This isn't one of The Enquirer's gallery images;
it's a photo of my grandfather, Johnny Applegate,
on the old Carthage track.
Cincinnati.com has a glorious photo gallery of images from past Carthage Fairs. Some images are as recent as the 1980s, while others appear to go back to the '30s or '40s, with everything in between. Not only do these images show what the old fair used to look like physically, including the grounds before they were diminished by Cross-County (now Ronald Reagan) Highway construction; they show how popular the fair was, and the kind of enthusiasm shared by crowds in the multitudes. There are several good shots of the old grandstand as well as vintage midway rides and attractions.
Back in the 1980s, I had all of my mother's 8mm home movies converted to video cassettes as a birthday gift. The old films, dating back to the late '50s, frequently broke when we tried to watch them. Later my sister transferred the videos to DVDs, so what I'm posting here is a couple generations beyond the original film. I couldn't figure out how to extract the film images from the DVD, so I captured the movie playing on my computer screen and worked with that. Obviously, it's pretty rough.
These scene of Carthage Fairgrounds are the first film my mother ever shot with her new movie camera. The little girl in the hat and coat is me; I've put the year as 1958 on the title, but Mom may wind up correcting me on that. If that's the year, I was four and my brother was two. Grandpa's in the movie, doing all the hard work with the horse, and my dad appears briefly helping lead the horse onto the track (he's the skinny one in the blue shirt and cap).
The horse, oddly enough, is named Nancy Breen. I came first, but the story goes that when Grandpa heard his first grandchild's name, he said, "That would be a good name for a horse." When my parents became part owners of the horse in this movie, the poor animal got my name.
Nancy Breen didn't do well as a racehorse. Years later we visited her in a corral somewhere in Clermont County. I believe she was sold to the Amish eventually, although I'd have to confirm that.
Besides the family history, what I treasure about this snippet of film is the view it offers of Carthage Fairgrounds back in the day. Seeing the grounds today, it's hard to imagine what a lush place it was, full of trees and whitewashed fences and barns. It was beginning to show its age, as you can tell if you look at the barns, especially the roofs. Last time I was at the fairgrounds, just one of these old barns was still standing. The cars visible through the trees behind the barns are driving on Vine Street. Cars going to the right are headed toward Galbraith Road in Hartwell; cars going to the left are headed toward Paddock Road and I-75.
Grandpa's trophy tray
from one of the last harness races
ever held at Carthage Fair.
That first morning at the 1969 Carthage Fair, I waited in a fever of anticipation for the exhibit buildings to open at 10 o'clock. Deep down I knew my entries hadn't won anything, but I was enough of a resolute optimist about such things to believe I might have won. The premium list had said the judging would take place that morning, and I believed it. I thought I might actually be able to stand on the sidelines and see the judges look over the entries and award ribbons, like a scene from "State Fair."
What I didn't know was, despite the claim in the premium list, judging had taken place the day before. Ribbons were already tied to the winning entries when at last I entered the arts and crafts building. Of course, there were no ribbons tied to my wall hanging or the rug. My first reaction was intense disappointment, and I gazed awash in resentment, picking holes in the merits of the winners. ("Well, of course, THAT picture won, it has a frame. That rug won just because it's bigger.")
I probably called Mom from the fairgrounds to give her the results. I remember sympathy and a lack of "I told you so." That day and throughout the fair, I drifted back to the needlework and crafts to stare at my entries; I also began to study the other competitors' work. It was my first exercise in reviewing the competition in a contest and making mental notes of what was better about the winning work compared to mine.
I also drifted around the fairgrounds watching other competitions. I enjoyed seeing the 4-H judgings of horseback riding and cattle showing. I gazed at the awarding of ribbons--big rosettes even for fourth and fifth place--with mixed longing and vicarious pleasure.
At lunch that first day, Grandpa waved off my failure. "Nahhh, you can't win at that fair," Grandpa declared in his cigarette-scoured voice. "Those same old women enter every year. The judges always give them the ribbons." One of Grandpa's younger cronies joined us for lunch the next day, and he agreed that nobody but "those same old women" won ribbons for things like needlework. I had wished I could be comforted by their rationalizations, but it was disconcerting to hear that fate determined county fair winners before a single sampler or afghan had been entered. Also, I didn't believe for a minute it was true.
