Growing Up With The Iselin Fair

Growing up with the Iselin Fair
It’s getting to be that time of year again. Monday, July 11, kicks off another week of the Iselin Fair. For anyone who grew up in Iselin, the week of the Fair was anticipated and enjoyed by all. Parents brought their most valuable possessions, their children, once a year to the sacred ground on the corner of Green Street and Cooper Avenue. There was food, fun, rides, games, and entertainment on the stage. Nightly and weekly 50-50's and the chance to win a new car were available to all. Generation after generation continued to bring their children to the fair, even if they no longer lived in Iselin any more

The observations and points of view you are hopefully about to read are from a person who was born in the 60's and grew up in Iselin, New Jersey. Your personal experiences growing up with the Fair may have differed from mine, but I am sure many of you can draw quite a few parallels.
Everyone knew the vacant lot in the center of town as "the fair grounds". A small piece of God’s good earth that was spared from suburban sprawl for the purposes of fun and happiness.. It lay dormant all year just waiting for our week-long summer time party. The thought of "the fair grounds" not being there someday was unimaginable. With God, the church, and the good people of Iselin watching, no-one would dare defile our sacred oasis. Many generations volunteered their time, labor, and spent their hard earned money to support the fair and the church. Even the devil himself turned a blind eye to all the happiness and joy this land gave to our community. Maybe he took that week off, or more likely he was just biding his time.
From my earliest memories, parking in the neighborhood behind Flips or in the K of C lot was standard procedure. This was a tradition. This tradition continued into adulthood until the fair moved. Walking between Flips and the firehouse, seeing the Ferris wheel to the left and the merry go round to the right, was enough to get any child’s heart pumping. In later years, there would be two Ferris wheels side by side. The smell of the food along with the sound the bullet chain would make the hair on my arms stand up. One of my earliest Fair memories is the man who operated the merry go round in the 60's. He was an older man with
missing teeth, covered in tattoos, and dressed like a character from the movie "The Wild Bunch". In any other situation, our mothers’ would have crossed the street if
they saw this guy coming. But here at the fair, he was taking children by the hand and lifting them onto horses as gently as could be. His hand firmly on the ride
controls, he kept a watchful eye on all of us. At the fair, we were all immune to harm, Father Wilus wouldn’t have it any other way.

From what I remember, the stage shows, even for a young child, were a bit corny. For better or worse, they were all part of the fair experience and something to look forward to every year. But wrestling a bear?? C’mon! At the young age of 5 or 6, I remember feeling sorry for the bear. If animals could be humiliated, I’m sure he was. Now such an act would be considered animal cruelty. In the late 70's there was a guy "Flamo, the Magnificent"(or something like that) who did tricks with fire, swords, and other sharp objects. This was an act I throughly enjoyed. One year an act involving several chimps was the main attraction. Not even a minute into the act, however, the whole purpose of the show became trying to keep the little guys from escaping into the crowd. I was rooting for the chimps ! Another time, in the late 70s, the fair broke tradition and had a young local rock band who played a twenty minute version of "Smoke on the Water". Without a doubt, the song was the highlight of the evening. Most acts were not worth remembering, thus fading into oblivion.
The friendly fatherly voice of the man who did the announcements from the side of the stage is something impossible to forget. "We have Tommy here at the stage, his parents are lost". You could hear the kid crying in the background. Sometimes he would have to make the announcement two or three times. Didn’t the moronic parents notice their kid was gone?
As a kid, my friends and I thought the music playing over the PA was a bit lame and old fashioned to say the least. As I grew older, I started to enjoy and even look forward to it as part of the whole fair experience. "In heaven there is no beer...", "Roll out the barrel..." "I don’t want her, You can have her, She’s too fat for me..." are now all songs associated with the fair. Sometimes, if the beer was flowing just right, pockets of people would sing along. You could always count on "Celebrity Corner" for at least one chorus on Friday or Saturday night. When I go to the "new" asphalt fair, the music from our youth no longer plays and I miss it. Does anyone know the name of the record they used? I am sure it was some kind of polka party.
