A Man Named Brownie

Old Man Resting in a Doorway by Edwin Lord Weeks

I wrote this a week ago at the fair—now it is over for another year. And I have thoughts about that too, about it being over and how strange it is to return to “normal” life. I also have been thinking a lot about the words carnal, carnival, and carney. But, in the meantime, I thought I’d share this.

Mornings are reluctant at the fair, the sun creeping up in the east. I wake up at 5 a.m., then 6. I sit at the edge of the bed, groggy, with strange aches and pains. This is the beginning of our fifth week of fairs. Sales day number 17.

I pull one of the curtains back and the fall sky is an immaculate blue. Pink, wispy clouds drift over the distant mountains . . . as well as the back of the Costco warehouse fifty yards away. The parking lot is puddle strewn, and a herd of broken down carts stand at the ready.

The mornings are strong coffee and chilly drives to the fairgrounds, a slow waking. We’re greeted at the entrance by Brownie, a man in his 60s who has worked at the fair for as long as I can remember. He forgets who I am from day to day—I am one in a sea of faces. He approaches like a border agent who has happened to notice stray detonator wires dangling under my vehicle. He has deep set eyes and long gray hair and the rare smile shows years and stories.

I see him later in the day, walking the fairgrounds, always on a mission. He leans forward. Mouth ready for a confrontation. And I wonder what his boyhood was like, what pleasures and traumas he experienced. I feel that more these days, this curiosity about people’s childhoods, what has made them who they are. It’s all there, if you could dig deep enough, all the stories.

I wish I could cross paths with Brownie when he was a boy, take him fishing, play ball, muss his hair. Watch him grin bashfully, the way my boys do, or watch his eyes come alive, the way my boys’ do, when we wrestle on the living room floor.

Yesterday was a rainout. We mostly sat in the tent and tried to stay warm and kept eating out of boredom. There is a sad emptiness that wanders through a vacant fairgrounds. But today is prime autumn—57 degrees this morning, an icy blue sky, a chilly breeze.

One week from now these five fair weeks will be over and I will be at home, as if nothing has happened. But I’ve tried not to wish this time away, not this year, with all of its losses. Every day, even days during an endless fair season, are precious and full of life, full of God, if I slow down enough to appreciate it.