As Americans fly the coop, county fairs spring back to life
| San Diego
Perhaps one hasn鈥檛 truly reentered post-pandemic life 鈥� unmasked, undistanced, unconcerned 鈥� until one has seen a pig fly.
We鈥檙e in Del Mar, California, a couple of beach towns north of San Diego. It鈥檚 early in our national Summer of Reentry. Just recently, California became one of the last states to lift all COVID-19 protocols, though some cities, such as Los Angeles, have reimposed them. And now here we are in the coastal sunshine and sea breezes at the San Diego County Fair, one of the first mega-fairs on the 2021 U.S. calendar. To be sure, it鈥檚 not as 鈥渕ega鈥� as usual. But it鈥檚 鈥渕ega鈥� enough for games and rides and magicians. For a Ferris wheel rising high over the endless Pacific. For carnival barkers and food stalls and wild-animal whisperers. For astonishments. For crowds.
And maybe most important, it鈥檚 big enough for those crowds to feel communal again 鈥� for each of us to rub shoulders heedlessly under a warm sky and rejoin life en masse.聽
Why We Wrote This
Americans are eager to resume the rites of summer passage. Boisterous parades, stock car races, zucchini festivals, and, yes, the iconic local fairs that are so much a part of American culture reveal a nation ready to revel in communal celebration and fried dough.
Finally, after a 2020 gone dark, the rites of American summer passage are back. The flag-draped parades, the annual festivals (from arts to music to zucchini), the ritual family gatherings. And, yes, the endless cycle of state and county fairs. Here in San Diego you can sense in people their relief and hunger and joy 鈥� their eagerness to convene again in traditional ways. To have a collective adventure, maybe.
And maybe to see some things you don鈥檛 see every day 鈥� even see some things that, let鈥檚 be honest, you didn鈥檛 think you ever would.聽
The pig in question is named Swifty 鈥� so called by Zach Johnson, proprietor and ringmaster of Swifty Swine Productions. For 23 years, Mr. Johnson and his extravaganza have done the 鈥渃ircuit鈥�: county fairs, state fairs, rodeos, car races. 鈥淎ll 50 states except Alaska and Hawaii,鈥� he says proudly. Then last year he went nowhere.
Now, standing outside the enormous聽apple-red trailer that houses pigs and people, he grins in that Southern California light that makes every hour golden hour, and says, 鈥淚 do love to race pigs.鈥�
Next thing, he鈥檚 flipping switches, tapping his headset mic to check sound, readying for the 1 p.m. show 鈥� of which Swifty and her flying act will be a part. First, friends, there will be racing.聽
Have you seen a pig race? (You don鈥檛 say.) In the next nine minutes, Mr. Johnson will introduce you. On this day, despite the afternoon having scarcely begun and the fair crowd still arriving, the grandstands are already filling up. At their foot is a small, short-fenced track, cushy with wood chips. Suddenly over the loudspeaker comes music and horn blasts you might hear at Churchill Downs. It鈥檚 time. 鈥淪hould we bring 鈥檈m out?鈥� Mr. Johnson asks. Indeed we should, says the crowd.
At which point Mr. Johnson knows he鈥檚 got you in the palm of his hand, because four tiny piglets come juddering down a ramp from the trailer and the entire audience involuntarily goes, 鈥淎wwww.鈥� Mr. Johnson divides the watchers into four sections to back each pig, explains that the racers will run the track for the reward of an Oreo, and tells us our pigs鈥� names 鈥� which he鈥檚 repeated so often that he knows to the decibel how his listeners will respond. Meet 鈥淜evin Bacon,鈥� 鈥淏ritney Spare-ribs,鈥� 鈥淏rad Pig,鈥� and 鈥淜im Kardashing-ham.鈥� And they鈥檙e off.
They鈥檙e fast, which is not the point. They鈥檙e heart-meltingly cute, which is. (Well, most of them are fast. One is still contentedly rounding the quarter pole after the other three racers are in the barn. This gives Mr. Johnson the opportunity to intone, 鈥淪orry section three, I think your pig鈥� 鈥� here it comes 鈥� 鈥減ulled a hamstring.鈥�)
Shortly there鈥檒l be a second race, with slightly more adolescent pigs, this time named after politicians. (Hello, 鈥淣ancy聽Piglosi.鈥� Hi, 鈥淒onald Trumproast.鈥�) It鈥檚 worth noting that some animal rights activists don鈥檛 like pig races, believing the animals are being exploited for human entertainment, but there鈥檚 certainly none of that sentiment in the stands today. In any case, the racers here aren鈥檛 the stars. The star, who now emerges from the trailer cradled against Mr. Johnson鈥檚 chest in a single giant hand, is little Swifty herself. Awwww.
