It's not that I'm a cynic....well, maybe a little. It's just that as a reporter in western Maine, I had to cover the Fryeburg, Waterford, and Oxford County fairs every year -- year after year.

So I now don't care if I never visit another fair -- and I think that's fair.

I began visiting fairs as a kid, when my family brought me to visit Great Aunt Amy in Belgrade each August. Fairs were fun then, but I always found myself more interested in the "hoss" an ox pulling then the rides or other amusements.

I took my own four bread snappers to the various fairs, but it never seemed to really grip them that much. They had fun, they drove me to temporary poverty asking for ride money and for that to-me-unappetizing fair fare. But by the next day, it all seemed far behind them. I don't ever remember them saying, "Hey, let's go back to the fair tonight."

Nor did I ever say that.

My oldest daughter did remember at least one fair, when she was in the early grades of elementary school. She remembered it well enough and fondly enough to write a poem about a fair, which not only won her some recognition by her teacher but was published by a magazine.

I remember it well. It began, "At the fair, at the fair....." Well, maybe not as well as I thought I remembered it. Anyway, we were really proud of her for breaking into published print at such a young, tender, after-the-fair age.

As a reporter, I got to take photos and write up the "hoss" and ox pulling, which I really didn't mind. Doing that I got to stand at the end of the pulling ring and photograph the teams as they lunged toward me, dragging a wooden sled loaded with weight. Before I bought a zoom lens, I had to wait until the lunging monsters were too close for comfort before clicking the shutter as many times as I could to get a decent shot.

Thankfully, never did the lunging monsters crash against the fence on which I was standing to get the shots. That could have messed up a good lens or a mediocre reporter -- or both.

There was a time when the teamsters whipped their teams into a pulling frenzy. A great improvement occurred when that was no longer permitted. The teamsters could shout, use religious language, snap a whip above the teams, but not actually strike them with it. I thought the poor not-necessarily-volunteer pulling "hosses" and ox appreciated the new driving limitation.

I always found it fascinating how the pulling "hosses" and ox would rest between tugs, panting wildly with sides heaving and foam flying from their mouths and nostrils -- I'm not actually sure from where it flew. Given the choice, at those moments I was only too happy to be the reporter taking their picture than to have been one of them.

At the Fryeburg Fair, a deputy "friend" would begin shouting and cussing at me the moment he spotted me lugging my camera bag toward the gate he guarded so well with his big body and profanity. I don't remember all he shouted at me for which I'm thankful -- something about how much salt a reporter was worth, especially this one.

Covering the "lumberjack" contests -- that term ever used any more? -- was fun. I got to take more photos, interview those working their arms off with crosscut saws and axes, and be glad I wasn't one of them.

Not being a pulling "hoss" or ox or a "lumberjack" has added to my tranquility over the years.

Of course, taking pictures of the largest pumpkins and the winning pies was part of the deal. Had I gotten to taste some of the pies I may have enjoyed that part a bit more.

A fair story wouldn't be a fair story without photos of youngsters flying around in the various spinning amusement rides. Of course, after taking the photos I had to catch the kids to learn their names, ages, and the towns they called home. Many weekly papers and some number of dailies added to their sales numbers with such pictures of kids. Every relative would buy a paper. Never mind the news. I want to see a picture in the paper of the kid I see every day of my life.

That sales rule of thumb also applied to newspaper pictures at school, church, club, athletic, and many other functions. Still does.

I think my classic amusement-ride photo was at the Oxford fair one night, when I basically by accident got a shot of the ferris wheel and various other lights reflected upside down in a large puddle located between my camera and the ferris wheel. I was applauded for that picture with some kind folks asking me what settings I used. How did I know, since the camera was automatic. But I usually made up some settings to let those inquiring know how professional a photographer I was.

Overall, I enjoyed fairs a lot more as a kid than as a reporter.

Fairs are for kids, aren't they? Even though they began in the late 1800s as a way for farmers to get together and learn new techniques as well as for them and their families to socialize. When fairs started, there were no supermarkets for socializing, and farmers probably couldn't take a university course in agriculture since it probably hadn't been invented then.

Fairs are for kids. If you don't believe me, the next time you're at one check out their smiles not quite covered by the candy cotton.

Fairs were for this kid, for sure, although now that he has gotten a bit older with that "healing" leg so common among older "kids," he would rather limp the other way when the fair comes to town.

I think that's only fair.

Milt Gross can be reached for corrections, harassment, or other purposes at lesstraveledway@midmaine.com.

Milton M. Gross Copyright 2011