Welcome to Forgotonia

Every time I attend the Illinois State Fair, I can’t help but think about the late David Foster Wallace and his funny essay about the annual event, (“Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All”).

Two Sundays ago, when C-Nor and I met up with my Springfield-based sister and her family, as well as my parents from Carthage, at the fair, (which I’d been excited about all week), I found myself walking around feeling all grouchy because I was

• sweating,
• paying $25 total for two gryos and two bottles of water, and
• nearly getting into an altercation with a grouchy woman at the ticket window—

…..and wondering, “WHY was it that I wanted to come here, again?“

And then I grinned, getting a kick out of the fact that Wallace’s collection title—even though in reference to going on a cruise ship—could’ve also been an apt title for the one about the fair.

We had both hoped to take in some colorful shots, but an impending storm (and the stop at the Ethnic Village— plus soaking up quality time in the Artisan building, which had AC), kept us from covering too much ground.

Here are a few pics though.

(P.S. Tell me your fair favorites by leaving a comment below. But please don’t make me jealous.

I am currently nursing a serious case of depression over the fact that I missed the Bangles and Heart.)

My nephew rode this ride a few times, despite its freakiness.

Honey guy.

Bingo lady.

Bright bottles everywhere.

Storm comin’.

Chris says I should make you guess whether I am A) pretending to be biting my nails because we were riding a Ferris Wheel just before a big storm; B) miming that I’m eating a big ol’ roastin’ ear; or C) playing a pan flute.

You’ll never know the truth.

Here’s me remembering the goat named after The Gloved One, if ya wanna read/ take a listen.

Check out some of my other radio essays here.

… one of the only “tourist attractions” listed in this area is a tree.

A few other innerstin’ items from the local news:

2) Lustron house in jeopardy?
(It’s a Lustron, yes, but….is it lustrous?)

3) The Forgotonia region won’t need to look for a new nickname anytime soon. (See: “Macomb-to-Peoria path still has roadblocks.”)

Did anyone catch this guy (Robert Hastings, the author of “UFOs and Nukes”) on “Larry King Live” in July?

He’s coming to WIU to speak in the fall: a noted UFO researcher—but also one who claims that there’s a connection between the U.S. government, secret nuclear testing, and, um, “superior aircraft“ being piloted by something or someone unknown to us.

Um, yeah, he might sound like a bit of a crackpot.

But I’m sure I don’t sound too sain when I tell you that I saw something really freaking strange in the sky (outside Carthage) one time, the summer I was 15 (and had 3 other people with me at the time, so: booyhah!)

I’m not a lunatic who thinks there are green men trying to come down and take over our planet or anything.

But I’ll never be convinced that it was “just a reflection” or whatever when, that summer night so long ago, I saw something not-of-this-world appear quickly in the sky above my house, divide into four, come back together, and then disappear.

So I’m thinking this guy’s speech at WIU might be worth attending (if I don’t have class that night.

Or, well, let’s see: go to class, or go hear guy talk about aliens. Is it really even a choice?)

Leave your own crackpot theories, UFO sightings, (or, at the very leas, Larry King sightings, below.)

The following was originally aired as a commentary on Tri States Public Radio, the NPR member station for Macomb, IL.

(Listen to the audio version online on Tri State Public Radio’s web site)

Every summer during fair season, I want to be a kid again. But it has nothing to do with cotton candy or riding rides. It’s the kids in the livestock barns. When I see little girls who know how to lasso, I want a re-do of my own childhood.

I had every opportunity to develop farm-cred. My parents put me and my sister in 4-H. And I actually lived on a farm, unlike the rest of the kids in our club, which was called the Peppy Peppers.

But the town kids, somehow, were the ones who showed hogs and cows come fair-time.
Me? I did Drawing. And Photography.

My sister didn’t show animals, either, but she did crochet and counter-cross-stitch her way to the state fair. The best I ever did was a blue ribbon for a latch-hook rug but I made it from a kit I bought at Ben Franklin. (All my 4-H work, I made sure, could be done in front of the AC and the TV.)

Dad must have begun to notice his daughters were getting away from the fundamentals of farm life. Because one day he came in for supper announcing he had a surprise for us.

We ran out into the front yard, me hoping for a new 10-speed. Or a pool.

But it was a goat. A little black billy goat.

And instantly, it charged at me. It was being affectionate, but I screamed. “Get it off me!”

My sister laughed. She thought it was cute. So we’ll say she was the one who picked out his name.

Dad came outside with an old Pepsi bottle he had filled with milk and topped with a gray rubber nipple. He got hold of the goat, tipped back his little head, and gently yet forcefully got it to suckle.

I guessed it was kind of cute (standing still).

Later, there was a knock at the kitchen door. (That’s a big deal when you live out in the country.)

Mom went to see who it could be. But no one was there.

She was still looking out when there was another knock.

“Wait a minute.” Mom peered down through the top half of the screen door. “Aha!”
Michael Jackson had gotten out of his pen and was bashing his little head against the metal.

“It’s the goat!” we giggled. “You’re so silly, Michael Jackson!”

Later in the summer, my sister and I had an official chore: to rub a stinky ointment on the goat’s head twice a day. I guess it was like goat Orajel for horn cutting pain. Or maybe horn control.

But we couldn’t get it on him. It was impossible to get him to stand still. He was like a four-legged, black-furred junebug, banging constantly against his pen and against the kitchen door, because he always got out.

Soon, Dad was the one doing horn-deterrent duty.

We didn’t have him a whole summer. Did we even have him a full month? I think Dad finally foisted him off on our cousins, who were also farm kids though I’m not sure why they were expected to do better at keeping him in his pen than we had.

Now I realize the Michael Jackson episode was a foreshadowing of the poor excuse for a farmer’s daughter I was to become. The few times I was ever asked to do chores like walk beans I whined my way out of them.

I could have learned a lesson about raising animals, a small step in keeping our family’s farming tradition from fading away. But what I really cared about was getting into town, where my friends had cable, so I could watch MTV.

The next summer at the fair, I showed not a cow or a sow but a comic strip about a little girl who tries to get out of doing her homework.

These days, I regret that I never learned any of the 4-H skills that would come in handy in real life. (Last time I checked, you can’t latch-hook a button back onto your blouse.) But I have to accept the fact that when I was actually in 4-H and had the chance to learn about farm life, it just wasn’t me.

I guess I couldn’t help it any more than Michael Jackson could help not wanting to stay in his pen.

What I really wanted was to moonwalk, not walk beans.