When other members of the family attended the fair later that week, they tramped up to the arts and crafts building to ooh and ahh over my entries, even though they'd watched me work on them for weeks. They also loyally sniped at the ribbon-winners. I appreciated their support, but I'd already turned inward to examine my defeat and plan my attempt for next year's fair. My disappointment and my ribbon envy had turned pragmatic. I wasn't about to throw in the towel after one fair.
On Saturday morning, Grandma brought me, my brothers, and my two cousins back to the fair. It was a rainy, gloomy day. When, again, we entered the arts and crafts building to look at my entries, now for the last time, I saw that a corner of my embroidered hanging had come loose. It had fallen across the front of the embroidery so you couldn't see the picture. (Since I hadn't provided any means for actually displaying the hanging, the resourceful workers had simply fastened it to a wall with folded masking tape.) It was the final losing image to carry with me throughout the ensuing year.
At the barn, though, when we stopped by to visit Grandpa, he said he had something for me. He brought out the trophy tray he'd won earlier that week, handed it to me, and said it was mine.
"Now, that's going to cause hard feelings with the other grandchildren," Grandma sniffed, but Grandpa said I was the one who had helped him all week. I deserved the tray. Grandma had told me that I was "sweetheart of the week" as far as Grandpa was concerned because of my interest in and participation with the horses every day.
August 9, 1969
The grand climax of this fair has been getting that silver tray. It means more to me than any piece of ribbon. Having Grandpa saying he's giving it to me because I helped with the horse, and knowing I helped almost makes it like I kind of really won it for Huckleberry Boy (Hound Dog). It's now my most prized possession. I've made a vow to myself that if there were ever a depression or something of the sort ever happened that we'd sell everything but our necessities, I'd gladly sell everything in my room, but one thing I'd cling onto is that tray. It's not that it's silver, and a trophy, but it'd represent Grandpa, Carthage Fair, anything I loved, and better times. I love it and every time I see it I'll remember this week.
I knew full well Grandpa didn't value the tray personally. He'd said he'd rather have a blanket. But he hadn't just tossed the tray over to me the day he won it; he'd obviously thought about it. He meant it as a reward. What I didn't know at the time (perhaps Grandpa did) was that we'd seen the final harness racing at Carthage Fair, forever. I'd never have another chance to experience the fair with Grandpa in that way again.
I still have the tray. I used to display it on the overhang in my apartment kitchen, along with some other county and state fair memorabilia. When I moved in with Mom, she added the tray to her fair collection and displays it with a museum's worth of items, including her own trophy bowls and tray for pie baking at the fair.
And always, whenever I see that tray, I think of that week in August of 1969.
I lied to myself in my journal, though. Not about the tray being my most prized possession, or how much Grandpa or the fair or anything else mattered to me. The lie was I did not feel as if I'd personally won that tray. It wasn't my prize. I hadn't won a thing. I absolutely had to win a ribbon of my own. And I had to wait an entire year before I could try again.
Image from a vintage souvenir pennant
from Carthage Fair.
From my journal that summer:
August 5, 1969 I still can't believe tomorrow is the big day. I'd better go to sleep, because I have to get up at five-thirty.
Somehow I wound up going to the fairgrounds with Grandpa first thing in the morning all three weekdays of the fair. I don't remember exactly how this came about. Possibly I'd been working myself into a frenzy about wanting to get over to the fair as early as possible to check on my entries. Mom, who was in the early weeks of her pregnancy with my sister, probably wanted to wait until afternoon or evening to attend the fair. I don't know if I asked Grandpa about going along, or if Grandma asked him, or if Grandpa came up with the plan himself. Maybe I was supposed to go along on the first day only; and when Grandpa saw my enthusiasm and cooperation, he invited me along all week.
August 6, 1969 There's positiviely nothing like Carthage Fair early in the morning.
It feels so nice and cool now you can't believe it's going to be hot this afternoon. Maybe it won't be. There's a cool breeze blowing.
It was just getting light when Grandpa drove us into the fairgrounds in his powder-blue pick-up truck. He had tasks to attend to immediately, especially feeding the horses. He also put food out for the crowd of cats that lived in and around the barn.
