When I was about seven or eight, my arms were greased in lard and I was deposited in a pen strewn with sawdust and the instructions to go catch one of the half-dozen pigs that were also in the pen. Always a dutiful girl, I caught the pig and won a blue ribbon. I’m not sure if that was the exact moment that fell in love with the Town and Country Fair, but it certainly had a deep impact on my psyche.

I think I always loved the fair. The town I grew up in was dull and suburban, and the yearly fair offered unheard of delights, often deep-fried. Sometimes, the excitement was more than I could handle. One year, my brother and I, as well as my friend Nicole, were being fed chicken soup in preparation for our trip to the fairgrounds. Nicole was notable only in fact that she was the child of two of our neighbor’s children, one of whom, at the age of 18, impregnated the other (who was 13), thus resulting in Nicole’s older brother. In an attempt to impress Nicole, we were having a burping contest. I, buoyed by my win in the ‘Pig Scramble’ as the event with the lard was called, was determined to win. I summoned a tremendous burp, and aimed it the general direction of my brother’s ear. Unfortunately, it was far more spectacular than I had imagined, and I vomited. On my brother’s shoulder.

My mother cleaned us up and dropped us off at the midway, confident that a few rides on the Zipper would calm our respective stomachs.

When I was a young teenager, my mother told me that every year, one or two girls from my town would disappear when the fair left town. I don’t think she implied that the carnies were kidnapping or murdering these girls, but that their prospects in town were so limited that leaving with a man who hustles children into hucking darts at balloons seemed appealing. Based on what little I knew of the teenage pregnancy rate in my area, it seemed entirely feasible. It was at the fair that I first became acquainted with heavy metal—and these carnies were the first real (read, not pre-pubescent) metalheads I had ever seen. I began categorizing girls I would see at the mall as “girls who would run away with a carnie” or “girls who wouldn’t.” I hadn’t decided which camp to pitch my tent in yet, at that tender age.

Sadly though, I didn’t receive any offers. Apparently, the carnies recognized me as a “girl who wouldn’t” before I had even decided. My friend Tracy and I would go to the fair every year, and ride the Zipper over and over, hoping that one of the carnies would offer us some sort of narcotic or pharmaceutical. They never did though, and we had to content ourselves with the free rides that they offered us, and stuffing our faces with cotton candy.

I still try to go to the fair in my hometown every summer, but sadly, I missed it this year. Missing the carnival because you are in Jersey—now that’s class. Luckily though, I still have my rawdog thong from a few years ago. I look at it, and I think of home.