In childhood years, we went with our parents or older siblings. You would see friends from school and quickly try to outdo each other by the amount of rides,
or which rides you went on that night. Of course, "The Bullet" was a right of passage for every red blooded American Iselin kid. Even if you never went on it again, you had to try the bullet once. Of all my rides on the bullet, only one stands out, my first time when I was around 10 or 11. I starting working on my parents a week or two before the Fair even started. Convincing them I was old enough and
wouldn’t get hurt was no small feat. The year before, my father almost became ill after a wild ride on the tilt a whirl with me, which left my mother not too hip to the whole ride scene. But, I was ready to have the "I rode the bullet" notch on my belt and said I’d go it alone. As the bullet started to move, corkscrewing to the sky, I thought maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. While sitting in my cage at the top of the Bullet while it stopped to load the bottom car, I was facing Flips and desperately trying to regain my composure. Above the din of the fair, I heard a loud rumbling. It sounded like thousands of metal garbage cans falling from the sky and bouncing off the ground. Holding on as tight as I could, I leaned forward and scanned the area trying to find the source of this intense sound. There it was directly in front of me, a gleaming white old hot rod stuck in traffic between me and Flips. I was frozen like a deer in headlights. The words "Running Scared" were boldly written in very large letters across the side of the car. A rainbow of lights from the fair rides reflected off it’s shiny paint and it’s angry-sounding engine that looked much too large for the car. Beneath it’s chopped top, I could not see the people inside, which only added to it’s mystique. This was no showroom-bought, cookie-cutter, racing striped hotrod that I saw on T.V. commercials. This was the real deal. I had always thought cars like this were only in magazines or some mythical town in California. My heart started racing; a feeling you only have a few times in your life. It was surreal. After wanting so badly to be on the bullet, at that moment I wished I was on the
ground so I could run over and get a closer look. Maybe I could go for a ride? Hey, I was 10, what did I know? Just then the ride started to move, and when I came around again the car was gone. It had roared off into the night. Sometimes the most unexpected moments are the ones you never forget, snap shots burned so deep in your memory that they never fade.
It was impossible for any child to stand still or relax at the Fair. Our bodies were fueled by pizza, fries, soda and pure adrenalin. A combination that could keep any kid wired all night, only to pass out during the car ride home.
As we grow up our priorities and reasons to go to the fair change. As teen years took hold, no longer did we go with our parents. The fair "scene" was more towards socializing , checking out what girls ( or boys, depending on your point of
view) were there. You weren’t at the fair, the fair is where you happened to be at the time, everybody wanted to be cool. With all the "hang" time, there was the
opportunity to try a bigger variety of food. Besides pizza and fries, we now ate ribs,
perogies, potato pancakes, corn on the cob, sausage sandwiches, and I am sure a few
delicacies I’ve missed. Oh yes, how could I forget clams on the half shell, for the most adventurous individuals. You could always count on the fair’s food to cure even the most intense case of "the munchies", but that’s another story. Rides became something to do as a joke, but secretly it was a way of acting like a goofy kid again, if only for a few minutes. If you were lucky, it was also a great way to be pressed up against a girl you liked and get away with it. There were a couple of years when the drinking age was lowered 18 and there were still no beer fences. Scoring a few beers was always a top priority for the "middle" teen crowd. Beer was passed back from the bar into a sea of youths. The trick was to stay close enough to the bar to have a connection, but not too close as to draw suspicion. This is when everyone went to the fair. If your girl wanted to do a ride or two, the smarter guys did it early in the evening before they were full of food and beer. It was always funny to hear someone puked on a ride at the fair, as long as it wasn’t you. Around this time is when I met a guy (who would turn out to be a life long friend), a fresh graduate from St. Cecilia’s school. An innocent looking cherub- faced fellow with a thick head of curly hair. To protect the guilty, I will refer to him as "Barrel". Barrels’ mother was one of the ladies who stretched the dough for the pizza, and Barrel was a runner in the pizza tent. I ate many free pizzas’ that week. His best scam was going to the beer tent on his break and telling them pitchers were needed for the guys frying the dough. The pitchers of beer never made it back to the pizza tent. We would go in the street behind the game trailers and pass them around trying to get rid of the evidence as fast as we could. Our t-shirts were wet in the front from chugging too fast from the pitchers. I can still picture us staggering around with sticky necks and beer stained shirts. For one week we had more beer than we could drink. "Barrel" was sure a sly one, he proved his worth, and immediately gained our
acceptance and respect. After another year or two his mom told him he didn’t have to work the fair anymore. We tried talking him back into it, but he had enough. I was a year older than him, and by now could get served somewhat. So it was my turn to repay the favor, which I did gladly. We were still too young to drive, there were some long walks home when streets and sidewalks moved like they were carnival rides. When the neighborhood started to spin, throwing up was unavoidable. I don’t really remember any real trouble back then, except for a few natural born instigators on both sides of the law.
After becoming 18, we were greeted by the "beer fences". Everyone entering and exiting the beer tent was funneled past an older fair volunteer. He would scrutinize every I.D. now matter how many times you passed by. A few years later it was a police officer manning the opening, then two. This got to be a real drag since every bathroom trip or food run required showing proof of age to get back in. God forbid your girlfriend was only 17, which created a whole new set of problems. I actually came up with the brain storm of wearing our licences on lanyards for one
night. Kind of like an all access fair pass. We all agreed it was a cutting edge idea, although none of us did it. In my late 20s or early 30s they had a priest standing guard, who was actually younger than we were. From what I recall, he was a real
jerk who had issues, and the only thing that kept him from getting smacked was his collar.
