As a younger child, my family would make annual trips to the County Fair in Albany. My parents would go to see all the neat exhibits and other “grown up things”, as I as a child called them. My main enjoyment of the fair when I was younger was the fair rides and junk food.
My view of the fair when I was little was one filled with wonderment and awe. The screams fading in and out as people shot up in the air on rickety fair rides and the greasy sweet smell that filled the air and made your skin feel slimy overwhelmed me with excitements, which often lead to me annoying my parents. I would run around there legs like a puppy tripping them, pointing at all the rides and other worldly stuff I saw. My parents though, as smart as they are, would tell me to behave or I wouldn’t be allowed to do the things I wanted, which in turn would make me behaved like a well-trained mature show dog.
My parents would then drag me forcibly through the dull boring exhibits inside when all I wanted at that moment was to be out in that sunny, grease heavy air, frolicking in the carnival. Mom and Dad though, would drag me through what seemed like endless rows of shabby tables set up in a brightly florescent lit cement floored and high ceilinged building. The tables held things for sale that my parents would never buy and held no interest to me, or they would have some jewel or priceless artifact an old person was showing off to everyone for whatever reason.
Finally after what seemed like hours and hours of walking through row after row of these dull tables and my constant nag to my parents to go do something else, we would finally leave the large cement floored and bland building. The original energy of when I first came to the fair that day was always instantly restored as we entered the outside through the heavy glass push doors and you could instantly hear the jumble of lively conversations and the smell of the greasy food and sweet grass.
With my attitude now changed in a positive direction, I would hastily swim through the giant crowd of people with my parents trying to keep up in fear of losing me. My parents would try to shout for me to slow down, but their shouts would be drowned out by the sizzling of the food booths and rustle of voices around me. After fighting through the crowd and waiting for my parents to catch up I would be told that I could ride a certain amount of rides and it always seemed to be the hardest choice of my life. All the bright flashing lights, colors, and catchy names made it all the more harder and I would often choose the rides my parents found too scary for me or I wasn’t even tall enough to ride. So after some debate with my parents and frustration with my short stature I would finally choose a few rides that twirled and sped around but never the ones that go high or upside down. I remember every time I got on a ride and it started going I got this tickling feeling in the bottom of my stomach and it was all I could do to keep myself from giggling.
After what seemed like an unbelievably short time riding rides my parents would want to head to the food booths and find something for lunch. All the way to the food booths I would be begging them to let me get on one more ride or play a carnival game because all the cheap stuffed animals and other assortment of toys always looked so vibrant and appealing and the games looked so easy, but to my disappointment my parents knew better and would never let me. After my parents finally dragging me out of the game and ride area of the fair I would almost instantly realize how hungry I was and would start looking at all the sweet treats the greasy and wrinkly merchants would be selling. The cinnamon covered elephant ears always attracted my attention along with the funnel cakes, but my parents would always force me to eat a warm corndog that always tasted bitter with mustard and the ketchup always made my gums sting. I would always fear of hitting a crunchy or...