The situation probably wouldn’t have been quite so sticky if it hadn’t been for the spun sugar cone. Though who knows?

When it comes to fairs my family took fairs as it took

everything else &045; hard.

Not that there was conformity in our approach. My gardening mother could spend hours in the horticulture and flower building. I was the greedy one. I used to wander around treating myself to cotton candy, saltwater taffy, salted peanuts in the shell, sandwiches and a delicious beef stew, alas no longer served, as it used to be by the Zion Lutheran Church.

The most enthusiastic fair-goer in the family, though, was my father. He missed nothing, especially the rides. He liked them high fast and exciting. Since my mother had no time for such, I was his companion for the rides.

The son of a railroad man, my father was never late for any appointment. Nor was he late for the fair. But most of the rides didn’t open early in the morning. My father was not a patient man. He checked mother in at the horticulture building, and he and I walked off to pick a ride.

One of them had the lights on, but it wasn’t yet in motion. At the end of his patience, dad made a few remarks, profane, and intended to be heard, as they were. The operator gave him a dark look, but didn’t start the ride.

I don’t remember what the ride was called, at that time. When I was a kid such would have been called a “whip.” They consisted of barrel-like seats, big enough for two or three adults.

Dad was getting more and more impatient and to fill up

his time bought me a large, well-stuffed, cotton candy cone. Just as I gratefully and greedily started on it, the Whip started to move. Hampered by my large, over the shoulder purse, I was all for waiting until I’d finished eating my cotton candy to board the creature.

Not daddy. He had come to ride the rides, there were plenty of them and it was his plan to ride them all. Neither he nor the operator was in a good frame of mind. Business didn’t seem good. In fact, the first time we went around we seemed to be the only ones riding.

My father was not searching for excuses. “Damn it,” he snarled, “I’ve seen leaky faucets with more speed and excitement than this piece of junk shows!”

He said it when we were within spitting distance of the

operator. He and my father stared at each other with intense loathing and our barrel took a sudden leap forward that almost sent my cotton candy soaring out among the crowd.

I couldn’t hang on to the protective railing curved around the front of our seat to keep us from falling out. My purse hung over my left shoulder blocking any movement of my left hand. With my right hand I was clutching my cotton candy cone.

We went faster and faster. Crowds began to gather. I think it was my talented screaming that helped draw them. I never competed for a part in a play that called for screaming that I didn’t get the first time around. My father folded his arms across his chest and we continued to rush with the wind. Every time we came to the end of a cycle and I had a chance to catch my breath, dad handed out change for another whirl. I would have remonstrated with him, but I needed my breath for screaming.

No, we didn’t have to pay for those three cycles. When we got off, a large crowd was forming to buy tickets for the same ride. By that time, dad and the manager of the ride were like blood brothers. Against my father’s protests, the money for all six rides was pushed back to us.

We were even asked to come back and do it again. Dad compromised by saying that we’d drop around again and if business looked slow would be glad to do what we could.

(Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column runs Thursday.)