After the annual Old Settlers Reunion had been held in Houston for four decades, the decision was made in 1951 to expand the event by adding a county fair.
The addition of livestock showing and marketing, carnival rides, and other entertainment quickly caught on, and attendance at the dual event increased significantly in the fair’s first few years. Now in its 62nd year, the Texas County Fair has supplanted the 102-year-old OSR as the marquis attraction of the midsummer event, and annually brings thousands of people to the Houston Area Chamber of Commerce Fairgrounds (rain or shine). While there may not be elephant rides, flying trapeze acts, and some of the other attractions that were featured during the fair’s early years, the current mix does cater to all types of people, including those who enjoy animals, rides, and the sounds of loud engines and crunching metal.
And to be sure, a lot of people are involved in providing those attractions.
Youthful livestock experts
The competitive showing and selling of farm animals is undoubtedly one of the fair’s biggest draws, as was once again illustrated this year by the crowds that gathered for the better part of three days in the grandstands surrounding the arena in the fairgrounds’ livestock area, and the virtually constant activity in the adjacent barns. In fact, the deal is so popular that the number of spectators is pretty much equaled by the number of participants.
Most of those participants are youngsters, many of whom are already veterans of numerous fairs – like 14-year-old Licking resident Abbe Sprouse. The 2012 version was the sixth Texas County Fair in which she’s shown and sold animals, and over the years she has shown several breeds of goats and pigs. Her focus this year was Katahdin sheep.
“I enjoy talking to other breeders, learning new tips, and just having fun showing,” Sprouse said.
While the average onlooker sees the end result of a clean, well-groomed animal, and a smiling, satisfied handler, there’s a lot more to showing that goes on behind the scenes.
“The hardest things are making sure everything is ready, like your health papers, safety tags and 4-H record books,” Sprouse said.
Sprouse’s friend and fellow Licking resident, Victoria Pankey, also 14, has been showing and selling animals for two years now and brought Kiko goats to this year’s fair. She, too, has become familiar with the rigors of preparation.
“We prepare every day for at least a couple of hours, depending on how hot it is,” Pankey said. “I have to trim feet and hair, shave tails, gather buckets and fill out forms. It’s a lot of work.”
Despite their age similarity and shared hometown, the two girls go to different schools and are in different grades based on the months in which their birthdays fall. Sprouse is a freshman at Plato (where her mother works), while Pankey is an eighth-grader at Licking.
With the average age of farmers in the United States already startlingly high (about 64) and steadily increasing, these girls know that they and others like them represent the potential to reverse that trend. But the numbers aren’t exactly promising.
“We need more people our age to get interested in it,” Pankey said. “There are a lot of kids here (at the fair), but I don’t think that many of them will last.
“I want to stay involved in it. I want to get my career started and then maybe come back to it when I’m around 30.”
The show must go on
To many people – especially the younger variety – a trip to a county fair wouldn’t be complete without a dizzying ride on a twisting, turning mechanical object that has no apparent purpose other than promoting nausea or loosening dental work, and a meal made up largely of high-calorie, low-nutrition ingredients like fluffy sugar and deep-fried dough.
Making such stomach-turning fun possible is a genre of people who travel from town to town setting up carnivals – often referred to as carnies. These folks are a special breed, and some of the clichés that surround them are in many cases not far off from the truth.
Birmingham, Alab., resident Jeremy Lee is a classic example of a carny (or carnie) whose life revolves around his job. The 23-year-old employee of Birmingham’s Sonshine Amusements has literally grown up around the “show” he travels with.
“I’ve been out here since I was two years old,” Lee said. “It’s like family; they raised me and they’re still raising me.”
Sonshine is one of five branches of a carnival company that began operation in the 1950s. Lee and his cohorts spend about two-thirds of each year moving from town to town in a host of states, including Illinois, Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama and Missouri.
Their stop at the Texas County Fair was just one of many they’ll make this summer.
“We go eight months on, and four months off,” Lee said. “During the eight months on, we set it up and take it down literally every week. The four months off gives us a chance to get our bones back in shape and get ready to do it all over again.”
Having worked with the show since his early teens, Lee has learned the ropes in all possible aspects.
“I’ve worked every ride and food stand out here,” he said. “I know all of it.”
Lee said he never tires of meeting new people while he’s working, and that making it all happen seems to come naturally to he and his coworkers – from setting up, to hosting guests, to tearing down.
“We just go together,” he said. “It’s all teamwork.”
Demolition by design
Some people might question the logic behind demolishing a car on purpose, especially by bashing it into another car.
But demolition derbies are popular events at county fairs across the nation, and their ability to draw large crowds isn’t likely to subside any time soon.
Raymondville resident Gary Smith doesn’t for a moment question the validity of crashing cars on purpose, and is at the center of why the demolition derby is a perennial staple of the Texas County Fair. Smith has been playing vehicular pinball in Houston for 11 years now, and his No. 12 oz. Orange Crush 1978 Dodge Monaco has been a highly recognizable entry for seven years.
He also runs in derbies at West Plains and Salem, and has competed in the past at Richland.
“I’d say I’ve probably run in 40,” Smith said. “This is my fun for the year.”
Smith said he spends about $1,000 a year preparing the Crushmobile for battle. He stripped down and rebuilt its 318 V8 engine six years ago, and it’s been running well ever since.
“I always run Dodge,” Smith said. “Most people run Chevys because they’re cheaper to work on and some people think they’re better.”
Some demolition derbies offer big cash prizes for winners, and subsequently attract many drivers with winning on their minds. Smith said that when he enters a derby arena, he doesn’t expect to win.
His motivation is simple.
“I like to hit people,” he said. “I hold it wide open and just try to hit somebody.”
Smith embraces the showmanship aspect of being a derby driver and doesn’t mind if other drivers reap most of the sport’s financial benefits.
“Some guys come here just for first prize,” he said, “But most of the time, they don’t hit as many people as I hit. I don’t come to win; I come to hit people just for the audience. I get the ‘hardest hit’ award all the time.”
Smith runs in the modified division that allows for major changes to a car, like heavy metal bars that run the length of each side.
“That keeps the door from coming into the driver’s seat,” he said. “There are some other modifications, too, and they’re all there to make the car better for hitting people.”
Smith figures there’s no real science to being a good derby driver.
“It’s mostly luck,” he said. “Luck and money; if you have a lot of money to buy all the good stuff, you can make your car last.”
His no-holds-barred approach has made Smith somewhat of a living legend.
“I see kids in town and they say, ‘Hey, you’re the Orange Crush driver,’” he said. “That’s pretty cool.”