^Shockingly coveted for a Wisconsin kid circa 1990.^
My
dad grew up in Mount Calvary. Since the village is located in an area
known as The Holyland, when I was a very young and naive boy, I spent
an entire summer believing Jesus himself had grown up there. In
truth, he didn't, but their faith has long struck me as stronger than
usual. The residents are willing to wake up early on Sunday mornings
to pray away their hangovers at mass. They love the Holy Spirit, and
other spirits as well.
Every
August, the humble village hosts a carnival at Fireman’s Park. It
is aptly referred to as the Fireman’s Picnic.
It’s not my aim to deride the spirit and tradition of the Fireman's Picnic. But In the late '80s and early '90s, at least, the town's modest budget did not permit them to splurge on the crème de la crème of redneck carnival rides—namely the Gravitron and the Zipper. Throughout my childhood summers, my parents would spend money I would then hand to a scruffy stranger who allowed me to ride on a rusty cart that crawled clockwise on a track that was 15 feet wide. I wasn't expecting loop-de-loops and laser shows, but come on, give a kid something to work with, you know?
Only one ride posed a legitimate threat to the uprising of a corn dog you had just choked down. It was a blend between a high-octane carousel and a demonic swingset. A dozen seats dotted the perimeter, and they were attached to chains that dangled from propellers. Once the thing got going, the propellers spun rapidly around-and-around-and-around, and the rider got a sense of what it feels like to be an unbreakable string of snot dangling from the blade of a helicopter. If memory serves, this ride was called “Discount Nausea.”
Discount Nausea could only be tolerated in great moderation, and with little interest in the tame rides, I sought out the prize booths maintained by jabber-jawing carnies. Sadly, throwing darts at balloons and executing a pyramid of empty beer cans with a single shot from a BB gun were talents that eluded me. Though my ambition was to win a Bartman t-shirt, or a least a small poster of Packers quarterback Don Majikowski, I usually went home with the humiliating consolation prize: An artificial clip-on feather, colored the shade of a peacock’s underbelly. Not only did the carnies take my money—OK, my parents' money—a the twisted bumpkins also had the nerve to bash my impending manhood.
“I’m an eight-year-old boy,” I’d squeak. “I play with Ninja Turtles. What the heck do you expect me to do with a frilly blue feather?
And the carnie would guffaw, opening his mouth wide to reveal five lonesome maggots jutting from his gums.
“Weeelll, I’m sure you can think of somethin’, Nancy-boy. WHO’S NEXT?!”
It’s been said that human beings alternate between afflictions of either boredom or pain throughout their lifetimes. I’m not a very optimistic person, but I think that’s nonsense, primarily because of slow, wet kisses and The Simpsons.
I mention the boredom/pain aside because, after wandering through the confines of Fireman’s Park, yawning in brief intervals, I would whimsically attach the fake feather’s jagged, metal clip to my pointer finger and withstand the painful pinch until I could take it no longer. At last I would remove the clip urgently, and then shake my throbbing red finger for a while. The boredom didn’t feel so bad then.
My favorite attraction at the Fireman’s Picnic was the Moonwalk Tent. Rambunctious hopping is an activity sure to engage children. The Moonwalk Tent (aka the “Bouncy Castle”) had its charms, but after ten minutes or so, the fetid stench of sweaty socks lingering in a roasting confinement really got to you. Plus I was always bummed out about the absence of top ropes and turnbuckles inside the Moonwalk Tent. There aren’t too many places in which a top rope and turnbuckles can be set up feasibly, but dammit, inside the Moonwalk Tent is one of those places. And since I was too young to pair up with a gorgeous blond and enact that Revenge of the Nerds fantasy, I soon bid good riddance to the Moonwalk Tent.
It was after all these lackluster pursuits that I discovered the Smoky Room Upstairs, which was maintained by the local volunteer fire department.
The Smoky Room Upstairs was the size of a two-story hobbit-house, its dimensions comparable to a double-wide trailer living room. A tube the size of a manhole cover fed into the upstairs, and it traced back to a smoke machine with a generator that churned maddeningly.
The Smoky Room Upstairs (aka fire smoke house) was designed for educational more so than fun purposes. Its chief aim was to enlighten kids on safety precautions in the event of a household blaze. A mustachioed volunteer would usher kids up a short flight of stairs on the side of the diminutive structure, above the seemingly vacant first floor and into the upstairs room. I say “seemingly vacant” because I had a hunch the off-duty firemen used it as a windowless sanctuary to play games of Euchre and chug cups of Miller Lite.
His shoulders and neck craning at an uncomfortable angle, golden helmet scraping against the ceiling, our guide waved us all into the cramped room. It was furnished like an oversized dollhouse. In the midst of his boring safety lecture, he scolded a careless youngster who plopped down on an artificial couch. It’s hard for kids to discern a prop from the real thing. That’s why the little buggers feel like cold-blooded assassins when they aim a Daisy rifle at the mailman’s head.
Though the interior decorator did a half-ass job, the electrician was quite ambitious. The square perimeter was plastered with about a dozen outlets at shin level. The fireman instilled a fear of outlets into our little hearts that day, warning us of the dangers of ramming a fork in there or overloading the amplitude as the dad from A Christmas Story would do.
As the lecture drew to a close, the fireman attached his gas mask and cued the smoke machine. I’ll never forget gazing at that vent, watching the smoke wisp gracefully and ominously into our air supply, feeling like I was at the mercy of a deranged super-villain and his elaborate death chamber.
Pretty soon, when the smoke had reached a murky, almost opaque density, we were instructed to crawl out of the Smoky Room Upstairs (a trek of nine feet) and rejoin the outside world. Then it was once again time to scam money from our tipsy parents so we could buy tickets for rides and booths until it was time to go home.
