Tim Sample: Stories I Never Told You

At the fair

Tue, 09/23/2014 - 8:00am

I was sitting behind the merchandise table following a show at The Criterion Theatre in Bar Harbor a few summers back when I noticed a man striding across the lobby in my direction. He was over six feet tall, wearing blue jeans and a checked hunting shirt and sporting a thick, black lumberjack’s beard.

As he approached, I found myself thinking, “This guy sure looks familiar.” Then it hit me. Except for the fact that he’d left his double bladed axe and logger’s peavey at home, he was a walking, talking, human-scale doppelganger of the giant Paul Bunyon statue at the entrance to The Bangor Fairgrounds.

Coming right to the point, he said, “Mr. Sample, I’ve always wanted to tell you this. You were the first live performer my parents ever allowed me to see.”

Hmmm, how’s that again? It took me a moment to absorb the full implications of this pronouncement. But, as he continued to talk, adding details as he went along, the story began to emerge.

It seems that, some 30 years earlier, this same man had been a wide-eyed 6-year old boy perched on his dad’s shoulders high above the crowd at a rural Maine fairground. From that vantage point he’d been able to see over the rest of the audience to get a bird’s eye view of his first-ever live comedy show.

Like everybody else on that long ago autumn night, the boy’s family had shown up to experience the unique mixture of sights, sounds, smells and sensations, which can only be found at a Maine country fair.

Unlike some of the more populous states to the west of us (OK, technically they’re all to the west of us), Maine doesn’t actually have an official state fair. Although The Bangor Fair, which runs for 10 days from late July through early August, probably comes closest. Besides being one of the oldest fairs in Maine, it’s also the biggest, drawing fairgoers from all over the state.

But Maine has a couple dozen smaller fairs as well, each with its own particular local character, history and traditions. Despite a recent trend toward a more carnival-like atmosphere featuring loud, garish midways and the latest mechanized thrill rides, the majority of our Maine fairs continue to reflect their deep agricultural roots.

Prize-winning livestock and produce as well as horse and oxen pulling events still draw big crowds at Maine agricultural fairs. Local 4-H clubs are very much in evidence as well. Spend a leisurely afternoon wandering through the massive pavilions at one of these fairs and it’s easy to imagine you’ve slipped through a portal into an earlier, simpler age.

I’ve performed dozens of shows a number of fairs over the years. But one in particular stands out as far and away the most memorable of them all. The following incident took place over 20 years ago during a Saturday evening performance at The Fryeburg Fair.

The last big Maine agricultural fair of the season, Fryeburg schedules its fair to run through the first week in October, a date which just happens to coincide with peak foliage season in the countryside surrounding the fairground located just east of town.

You’d have been hard pressed to find a better place to stage a show on that picture perfect October Saturday. The fair had been crowded all day, and the management couldn’t have been happier. I was told they expected upwards of 2,500 warm bodies to be seated in the grandstand and spread across the harness track infield for my evening performance.

Then, an hour before show time, dark storm clouds began arriving from the west. Rain was definitely on the way. The only question was when and how much? The answer arrived just moments before 8 p.m., when a crack of lightning split the sky asunder unleashing a torrent of near biblical proportions.

The audience quickly sought refuge under the grandstand roof as I stepped up to a microphone located on the tiny covered “stage” some 75 yards distant.

Just try and imagine performing from a pint-sized venue situated directly behind Niagara Falls while your audience is attempting to follow the monologue filtered through a 75 foot wall of roaring, cascading water. It was looking like a long night ahead.

Just five minutes later a miracle happened. Blurry figures emerged from the deluge and resolved into rain-soaked teenagers. They stood watching from the foot of the stage heedless of the torrential rain, laughing and urging me on for the entire performance.

If I’d been a judge at the Fryeburg Fair that year each of those kids would have received a blue ribbon for “Audience Member, Best in Show.”