I had almost no experience with horses of any kind. Sometimes Grandpa had allowed me or my eldest younger brother to sweep, help carry buckets of water or wheel loads of manure to the manure pile when he was mucking out the stalls. I probably did these chores as well at some point that week. What I remember very well was rolling bandages on a contraption Grandpa had made out of an old manual can opener attached to the wall. You simply inserted the end of the bandage under a clip and turned the handle. The bandage rolled up in no time, then you slipped the roll off the spindle.
August 7, 1969 I enjoy walking that horse. You sort of get hypnotized because you look at the ground as you circle, and it looks weird.
What I enjoyed most, and what gave me the most thrilling sense of actually doing something, was walking the horses all by myself. Grandpa showed me how to hold the lead, how fast to walk, and when to stop and water the horse. He was fussy about his horses, and he could be short-tempered around the barn. However, he was very patient with me that week, and he trusted me enough to go off and let me handle the walking chore alone.
As the morning went on and Grandpa ran out of things for me to do, I was free to wander the fair. At lunchtime, Grandpa and I climbed into the truck and went to either the nearby Country Kitchen or a small old-fashioned restaurant on the main street in Carthage. I think I had liver and onions for the first time at the restaurant.
I don't think I stayed around the barn while Grandpa was preparing immediately before a race. It was always tense, and I knew I'd probably be in the way. I know I saw the races that week, but they kind of blend together when I look back. For at least one day's races, I watched with other members of my family. My grandmother may have brought my brothers and cousins, and Dad brought Mom.
I don't remember how many horses Grandpa raced that year or how he finished in all of them, but he did win at least one race. Each race took two heats to determine the winner. I was awestruck when Grandpa was presented with a big silver tray down on the track. Back at the barn, though, Grandpa wasn't that thrilled with his trophy. He said he preferred receiving blankets, huge, scratchy thick coverlets lettered with the name of the sponsor of the trophy for that race. Many times I'd watched him drive a horse back to the barns at various fairs, a new trophy blanket fluttering around the horse's legs.
On one or two days that year at Carthage, Grandpa's brother, my Uncle Frank Applegate, visited at the barn during the races. I recall him gazing at the silver tray, etched with the fair name, date, and the race. "That's really nice," he said with approval. No one seemed quite as impressed by the tray as I was, though.
August 8, 1969 When the Western horses come, they take over everything. Traffic, horse barns, racetrack, etc.
I'll take a harness horse over any other kind of horse any day.
If I can't get by on six dollars today I'm not doing so well. I have four from yesterday and Grandpa just gave me two for walking Huckleberry Boy yesterday.
I wonder why there was a cop in the back of the Country Kitchen?
I made a new friend in the past couple of days in the form of Ole Yeller the cat.
Late Friday afternoon, long after the races were finished and everything was in order around the barn, Grandpa took a walk up on the midway with me. He treated me to something new that year that we had both developed a taste for: the lemonade shake-up, a large cup of cut lemons, sugar, water, and ice shaken together like a cocktail. We sat at the base of one of the tall old trees on the hilltop. Grandpa didn't talk much, and I was comfortable with silence. Nearby the merry-go-round played--on a real mechanical organ, not recorded music--a tune I'd heard often that week. It sounded familiar, but I couldn't identify it. Later, in the fall, I heard the song on the radio. It was "The Old Lamplighter." The original recorded version sounded nothing like the calliope rendition, with its tinkling rhythm, heart-thumping drum and tinny cymbal, yet when I heard it, I got a lump in my throat. Forty-two years later, I can still hear the merry-go-round's playful echoes. I can taste the clear, tart lemonade and smell the smoke from Grandpa's cigarette.
The 2011 Hamilton County Fair takes place Tuesday through Saturday, August 9-13. That means the time is now if you want to make something to enter at the fair (I'm thinking food and small crafts for such a short period of time; however, if you've completed needlework in the past two years, you can enter those items as well).
