The Little Hemlock World's Fair

Location:
United States

new york fair

By Gideon Welles

The Hemlock Little World’s Fair

As the cars smash into each other, you can clearly see one driver’s head jerk. The car stops, and flames appear on the engine, which is clearly visible because the hood has been twisted nearly off. The firemen come, hose off the car, and check on the driver.

He’s okay!

The crowd goes wild!

The firemen trot out of the arena, the referee shouts the all clear, and the remaining cars in the arena resume their business of smashing into one another. Ten smoky, metal-crunching, heart-raging minutes later, a battered Pontiac, which looks to be from the late 70’s or early 80’s, is the only vehicle still sputtering along. It has been painted all matte black, except for the sprayed-on “Smitty’s Garage” on the hood. A flag is raised, the crowd cheers madly, and the wreckers move in, dragging the losers away. Round five of the Saturday night Demolition Derby in tiny Hemlock, New York, is in the record books.

It will take about fifteen minutes to clear the destroyed cars and bring in ten more, the standard number for a derby round. After checking to make sure the minivans and station wagons aren’t next – no one wants to miss that round – some of the fair-goers walk off, to use the bathroom or get another beer or maybe even to check out some of the rides and games along the midway. Most stay, especially those with coveted seats on the sagging bleachers or in the venerable grandstand. Some of them got there early to snag a good seat; no point in leaving it, at least until the station wagons have duked it out.

The men wear black shirts with American eagles, concert t-shirts (Skynrd, Whitesnake, Tesla) or anything Harley-Davidson, plus a Budweiser or Coors cap, beat-up denim shorts and raggedy sneakers. The women wear tank tops and Daisy Dukes if they have the body for it (and sometimes if they don’t). Kids are everywhere: ten year old boys who are there to see the Demolition Derby (because it’s THE COOLEST THING EVER), seven year old girls there to see the bunnies and sheep in the 4-H barn, and teenage boys and girls who are there to see each other, even if they are all far too shy to actually talk to a member of the opposite sex.

Hemlock is a small town, set in the gentle hills of the Finger Lakes region of Western New York. To get there from the nearest city, Rochester, you must drive about 45 minutes south and about 45 years back in time. Hemlock is far too small to even have a Wal-mart, and occasionally can seem undeserving of its own zip code. The people are mostly farmers, who grow corn or wheat outside of town. Their farm houses are painted white and are secluded, set off a good ways from the road, private. There is always a barn, usually a large, wooden one, faded brick in color, the kind they used to make back when people cared how they looked. The men and women of Hemlock are good people: honest, generous, a little reserved. They like their beer in cans, their music country, their cars American.

The fair is the highlight of the year in Hemlock. It has been going on since before the Civil War, and no one misses it. It is held annually in the middle of July, when long, sun-blasted days give way to soft summer nights and the stars twinkle to the music of the carousel. In many ways, it’s like any small-town fair from Alabama to California: it is run by veteran carnies, men and women who travel around the country packing and unpacking the fun houses, tilt-a-whirls, and not-exactly-unrigged games. The food trailers feature pizza, hot dogs, funnel cakes, cotton candy and only-in-America treats such as deep-fried Oreo cookies, five for two dollars, served in a flimsy cardboard bowl with powdered sugar. There are animals in the 4-H barn: goats, rabbits, ducks, chickens, cows and sheep that farmers’ kids have nurtured for the past year. They may win prizes but will cry when their animals are sold or auctioned off. There is a talent show with no entry fee, a chainsaw carving competition, and the mounted police will be there, showing people their fine horses.

Evening falls and families with smaller kids make their way home, leaving the fair to the teenagers, the carnies and the men and women in the beer tent. It’s the best time: there are no lines at the rides or food trailers, and tired hawkers leave you alone and might even let you win a stuffed Shrek or Nemo at one of the games. There is a concert in the converted metal and concrete barn that serves as the beer tent: Saturday night is usually the best night to hear music and tonight the headliner is Bob’s Brother’s Band out of nearby Avon, New York. They play cover tunes, heavy on the Joe Cocker and Van Morrison. As the Demolition Derby wraps up, many migrate to the barn. As the sun majestically sets over the Genesee Valley, the fair becomes an island of happy pandemonium in a sea of gentle summer: walk back to the parking lot and the blinking lights of the midway give way to scores of fireflies and the tinny music of the fun houses is replaced by chirping crickets, singing to one another in the velvet darkness of a Hemlock summer.