest parts of being a parent. Seeing their faces when they took their first bite of cotton candy. Introducing them to steak hoagies, fries drenched in vinegar, and making sure they understood the importance of an elephant ear before we even thought about leaving the grounds.
Some traditions simply matter.
Of course, adulthood also comes with something childhood conveniently ignored -- math.
Somewhere between admission, parking, food, games and a few treats, you realize you've somehow spent enough money to question every financial decision you've made that week.
I don't say that to complain. The fair is an incredible event, and I know what it takes to pull off something that brings hundreds of thousands of people together year after year. That's no small feat. I just find myself laughing at how differently I experience it now.
As kids, we counted memories.
As adults, we count receipts.
But here's the thing.
By the time I leave each year, I rarely remember what I spent.
I remember bumping into people I haven't seen in years. I remember conversations that started with, "Oh my gosh…is that really you?" I remember laughing until my stomach hurt. I remember sticky fingers, tired feet, familiar smells, and hearing someone yell my name from 20 feet away.
The fair has changed.
I've changed.
But somehow, every Labor Day weekend, we all gather in the same place carrying decades of memories while unknowingly making new ones.
And maybe that's been the real attraction all along.
Mother, author, entrepreneur and founder of Dandelion-Inc, Lisa Resnick wants to hear your story. Share memories with her by emailing lisa@dandelion-inc.com.