Competing at the fair is fun, and winning a ribbon is kind of an Americana ritual that everyone should get to experience. The fair's website lists all of the competition categories, including needlework, crafts, flowers, animals, vegetables, and cooking and baking. Each category is linked to a page where you'll find all the details of when to bring your entries to the fairgrounds, the classes in each category (for instance, all the types of antiques you can enter), the prizes awarded, and when you can pick up your entries at the end of the fair.
For more, including information about the required exhibitor's ticket, go here.
I first entered the arts and crafts competitions at Carthage Fair in 1969. I was extremely excited. All my life we'd gone to a number of county fairs around the region to see Grandpa race, and I'd always gazed upon the exhibits, especially the 4-H displays, with envy. We didn't have 4-H, and I never realized that anyone could enter the regular competitions at the county fair.
My big discovery came one day when I was looking through a basket of horse magazines next to Grandpa's chair. What we referred to as "Grandma's house" (Grandpa wasn't there much during the summer because of the races) was just around the corner from our house in Oakley. That year Grandma still lived on Marburg Avenue, and we were in and out of the big house almost as often as our own.
Sometimes old kids' magazines or interesting horse equipment catalogs were mixed in with Grandpa's copies of Horseman and Fair World and The Harness Horse. That day I discovered the 1969 premium list for Carthage Fair. I started reading through the categories and the rules, and the light dawned: I could enter something at the fair. Never mind I wasn't proficient at anything. I studied the listings closer to figure out something I could make.
I was 15, and I'd done a little embroidery over the years. I'd learned some basic stitches from a small sampler kit I got for St. Nicholas when I was 12; and last Christmas I'd ironed some chicken transfers onto dishtowels and embroidered them as gifts for Grandma. I'd also learned basic crocheting when I was nine or ten. Mom had taught me how to start a round, increasing as I went so the piece wouldn't curl. I'd made some uncomplicated throw rugs using colorful, heavy yarn, although I had yet to follow a pattern.
I decided I could embroider a picture and crochet a throw rug for the fair. I asked Mom if I could do this, and she was wary. She was afraid I'd be disappointed by the experience. "You'd be competing against all those old ladies who enter every year," she said. I was stubborn, though. I got permission to take Grandpa's premium list for my own, took money out of my limited savings, and sent to the agricultural society for an exhibitor's ticket.
Looking back, I almost have to admire my potent combination of chutzpah and optimistic naivete. I forged ahead planning my entries.
For my embroidered picture, I dug out a scrap of some kind of heavy evenweave fabric; I think it was left over from the latest curtains Mom had made for the living room. I contrived a drawing of some of the Peanuts characters based on posters I had hanging in my bedroom. I had Linus holding a newspaper with the headline "Peace." Above and below I scrawled open letters spelling "Happiness...is getting along." (I'd become enamored of the You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown soundtrack over the winter.)
I filled in the characters and letters solidly with embroidery, either a close outline stitch or chain stitch, with outlines in black. I blistered my fingers trying to poke the needle through that dense embroidery to add details such as facial characteristics or lettering on the newspaper. My embroidery hoop was one we simply had lying around, and it was poor at holding my fabric tight while I worked. I finished the "wall hanging" by pulling threads to fringe the edges of the fabric around the embroidered image. I might have devised loops of embroidery floss for hanging, but I never even considered a frame.
The rug was easier. It was simply rounds of different colored rug yarn. It was probably less than a yard wide when finished, but it lay flat.
I worked steadily all summer and probably finished just before I was due to take the entries to the fairgrounds in early August. That established a pattern I followed for decades: Stitching my summers away, a little panicky that I might not finish my entries in time.
Mom drove me to the fairgrounds the Sunday before the fair opened so I could enter my embroidered wall hanging and crocheted rug. I'd fantasized all summer about impressing the judges with my handiwork and how wonderful I'd feel having finally won a ribbon of my own.
Later that day when I was talking to Grandma, she said, "You must have felt like you were leaving your babies behind." She also repeated the comment I'd heard so much: The same old ladies entered the same things every year and always won. Nobody believed I'd win. I did.
UPDATE: I was looking through my journal from summer, 1969, and discovered a quick sketch I'd made of the design for my embroidered wall hanging. It was "Shroeder" who held the newspaper. Charlie Brown and "Snoppy" are hugging on the left; on the right, Linus and Lucy are holding hands (I think).