It’s not my aim to deride the spirit and tradition of the Fireman's Picnic. But In the late '80s and early '90s, at least, the town's modest budget did not permit them to splurge on the crème de la crème of redneck carnival rides—namely the Gravitron and the Zipper. Throughout my childhood summers, my parents would spend money I would then hand to a scruffy stranger who allowed me to ride on a rusty cart that crawled clockwise on a track that was 15 feet wide. I wasn't expecting loop-de-loops and laser shows, but come on, give a kid something to work with, you know?
Only one ride posed a legitimate threat to the uprising of a corn dog you had just choked down. It was a blend between a high-octane carousel and a demonic swingset. A dozen seats dotted the perimeter, and they were attached to chains that dangled from propellers. Once the thing got going, the propellers spun rapidly around-and-around-and-around, and the rider got a sense of what it feels like to be an unbreakable string of snot dangling from the blade of a helicopter. If memory serves, this ride was called “Discount Nausea.”
Discount Nausea could only be tolerated in great moderation, and with little interest in the tame rides, I sought out the prize booths maintained by jabber-jawing carnies. Sadly, throwing darts at balloons and executing a pyramid of empty beer cans with a single shot from a BB gun were talents that eluded me. Though my ambition was to win a Bartman t-shirt, or a least a small poster of Packers quarterback Don Majikowski, I usually went home with the humiliating consolation prize: An artificial clip-on feather, colored the shade of a peacock’s underbelly. Not only did the carnies take my money—OK, my parents' money—a the twisted bumpkins also had the nerve to bash my impending manhood.
“I’m an eight-year-old boy,” I’d squeak. “I play with Ninja Turtles. What the heck do you expect me to do with a frilly blue feather?
And the carnie would guffaw, opening his mouth wide to reveal five lonesome maggots jutting from his gums.
“Weeelll, I’m sure you can think of somethin’, Nancy-boy. WHO’S NEXT?!”
It’s been said that human beings alternate between afflictions of either boredom or pain throughout their lifetimes. I’m not a very optimistic person, but I think that’s nonsense, primarily because of slow, wet kisses and The Simpsons.
I mention the boredom/pain aside because, after wandering through the confines of Fireman’s Park, yawning in brief intervals, I would whimsically attach the fake feather’s jagged, metal clip to my pointer finger and withstand the painful pinch until I could take it no longer. At last I would remove the clip urgently, and then shake my throbbing red finger for a while. The boredom didn’t feel so bad then.
My favorite attraction at the Fireman’s Picnic was the Moonwalk Tent. Rambunctious hopping is an activity sure to engage children. The Moonwalk Tent (aka the “Bouncy Castle”) had its charms, but after ten minutes or so, the fetid stench of sweaty socks lingering in a roasting confinement really got to you. Plus I was always bummed out about the absence of top ropes and turnbuckles inside the Moonwalk Tent. There aren’t too many places in which a top rope and turnbuckles can be set up feasibly, but dammit, inside the Moonwalk Tent is one of those places. And since I was too young to pair up with a gorgeous blond and enact that Revenge of the Nerds fantasy, I soon bid good riddance to the Moonwalk Tent.
It was after all these lackluster pursuits that I discovered the Smoky Room Upstairs, which was maintained by the local volunteer fire department.
The Smoky Room Upstairs was the size of a two-story hobbit-house, its dimensions comparable to a double-wide trailer living room. A tube the size of a manhole cover fed into the upstairs, and it traced back to a smoke machine with a generator that churned maddeningly.
The Smoky Room Upstairs (aka fire smoke house) was designed for educational more so than fun purposes. Its chief aim was to enlighten kids on safety precautions in the event of a household blaze. A mustachioed volunteer would usher kids up a short flight of stairs on the side of the diminutive structure, above the seemingly vacant first floor and into the upstairs room. I say “seemingly vacant” because I had a hunch the off-duty firemen used it as a windowless sanctuary to play games of Euchre and chug cups of Miller Lite.
His shoulders and neck craning at an uncomfortable angle, golden helmet scraping against the ceiling, our guide waved us all into the cramped room. It was furnished like an oversized dollhouse. In the midst of his boring safety lecture, he scolded a careless youngster who plopped down on an artificial couch. It’s hard for kids to discern a prop from the real thing. That’s why the little buggers feel like cold-blooded assassins when they aim a Daisy rifle at the mailman’s head.
Though the interior decorator did a half-ass job, the electrician was quite ambitious. The square perimeter was plastered with about a dozen outlets at shin level. The fireman instilled a fear of outlets into our little hearts that day, warning us of the dangers of ramming a fork in there or overloading the amplitude as the dad from A Christmas Story would do.
As the lecture drew to a close, the fireman attached his gas mask and cued the smoke machine. I’ll never forget gazing at that vent, watching the smoke wisp gracefully and ominously into our air supply, feeling like I was at the mercy of a deranged super-villain and his elaborate death chamber.
Pretty soon, when the smoke had reached a murky, almost opaque density, we were instructed to crawl out of the Smoky Room Upstairs (a trek of nine feet) and rejoin the outside world. Then it was once again time to scam money from our tipsy parents so we could buy tickets for rides and booths until it was time to go home.
###
For dreamlike
childhood nostalgia, John Lennon had “Strawberry Fields Forever.”
I have “The Fireman's Picnic.” What a ripoff. Someone once asked
me why this story has so many sour moments, and my reply was that it
wasn't the fault of the Fireman's Picnic. The onus was on me,
wandering aimlessly, dissatisfied but observing.
Maybe my
expectations have always been too high. Every year I go to the
Fireman's Picnic in tiny Mount Calvary hoping to ride the Gravitron,
and every year, it's not there.
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