Excerpts from Eleven Days in August
Saturday 2:10 p.m.
Brian is working at the big stand. He's cooking with Roy
and doing some sausage spitting as well. Yet another of Mikey's college buddies,
Brian is a high school teacher who takes advantage of his summer breaks to help
us out at the Fair. He, like Roy, has been doing this for quite a few years.
I'm back at the big stand myself just taking a break and visiting with the folks here.
Brian slips the neck strap of his long green bib apron over his sandy-haired head
and reaches around to grasp the strings from behind, bringing them together in the
front and tying them at the waist.
"Man, this apron's getting tight," he
says...to no one in particular.
Big mistake...rookie mistake. Mark, sitting at the
beer tap occasionally pouring as orders are called out, looks at me with an almost
imperceptible, ever-so-slight grin - actually, more of a slight gleam in the eye
accompanied by the slight raising of an eyebrow. It says to me "Did you just hear that? We're
about to have some fun!"
Brian is an interesting, hard working and good-looking
guy, but he's, well...stocky. If he were a girl, his mother would describe him as being big-boned.
But he's not a girl - he's just a big, husky guy. He has huge, muscular calves; he thinks
they're his best feature and is known to push the shorts season well into the winter months,
which, in Wisconsin, is really pushing it. The long apron, ending as it does just above
the knees, accents his lower legs, which is probably why he's usually wearing his apron...maybe
even why he agrees to work so hard during his summer teacher's break. We humor him whenever he flexes
his calves and carries on about them. As for me, I just see two Easter hams with shoes and,
if the truth be told, when he looks at those freckled calves in the mirror (we know he does), that's
probably what he sees as well, for Brian loves to eat - and there's a lot to eat at the Wisconsin
State Fair - hence, his problem with the apron getting tight.
1965
Just another day
here at the Fair...mid-afternoon, there's a pretty good crowd, and I'm strolling the grounds during
a cooking break. Walking past the trout pond, I hear the voice of the gray-haired manager, which
I recognize from my many hours spent there. His voice resonates over the loud speakers:
"Hey Mille –
What are ya doin' with the bucket?"
Turning to see why he's calling my name, I realize it's not
me he's speaking to. Moving along in his slow, got-all-the-time-in-the-world ambling walk is
my grandfather. He's shuffling along, wearing those comfortable old brown shoes, in the line of hopeful anglers
moving into position around the perimeter of the tank. With his full head of snow-white hair (partially
visible under his gray-blue summer straw Borsalino) and his stocky torso, he could be a southern
Italian version of Santa Claus should he decide to grow a beard and add a few pounds. Grandpa has
a green plastic bucket in his right hand (it's the one we use to drain ice water at the stand),
a folding metal chair in his left, and has stopped dead in his tracks. He turns his head, looking
for the source of the inquiring voice that's calling his name...a feigned expression of bewilderment
on his tanned, square-jawed face.
"Over here, Mille, by the microphone."
Grandpa's
head turns again...right, left, upwards, to the rear...as if to say, "Who's calling me; why is he
bothering me?” Then, finally spotting and facing his inquisitor, he replies with a dead-serious expression,
"I'mma catcha pesci; needa bigga bucket."
"Who's watching the Italian sausage stand, Mille?
What are ya doin' goin' fishin'?" the manager asks (as would grandma, were she here).
The banter
continues...back and forth...to the amusement of everyone in the area, and I soon realize that these
two guys have a regular shtick going on. Nobody in the family, myself included, was aware that grandpa
has been doing this routine and, although I know he's capable of most anything that involves fun, I'm still
surprised that I've been missing this and just happened to catch it by accident.
"Don't you go using
that sausage of yours, no bait fishing here, it's flies only, Mille."