I also came across the following journal entries about the fair:
August 3, 1969
The banners were put on the grandstand. A lot of the booths were put up and the rides were packed in the trucks. The Daily Donuts booth was putting up glass, and there were some kids fixing wiring in the demonstration tent.
I've never seen the crafts building empty before. It was unusual to look at the glass-enclosed shelf and not seeing any cakes.
I know I'm going to get a ribbon, but that's stiff competition. But I know I'm going to win. One old lady had a whole suitcase of things she was entering.
An article by Dean A. Hoffman, "Ohio Racing Faces Challenges in 2010," on the Ohio Trotting Association website includes several paragraphs about harness racing at Carthage Fair--and when it ended. Hoffman's father was speed superinendent for the fair for many years. An excerpt:
He loved the Carthage Fair and never missed it from the time he was an infant. To his dying day, Dad always claimed that the greatest race he ever saw was when Adios and King’s Counsel hooked up as 2-year-olds in 1942.
“I can close my eyes and still see ‘em going down the backstretch together,” he often told me. Adios set a world record for freshman colts on a half-mile track at Carthage that day.
Hoffman goes on to say that harness racing ended "around 1970," and that it broke his father's heart so much he never returned to the fair.
My grandfather, Johnny Applegate,
captured from a '50s home movie.
I know for a fact that the final harness racing meet at Carthage Fair was in 1969. My grandfather was a harness horse driver named Johnny Applegate, and he both raced at the fair and boarded horses on the grounds between fairs. It's because of him my relationship with Carthage Fairgrounds and the fair itself runs so deep.
The reason 1969 is firmly in my memory? That last meet I was helping my grandfather around the barn almost every day, the first and last time I ever did that. I was 15. It was also the first year I entered anything at Carthage Fair. But all of that is for the next blog post.
Murray Seasongood was a great figure in Cincinnati history. He was a scholar, author, lecturer, and philanthropist. He served as mayor of Cincinnati from 1926 to 1930. Later he was a professor of law at Harvard University. Seasongood was named one of the 100 Greatest Ohio Citizens in 1974.
The website of the Cincinnati Historical Society Library provides digital copies of many publications in PDF format. Remembrances of a Youthful Nonagenarian by Murray Seasongood is available in its entirety (patience, the PDF takes a few seconds to load). Near the end of the publication, Seasongood shares his memory of Carthage Fair. Here's a quote:
There were side shows, some of doubtful taste. An outstanding feature of the fair was the derring-do ascent of a man in a gas balloon. Another feature was watching Maude S., the world's champion trotter, which made the mile in 2:08%.
Go to page 27 to read about the buggy ride to the fair and the vegetables, jams, vases, and paintings entered in the competition.
Seasongood leads into this paragraph discussing the Schenk family, with whom his family boarded as visitors for several summers. I wonder if this is the Schenk farm in Deer Park (Seasongood mentions the "nearby Silverton Station"). I believe the original farmhouse still stands on Schenk Avenue. Author Lester V. Horwitz describes the farm and a visit from John Hunt Morgan during his infamous Civil War raid of Cincinnati in The Longest Raid of the Civil War: Little-Known and Untold Stories of Morgan's Raid into Kentucky, Indiana & Ohio.
Google Books can be an unexpected treasure-trove of sources you wouldn't expect to find there. I discovered the August 1972 issue of Cincinnati Magazine is available in its entirety. Starting on page 32 is an article titled "Carthage Fair" by Steve Hoffman, one-time TV critic with the Cincinnati Enquirer.
Hoffman's piece, a fond tribute to Carthage Fair and county fairs in general, also examines the problems the fair faced over the years, including in 1972. It touches on the diminishing rural participation, the impending effect of the Cross-County Highway construction, and attempts to sell off the land for an industrial park.
Take a look at the article. And if you're in a mood to time travel, review the entire issue. Other topics include a profile of former Yankee and Reds radio announcer Waite Hoyte; a look at local canoe liveries; cable television in Cincinnati; and a talk with Ron Temple of the Cincinnati School Board. And the period ads are a treat, including one for Kings Island in its first year of operation.
Carthage Fair midway, 1932--the year my mother was born.