But let鈥檚 leave Swifty for the moment; there鈥檚 a whole fair to see.
Back at the midway, among drifts of people surrounded by billboard-topped food stands pitching delicacies rarely seen in life, you鈥檙e struck both by the gloriously pre-pandemic feel of the experience and by the surprise of the event having been pulled together at all. When the pandemic shut down much of America in 2020, the organization behind San Diego鈥檚 fair lost a reported two-thirds of its employees. Then, to get the 2021 fair up and running, it had to reckon with its annual June opening 鈥� far earlier in the season than the other big fairs in places like Minnesota, Texas, Iowa, and Massachusetts, some of which run as late as October. The June date meant plans had to be made during the throes of COVID-19, long before it was possible to know what early summer might bring. The countless partners providing food, services, and entertainment had to be persuaded to make commitments amid the uncertainty. 鈥淭hey were just rolling the dice,鈥� says one partner about the risks the fair鈥檚 planners took. 鈥淏ravo to them.鈥�
It鈥檚 worked, mostly. Though the organizers are hesitant to be specific, several vendors estimate the 2021 fair to be only 鈥渁 quarter its normal size.鈥� Even late-season聽fairs like Minnesota鈥檚 have announced, 鈥淩ecovery from the past year will take some time for many of our partners, so this year鈥檚 fair may look a little different from what we鈥檙e used to. I guarantee, though,鈥� stated general manager Jerry Hammer, 鈥渢hat we will do our very best to give you the full-on Minnesota State Fair experience.鈥�
A lot of things this summer may not quite provide the 鈥渇ull-on鈥� pre-pandemic experience 鈥� but that won鈥檛 keep them from feeling pretty sweet. Or salty, as tastes could lean here on the San Diego midway. We鈥檙e headed for the 鈥淓xtreme Dogs鈥� performance (showtime 2 p.m.), but are having a hard time getting past the snack stands. You know what I鈥檓 talking about. I鈥檓 talking about giant grilled sausages, charbroiled corn, Texas funnel cakes, smoked barbecue sandwiches, cheese bread, kettle corn, 鈥渁ward-winning giant turkey legs,鈥� 鈥渂attered鈥� potatoes, ice cream, lemonade, pizza covered in fruit, and bacon-wrapped hot dogs. We won鈥檛 even mention the fried dough, fried artichokes, fried avocados, and fried bananas. (鈥淚f you can eat it, we can fry it,鈥� one server tells me.)
The bleachers for the 鈥淓xtreme Dogs鈥� event are packed. I squeeze in next to Rob Suarez, a house inspector from nearby Escondido, who has a multigeneration gang of family in tow. 鈥淏een looking forward to this,鈥� he tells me while we wait, peering up at the Ferris wheel in the distance and the giant slide that rises to the south. 鈥淲e come every year. I mean, except last year.鈥� I ask him if he鈥檚 comfortable amid the jammed-in crowd after what we鈥檝e all gone through. He looks at me slightly askance. 鈥淪ure. I mean, I worked straight through. Lots of people did. All these stories about people 鈥榰ncomfortable鈥� coming back out of hiding?鈥�
It makes him mad, he says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like reporters don鈥檛 realize that most people didn鈥檛 get to hide.
鈥淏ut hey, I missed this!鈥� he says, meaning the whole carnival around us. 鈥淎nd these dogs? They鈥檙e crazy.鈥�
The dogs, when they perform, are crazy. They catch any flying disc launched, all while spinning, flipping, springing over their handlers, or jumping 30 feet into a pool. The crowd loves them. 鈥淎nd they love the crowd!鈥� handler Andrea Rigler says later. 鈥淭hey get hyped!鈥�
Ms. Rigler seems pretty hyped herself, especially when performing with her rescue dog Leap, with whom she鈥檚 won the open freestyle disc world championship three times. It鈥檚 easy to see why.
