9:30 a.m. We arrive, buy tickets, pass through the gate by the "space needle." I see a guy walking with a little carrying pack of four small glasses of beer. Must be different flavors. Doesn't seem like a bad idea. It's noon somewhere!
9:45 a.m. First order of business is to have our family photo taken at the MPR booth. It's a tradition by which we gauge family changes. One kid, one baby. Two kids, mom with rounded belly. Two kids, one baby, gray dad. Etc.
9:50 a.m. For no apparent reason, we walk through the Horticulture Building. Really boring. Your city slicker correspondent, out of touch with the agricultural roots of the fair, wonders whether Starbucks has an outlet on these grounds. It occurs to him it will require more than caffeine to get him through the Birthing Center and the animal barns.
10:00 a.m. In and out at the MPR booth. I buy a foot-long hot dog. Beats hell out of my first breakfast, a bowl of cinnamon crunch. Amanda suggests that she and the two older girls ride the sky tram across the fairgrounds. When she agrees to a change in adult personnel, I pay $15 and get to sit for ten straight minutes. I know from experience that my arthritic knee will be barking at me later and have to try and wage a stealthy, rear-guard action against dragging down my vibrant young family.
10:10 a.m. It comes to light that while the three of us were on our ride, Amanda scored some corn fritters and a button that says "Tax the Rich!" This reminds me of the fellow bicyclist I stopped behind at a red light while riding to work yesterday. She wore a backpack that had two buttons. One showed a stick figure wearing a skirt, such as usually designates a women's toilet. Only there were two of these figures and they were holding hands. The message said, "Not just a phase." The other button said, "I'm a liberal, vegetarian, tree-hugging lesbian and I'm coming to take your gun."
10:30 a.m. I tour the DFL booth while Amanda and the girls stand in line for french fries. Everywhere you go you see people fanning themselves with small signs that say, "Vote No on the marriage amendment!" If only the people who made their intentions public could vote, it'd be a landslide.
10:45 a.m. As we head off for the animal barns, I break away and buy a pronto pup. Not as good as the foot-long but it will delay my arrival at our next destination.
11:00 a.m. I walk through the horse barn looking for my family. Since my head is up and on a swivel, like a point guard, I step square in the center of a substantial pile of horse product. A cell phone call reveals that, unencumbered by the stroller, I have made it to the horse barn before the rest of them. I try to take this news in the manner of Marcus Aurelius but it is really quite upsetting to think that I am spending more time here than is necessary.
11:30 a.m. The Birthing Center. For some reason, people--at least fair-attending people--love it, and we have to park the stroller and carry the two smaller girls. I lift the older one above the heads of the masses so that she can take in the inspiring sight of a mother pig lying on her side while a half dozen or more piglets suckle her. Flies everywhere, and animal stench. I had a similar feeling watching the RNC. The feeling is: it will feel good to take a shower.
Noon: Time to get serious about eating. While Amanda is in the Food Building, I guard the stroller, where our youngest has fallen asleep. I wish I could do that. My usual excitement at the prospect of eating is dulled somewhat by the thought that I'll have to touch my food with fingers that were recently in the Birthing Center. I notice in the crowd a whole family wearing tees that say, "Marriage: one man, one woman. Vote Yes." I immediately study them for signs of mental retardation but can detect only the farm. The rural-metropolitan split on the marriage amendment is more like a chasm. Same for the young-old. What happens when there's a conflict? I'm old and metro and will vote No. I've seen several kids in tees advertising their small-town sports teams fanning themselves with the Vote No signs. Maybe the amendment will fail. Lori Sturdevant has more on the fair and same-sex marriage.
12:15 p.m. We eat. I have two servings of lefse and split, with Amanda, two falafels. The chickpea one is better than the barbecued chicken though, in truth, both taste mostly of cucumber sauce. I top it off with a chocolate milk shake. There's nothing to look forward to now except leaving.
12:30 p.m. Lydia, who is four, and her father, 54, go on the "giant slide." We get our rug, take five minutes to climb the stairs, slide down in five seconds. Two dollars each, a relative bargain.
1:00 p.m. At the kiddie rides. While Amanda is standing in line to buy tickets, a man who's leaving with his kids asks whether she'll take the ones they haven't used. She thanks him and he hands over more tickets than she was intending to buy. Lydia goes on this ride where cars with dinosaur heads go round and round. She likes it so well that she goes a second time, which is okay, because it preserves us from wandering around in search of another line to stand in.
1:20 p.m. Amanda hands over the remaining tickets from our benefactor to the least Minnesota-looking dad standing in line and observes that it might be about time to leave so that naps can occur at their normal time. I do not protest.