I got my mother to start a blog for her 70th birthday, just before I started the first of my blogs. Lillian's Cupboard is filled with posts about family (including lots about the Applegates), quilting, World War II, and best of all, cooking and recipes.
She's written specifically about Carthage Fair, or Hamilton County Fair, and then county and state fairs in general. With her permission, I'm reprinting her post, "Fairground Food," below. If you'd like to see the original, including larger photos, go to this link. For Carthage Fair-related posts, go here. For those and all county and state fair posts, click here (be sure to scroll down).
Fairground Food
My grandfather, John Black Applegate,
and my father, John Alonzo (Johnny), ca 1914
When I was growing up in the 1930s-40s, the fairground was a fun place to go with the family in the summer. Fairground food was cotton candy, fried fish sandwiches, taffy apples, and ice cream candy. When my father was growing up in the 1920s, a fairground was his home for much of the year. My grandfather was a blacksmith and horseshoeing was his trade…
Grandma Lillian (Illie), Annie, Frank,
a neighbor, my father--Johnny
He took his business on the road during the county fair season, and his large family came along.
Grandma Lillian (Illie) Applegate,
Frank Applegate in lower foreground
My grandmother (the original Lillian) did the laundry in a washtub outside the barn, and cooked the family meals on whatever kind of stove she could rig up.
Martha (Mount) Applegate, Johnny Applegate
My father brought along the memories of fairground meals when he married my mother, Martha Mount, in 1932.
I still make these two dishes today at age 78.
FAIRGROUND PANCAKES
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tsp. sugar
1-1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
2 Tblsp. vegetable oil
1 cup milk
In a small bowl, stir together the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. Add the oil and milk, mixing well. Cook on a hot griddle until bubbles form on the surface. Flip and continue cooking on the reverse side. Serve hot with butter and syrup.
This makes six 4″ pancakes, or, as my father would have made them, two large griddle-sized flapjacks.
My father would have used bacon drippings or lard instead of oil, and the milk would have been diluted evaporated milk. He made syrup by mixing the right ratio of dark brown sugar and water (which I’ve never perfected) and boiling until of syrup consistency. And the meal would not have been complete for my father unless there were two sunny-side-up eggs on top of the pancakes, everything liberally sprinkled with black pepper.
My oldest daughter and I always have a pancake and egg breakfast, called our Fairground Breakfast, before we start out on a long trip. It’s sure to hold us until lunchtime.
Another of my father’s fairground favorites was his chili.
FAIRGROUND CHILI
1 lb. ground beef
1 large onion, diced
1 large can of kidney beans
1 medium can of tomato puree
Water to fill one kidney bean can and one puree can
1/2 to 1 tsp. salt
Grating of black pepper
In a large pot, brown the ground beef and onion until no pink shows in the meat and the onion is tender. Add the kidney beans, puree, and water from the two cans. Simmer on the stove for at least one hour. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot--4 servings.
My father liked his chili with lots of chili powder and saltine crackers. He usually broke the crackers up in the chili. One of the favorite aromas of my childhood was of beef and onions frying in preparation for chili.
I continued to take my children (and now my grandchildren) to county fairs. Back in the 1960s, I took my three young children to the Owensville (Clermont County, Ohio) fair and stopped in a trailer parked on the fairgrounds to visit my father’s cousin and his very large family. Bill Applegate was also a blacksmith and hauled his family around the fair circuit to make a living. Inside the small trailer, five or six little kids were seated at a table and Bill’s wife, Mary, was at the stove frying mush in a big cast iron skillet. She would slice the mush, throw it into the hot grease, flip it, and then put it on one of the kids’ plates. For the 15 or 20 minutes we were there, she never stopped flipping and serving slices of hot mush; there was always an empty plate with a hungry child yelling for more. She invited us to have some, but we said no thanks and left her there to feed her kids.
So, when you hear the term “Fairground Food,” it’s not always an expensive treat out on the midway--it could very well be somebody’s favorite meal.
NOTE: If you also have memories of Carthage Fair you'd like to share, add them to the comments. Or contact me about a guest post. I'd love to hear others' tales of enjoying Carthage Fair.