Later we ask Ms. Rigler if the fair this year seems any different from all the fairs and exhibitions in pre-pandemic days. 鈥淥h, yes,鈥� she says. 鈥淧eople are less angry.鈥� Less angry? 鈥淣obody鈥檚 worried about anything,鈥� she says. 鈥淎t last. And that鈥檚 it, right? What we鈥檝e wanted? Quit worrying. You can feel it in the crowd.鈥�
After the dogs, we traverse the fairgrounds again. Musicians are playing, corn is being piled on grills, people are hawking flags. In the multiacre shopping arcade people are plugging bamboo pillows, products by Lakeside Scissor Sales, and a machine promising 鈥渢otal body vibration, sitting or standing.鈥� (It鈥檚 next to the House of Pistachios.)
Not far away, a man is milking a cow. Her name is Alena, she weighs 1,500 pounds, and every day she gives 14 gallons of milk. Also, like all cows, she can smell things聽6 miles away. The things you learn.
Eventually, we鈥檙e at Swifty Swine again. We catch Mr. Johnson and ask how he got into this ... profession. He says, 鈥淭wenty-three years ago in Texas I saw these guys鈥� 鈥� he means a nascent version of the current show 鈥� 鈥渁nd thought it was so cool. Talked to the owner and it turned out he was ready to sell. So I asked my wife, Shannon, who was in corporate marketing at the time, 鈥楬ey, you wanna race pigs?鈥欌��
鈥溾�楽ure,鈥� she said.鈥�
OK, then.
Now it鈥檚 showtime again. The pigs race. (This time it鈥檚聽Kardashing-ham, by a snout.) And then out comes Swifty, ready to fly into her stainless steel water trough. In truth, Swifty is more of a swimmer than a flyer. Still, there鈥檚 a moment 鈥� your heart jumps at it 鈥� when she leaps from her platform and has nothing below her but sky. Then she splashes into the trough and paddles across it at speed.聽
Watching beside me, Woz Jackson carries his daughter Kamelia on his shoulders. She claps, points, shrieks, and sighs the whole show 鈥� and says as soon as it鈥檚 over, 鈥淒addy, can we get a pig?鈥� Mr. Jackson just looks at me, laughs, and says to his daughter those words that every parent has wielded in crisis, 鈥淲e鈥檒l see, honey. We鈥檒l see.鈥�
I tell him I鈥檓 surprised kids still go for such analog events as this. Does he have any guesses why high-tech entertainment hasn鈥檛 rendered this sort of thing pass茅?
He shrugs. 鈥淒on鈥檛 know. All I know is my kids would kill me if we missed the fair.
鈥淚t鈥檚 a tradition,鈥� he says.
Then he adds, shaking his head, 鈥淏ut how am I gonna not get a pig?鈥澛�
A tradition, fairs definitely are 鈥� though that tradition has proved remarkably plastic, morphing over the centuries as fast as civilization and technology forced it to. The Romans held fairs. Medieval villages staged fairs so that potential customers would be present when merchants congregated. Renaissance fairs (鈥渇aires鈥�?) were apparently so much fun that today a whole industry exists to reenact them. The very first modern state or county fair was held in 1841 in Syracuse, New York. (Among its attractions: a plowing contest. Who needs TikTok?) From it grew the tradition of the community agricultural fair, often timed to celebrate the harvest and provide those working the fields some respite and social pleasure. Agricultural fairs were a tacit recognition of communal interdependence. And a chance to boast. 鈥淣ice 800-pound squash you鈥檝e got there, Eldrick. How do you like my 1,000-pounder?鈥� In time, the 鈥渁g鈥� element shrank, the pleasure element grew. With electricity came nighttime entertainment. With engines came rides. With amplification came noise.
Fairs turned into showbiz, literally. The movie 鈥淪tate Fair鈥� appeared in 1933, was nominated for best picture, and sparked two remakes (1945, 1962) as well as 鈥� 63 years later 鈥� a Broadway musical. Its plot chronicles the Frake family鈥檚 annual sojourn from small farm to the biggest event imaginable: the Iowa State Fair. The elder Frakes have competition in mind (pigs, pies); the younger Frakes, romance. They all find what they came for 鈥� though exactly in what fashion they find it, I won鈥檛 spoil.
Is it a surprise that the movies aren鈥檛 bad? Maybe it shouldn鈥檛 be, because for all the recipe-contest high jinks and love-match folderol, what the movies do best is bring to life what makes us love fairs in the first place. Their size, their sound, the exotica of their games, shows, rides, and exhibits. Their version of the world. I first saw 鈥淪tate Fair鈥� as a kid, and I couldn鈥檛 think anything but ... I want to go.