An exaggerated look of disdain, with
accompanying hand gestures, is returned and Grandpa now moves into position at the side of the trout tank,
turning his back to the would-be game warden. Reaching into the right pocket of his baggy gray slacks, he
pulls out a crumpled paper napkin and begins to open its folds. Moments later, its contents are revealed: an
Italian sausage, brown and juicy. It obviously was liberated from our grill only recently, as evidenced by the
telltale skewer hole in its center. With a quick stab he impales the hefty sausage on the tiny #12 hook of the delicate
trout fly. Taking the rod handle in his right hand, he pokes his arm straight out and pendulums the baited fly out over
the water, dooming it to a soggy fate. Grandpa sits down on his now-opened folding chair with an exaggerated
look of innocence while his self-tied fly sinks quickly to the bottom and lies there like a chunk of catfish bait.
My grandfather never used anything but a cane pole baited with worms when he fished and that's how he looks
right now; the trout rod has become a big ol' cane pole and all he's missing is a bright red and white bobber.
To look at him, he could be back on the pier at the old family cottage at Wind Lake catching bluegills
and the occasional bullhead. The banter between grandpa and the warden continues as a small oil slick begins to form on
the water surface directly above grandpa's line. Anglers on either side gaze into the water, enviously, at his
special bait. The trout, however, are unimpressed.
I hang out and watch as the rest of the
comedy act unfolds, to the enjoyment of all. Returning to the stand I spill the beans on grandpa's little escapade;
it's too special for any of the family to miss and, without letting him know they're onto him, most of them will catch
the next matinee. Grandma will take a pass.
Thinking about his routine, later, I realize
how fortunate I am - all of us, really - to have such a wonderful grandfather in our lives. No, he may not be a
go-getter on the business side, but grandma's got that covered pretty well anyway. He just adds a richness to our
own lives with his stories about his beloved Italy and his big-hearted, good-natured way in general. Life would be much the
poorer without him in it.
1979
With high expectations, on an early spring morning in 1979 Chuck and I begin our
drive to Tucson, by way of Tennessee. All goes well all the way to South Fulton, hard by the Mississippi
River, and only after picking up the new concession trailer do we run into problems. Somewhere in central
Texas while driving through a sleet storm we realize we've lost power to the refrigeration unit and
the weather only serves to emphasize our sudden reversal of fortune. With hundreds of pounds of fresh Italian
sausage at risk, finding a diesel refrigeration unit repairman at 11:00 p.m. on Interstate I-20 seems an
impossibility but, somehow, we find a guy who is able to come out to help us. A few hours later, with our spirits
refreshed, we head west again.
Tucson is a breath of fresh air. We are in the real Arizona now – not the Arizona
of Phoenix to the north with its transposed easterners who bring their well-watered green lawns with them.
No, Tucson in 1979 is real desert with real westerners, or at least the parts that I'm seeing are. After getting
set up, I interview and hire a handful of teenagers to work the counters. All of them are local kids whose
families have lived in Arizona for generations. These kids talk about finding Indian pots in the desert and about
their horses. One of them, a tiny girl, tells me her parents just gave her a new bull rope for her sixteenth birthday,
and she's very excited about it. A bull rope is something that's used in rodeos. The would-be rider of a half-wild Brahma
bull secures themselves to the bull by wrapping the rope around the bull and their hand just before someone does something very
offensive to the bull. He then opens the chute to allow him - the bull - to express his dissatisfaction. This is a
petite girl of sixteen. I feel like I'm on another planet but I thoroughly enjoy the experience of meeting and working
with people with such a different life-experience. Back home, most of the teenaged girls I know expect something a bit
more trendy and fashionable than a rope for their sixteenth birthdays. Expensive clothes, electronics, gala parties
versus...a bull rope - and I think the Tucson version of sweet-sixteen was more thrilled than her eastern counterparts.
The Italian sausage sales go well and the Tucson people are, predictably, intrigued by the unique charcoal grill.
Many fairgoers experience their first Italian sausage sandwich and, after a good run, we shut down and point the truck and
trailer east where we will re-supply and prepare for our next engagement. It's been a good start.
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