I'm re-posting the piece below from comments. I was hoping my friend Amy and her mother would have something to contribute about the fair. Amy and I worked at Gibson Greetings, where she was a writer, then editor; I was a writer. I was delighted when I found out her mother worked at the Hamilton County Fair. When I went over to the fairgrounds to enter my needlework and crafts that year, I stopped by the manager's office to introduce myself. Amy's mom is so sweet, and Amy used to share bits of background about Carthage fairgrounds that her mother had told her.
I'm delighted to share Amy's memory of the fair:
Hi Nancy,
My memories of Carthage Fair go back to 1976. My mom worked in the office every summer with three of her teacher friends. We'd go to the fair for hours with my dad while she worked. We'd check in at the air-conditioned office, which always felt so glorious in the early-August heat. Mom seemed to be having a lot of fun, and there was always something interesting going on. I'd go by at the end of the night and listen to my mom announce on the loudspeaker that they had a lost child. They had several every night, the parents would lose them and take their time finding them. I guess they knew their children would be looked after in the office. Although some parents were truly concerned, I loved the reunions when the mother would run up to the office practically sobbing to find her child happily eating candy oblivious to all the fuss.
My favorite memories are of walking along the fairway with my girlfriend, Judy. We both had long, straight hair (hers was red and mine was blond), short shorts and tee shirts cut off to show our flat bellies (those were the days). The carney boys flirted with us to get us to play the games, and we loved the attention. We'd walk down the fairway and have our handwriting analyzed to see what kind of people we were, because at 13 we really didn't know. Being a city girl, I always marveled at how big the cows and horses were and how soft the bunnies. I couldn't get over how funny the chickens were and I loved playing with the kittens. I always went on the nights of the Demolition Derby and tried to pick out which car would be the winner.
I am also saddened by the slow death of the County Fair. But I am as much to blame. I haven't been there in about 10 years. It just didn't seem the same when I took my kids back. I wish I could give them those same wonderful memories.
Thanks for a wonderful piece, Amy! Please share any other remembrances and I'll post them to the blog.
My mother's beloved postcard of early Carthage Fairgrounds, long before either one of us had been there.
It's because the Greater Cincinnati Carthage Fair is nearly forgotten that I wanted to post memories about it. The sad truth is, its current incarnation, the Hamilton County Fair, isn't in great shape. Just this morning I read a local news article that 4-H has broken away from the traditional fair on the old Carthage fairground for a new venue in western Hamilton County, Stricker's Grove. Someday I might attend. Right now I'm too bitter.
Even though I haven't been a resident of Hamilton County, Ohio, for almost a decade, I've tried to support the Hamilton County Fair by at least attending. Last year even that was a challenge. My mother (who hasn't missed a fair in Carthage in her nearly 79 years) and I went over to the fair midday last August. Things looked disturbingly quiet and shut up. Even the doors to the exhibit halls, where we had each won so many ribbons during our heyday, were closed to us. I ducked into the manager's office and asked. Somehow I'd missed the news that the fair would open only in the evenings. I was stunned.
I told Mom. We sat disconsolately in the empty entertainment tent for a few minutes, then wandered back between the buildings. We looked at the garden exhibits by local growing clubs, tried to peer through the paint-smeared windows of the arts building, dragged down the hill and through the mute midway, then climbed in the car and went home. We both counted it as our annual visit. It was too hard to fight traffic to return to the fairgrounds that evening, and we were in the middle of a blistering heat wave. Neither one of us felt up to the strain.
I told my mother I regard missing Hamilton County Fair as bringing the kind of curse they talk about regarding ravens and the Tower of London: Legend has it if ravens aren't kept at the Tower, the Tower itself will fall and England will suffer a terrible misfortune. My superstition is that if Mom misses a fair, something will happen to her and I'll lose my last link to both her heritage of harness racing and Carthage Fair as our family shared it. (Naturally, I'm more concerned about losing her, period, but she understands.)
Sadly, the fair I fell in love with as a child is long gone. The current fair is on life support. What else is left but to turn my vision back in time to Carthage Fair as I experienced it with my family, so many of whom are now gone.
NOTE: If you also have memories of Carthage Fair you'd like to share, add them to the comments. Or contact me about a guest post. I'd love to hear others' tales of enjoying Carthage Fair.
