FROM THE Editor’s Desk

I haven’t been to the Minnesota State Fair in at least 15 years, because frankly, with a family of six we can’t afford it. Someday I hope we can all go, but I’ll have to save up or take out a small loan. It used to be an annual tradition when I was growing up. Before prices became exorbitantly high, my mom and grandma took me every year. It’s a cherished memory that comes to mind as the start of school looms and the sumac turns red.

As a child, the acres and acres of buildings, booths and attractions was like a magical wonderland. Always early risers, my grandma and mom would drag me out of bed at about 5 a.m. and we would be at the fair gates by 6 a.m. They liked to beat the crowds and start the day early when it was cooler, which now makes sense, but back then I didn’t see the logic of getting up at dawn.

Our first stop was always breakfast at the Epiphany Diner, which has since closed. We filed in and went down the line gathering French toast, sausage, and juice. I could never fathom why my grandmother ate oatmeal at the fair. She ate that every day at home. Breakfast always woke me up and soon I was bouncing around raring to go. I wanted to go on the rides, but that usually had to wait while Mom and Grandma went around to their favorite displays.

I always groaned inwardly when we started our trek through Machinery Hill. Growing up on farms, both Mom and Grandma enjoyed marveling over the state-of-the-art tractors and carefully remembered details to tell Grandpa later. Grandpa was a homebody and despised crowds, so he stayed away from the fair. I didn’t care about the difference between an Allis Chalmers and a Minnesota Moline. I just wanted to go to the Midway.

My craving for thrill-seeking rides was satiated for a while by trips down the Giant Slide or through the cheesy Ye Olde Mill “tunnel of love.” I loved gliding through the dark tunnels to see the old-fashioned scenes of dwarves and other characters pop out of the dark. The Gondola ride was always a must, one that even Grandma went on. We glided through the treetops, looking down on people’s heads, who looked like thousands of ants moving in waves through the fair streets. The year my best friends Derek and Meghan went with us was an eventful adventure. I don’t think Grandma went that year, but I’ll never forget what my poor mother went through.

My mother has always delight ed in all things horror, so she felt we were old enough to finally go in the iconic Haunted House. I couldn’t wait. I had wanted to go in it for so long, but my mom would never let me. She said I’d get too scared, but I was sure she was mistaken. Mothers are wise. As we walked up to the big white house, screams emanated from within and fog swirled eerily out the windows. The moment I had been waiting for was upon us.

As we trooped into the gloom, I put on a brave face. I think I was around 10 or 11. Meghan huddled behind me and we all followed Mom single-file. We made it through the first floor relatively unscathed, although my throat was sore from screaming. I think Derek has a bruise or two from us running away from ghouls and knocking him into the walls.

Ghosts and goblins and bloody figures lurked in the shadows; walking by them was terrifying. My bravery soon dried up like a raindrop on the desert floor. By the time we reached the second floor, I’d lost circulation in my hand due to Meghan squeezing it. One figure reached out and grabbed my arm and I just lost it. I screamed like I’d never screamed before, accidentally shoved my mother in my haste to get away, which caused her to bonk her head and almost lose her glasses. We caused such a ruck us that an attendant kindly ushered us out onto a fire escape, banished from the house of horrors.

I hung my head and looked up at my mother through tear-laced eyelashes once we reached the bottom of the rusty stairway. “Never again!” she said. I was surprised her ear drums hadn’t been shattered, but clearly her patience had. I guess she was right; we weren’t ready. But in my defense, I didn’t think the people were supposed to grab anyone. “Never. Again,” she reiterated. “But maybe you should consider entering the screaming contest, because you’d win by a mile.”

My ego soothed and the terror fading, we happily went on our way to find something on a stick to eat. Oh, the memories. Someday, I’ll get back there and I will conquer the evil haunted house.