I certainly understood why the Frakes wanted to go. But only later did I realize that their journey from innocence to experience was one of those archetypal narratives that we intuitively crave, the tale of leaving town and encountering 鈥渢he other.鈥� It鈥檚 the story of the hero鈥檚 metamorphosis. For the Frakes, the Iowa State Fair offered at a minimum an escape from their mundane routine. At the maximum it held the possibility of slipping out of one鈥檚 skin and stumbling into an adventure. Where might it lead?
This year, of all years, we might wonder. Last summer there were no fairs, no amusement parks, no parades to speak of, no music festivals thronged with crowds. Leave town? Many of us haven鈥檛 left our houses. And if we鈥檝e encountered 鈥渢he other,鈥� it鈥檚 been via Zoom.
鈥淎 city needs its dreams,鈥� wrote the great design anthropologist Christopher Alexander in 鈥淎 Pattern Language,鈥� his team鈥檚 seminal handbook on how to construct towns and houses based on centuries of human experience. One prescription for how to conjure those dreams? 鈥淪et aside some part of the town as a carnival 鈥� mad sideshows, tournaments, acts, competitions, dancing, music, street theater, clowns ... which allow people to reveal their madness; weave a wide pedestrian street through this area; run booths along the [alleys].鈥� So it is at the fair. So it was in San Diego on the midway 鈥� people finally free to reveal their madness, however civilized. Wander the 鈥渨ide pedestrian street鈥� here and you might see anything. You might see a man on a 7-foot unicycle juggling machetes. You might see a rescue dog become a superhero.
You might see a flying pig.
So, wanna meet Swifty? Of course you do. Just like the 43 people who are lined up right now, only minutes after the 4:30 show. For $10, Mr. Johnson has promised, you can hold Swifty and get a picture to commemorate the moment (he calls it a 鈥減ig-ture鈥�). Full color, 5-by-7, yours in 30 seconds, thank you.
To judge by who鈥檚 lined up, Swifty appeals to all ages. 鈥淵ou can play on your phone all day,鈥� Mr. Johnson observes, 鈥渂ut how often can you hold a pig?鈥� Swifty by now has been toweled off and swaddled, and appears to accept her devotees with affectionate grace.聽
鈥淪he鈥檚 not bristly!鈥� says Delaynee Martinez, age 11, after holding Swifty for a photo alongside her cousins.聽
The line grows longer.
We head back across the park to find the charismatic Ms. Rigler on break before the last 鈥淓xtreme Dogs鈥� performance of the day. This is her first event since the pandemic鈥檚 onset in March 2020, and she tells us about her year of 鈥済etting by鈥� 鈥� doing online dog training and driving rescue dogs from one part of America to another. Now, 鈥淚鈥檓 just happy to be back out. It鈥檚 a breath of relief.鈥� Things are normalizing; her performance and competition schedule is filling up. She glances toward the parking lot a hundred yards away, where a smorgasbord of RVs are wedged cheek by jowl. One of them is hers, and inside are her 10 dogs. Ten? 鈥淭hey鈥檙e our pets, too,鈥� she says.
As we part with her, the sky has begun shading toward evening. Streaks of lilac in cornflower blue.
We aim for the exit, but the river of people has other ideas. Somehow we鈥檙e sweeping again toward the pigs. The 8 p.m. show is about to begin, and even from far away you can see the grandstands are now overflowing. There are baby strollers, wheelchairs, children on their parents鈥� shoulders. As we walk, we鈥檙e passed by a little girl tugging her mother in the direction of the tiny arena. 鈥淢ommy, are they going to race? Is that where they鈥檙e going to race?鈥�
Oh, they鈥檙e going to race, all right. By the time we鈥檙e nearby, they are racing. And we don鈥檛 intend to watch them again. Really, we don鈥檛.
Except that this time the buzz is even louder than before, the gravity of its energy pulling people from the sideshows, the arcade, the picnic tables. Around us the lamps are coming on, the carnival air is electric, and we鈥檙e all together, at last, all finding the groove of those timeless summer rhythms. And then from inside I start to hear it: 鈥淕o Swifty, go!鈥� Louder now, feeding on itself. 鈥淕o Swifty, go! Go Swifty, go!鈥� And I鈥檓 thinking, What will it be like this time? How astonishing? How preposterous?
So forgive me, but I have to leave you now, because Swifty鈥檚 about to fly again.
And, sure, you can blame it on my聽too-long-cooped-up heart, but I need to see how far.