For my crowd at least, once you were old enough to drink, your goal was no longer to drink as much as you could (except for a few idiots, of course). Eating, drinking, socializing, were standard procedure. This was a time when there was no need for school reunions or false promises of keeping in touch. On any given night you would see more people than you could ever converse with. If you missed somebody one year, you could be sure you’d see them again the next. A fixture I could always count on seeing was one of my friend’s father’s circulating through the crowd. He was a respected and trusted member of the church. Always walking with a sense of purpose, and at the same time trying to look casual. Seeing this pillar of the church in a polo shirt, pastel pants, white belt, and white dress shoes always took me as quite bizarre. I always assumed this was an attempt to blend in and fly under the radar so to speak. His job was to collect and count the money from the ticket booths. He was a truly honest man, to say the least. There was a small permanent building where the money was taken and counted (a cinder block fortress behind the ribs if I remember correctly). In younger years I would see him maybe 3 times a night making his rounds. By the time the late 70s and early 80s came along he was on a constant loop. The money was flowing in faster than they could count it. By the end of the night he looked beat. I knew what was in his bag and I would say hello and try to make a joke, " hey Mr. M..., Monsignor’s warming the limo up, you guys going to AC tonight?" or something stupid like that. Sometimes he would nod, and even crack a smile once in awhile. The fair was the only place you could share a joke with a friend’s father and get away with it. Another friend’s father worked at the beer tent. He was younger than most our fathers, and probably in better shape than us kids. White t shirt, shorts, k-mart boat shoes, and black socks was his fair attire. A very likable and approachable man who knew and was known by just about everyone in town. . Too nice of a man to ever dream of pissing off, besides he could probably outrun us all. For a few years, we had to avoid his side of the beer tent because he knew we were all under age. Once we turned 18, he was the bartender of choice, and a very good one at that. Every year there would be a sea of outstretched arms, tickets in hand calling his name. Years later, even at the new Fair grounds, there was always a crowd around him while other bartenders were idle.
Although his name tag had his first name on it, and we were all grown men by now, everyone still called him Mister ..., out of respect. He continued to work the fair right up until he passed away suddenly, a few years back. Both of these fathers were Iselin fair icons, to me anyway, and are sadly missed.
Slowly people moved away, got married , had kids, went off the grid, or just became too fabulous in there own mind to go to the fair. I was lucky that my soul mate and future wife, although not from Iselin, also embraced the fair. Her father
was born at home in an Iselin farmhouse. He moved away when he got married but still took his own kids to the fair when they were children. When I got married, by pure chance we bought a house one town away. We actually looked at houses in Iselin, with all the Realtors trying to steer us to small bungalows in the uptown section. Overpriced , run down, mattresses everywhere, obviously owned by Indians looking for an upgrade and quick profit. Neither of us could stand the smell.
Our first child was about 18 months old and I still remember my wife tearing little bits of "fair" pizza and feeding them to her. Another generation addicted to fried dough and tomato sauce. One night, I was "allowed" to go for a beer . My wife and kids waited on the other side of the fence as I sipped my one beer trying make it
last. This was very awkward to say the least, me on one side of the fence and them on the other. For quite a few years after that, the fair would not get any of my
money for beer if my kids were with me. There would be no fences separating me from my family. Watching the babies on the kiddie rides, I’d occasionally scan the crowd looking for a familiar face, which became less and less every year. It didn’t really register at the time since my main priority was making sure my kids had a good time. During the last few years on the real fairgrounds, my kids were too big to go on the kiddie rides anymore. It was my job to go on the big rides with them. After a long fun filled evening, only the octopus was left. I don’t know whether it was being tired from work, the heat, or the diesel fumes, but that ride did me in. When we got off the ride I had to sit on the ground and take five. My wife said I turned green. Although I didn’t know it at the time, it was to be my last ride ever at the Iselin fair.
Within a year or two the fair as we all knew it was gone. I have never actually heard the real truth on why the land was sold or how it wound up in the hands of a soul-less developer. I have heard conflicting reports on who actually owned the land and the circumstances of the sale. Rumors flew that the land was sold out from underneath the church. Another rumor was that the church actually owned the land for many years tax free and was forced to sell it by the diocese to pay for lawsuits against priests. What ever the real reasons were, in my opinion, it was just wrong. There should have been an opportunity for the government, township, or even the people to step in. Green Acres funds or something like that,.... anything. When I rode by the bulldozed site, all I could think of was a greedy developer laughing so hard he
wet his pants. The devil’s patience paid off, the land being developed ensured that the public could never enjoy it again. Maybe, a few generations from now, there will be a small monument or plaque commemorating what once was there. Hopefully it will be in English.
For a few years I boycotted the new "Iselin Asphalt Carnival". In my mind, the name "Iselin Fair" died with the property. I don’t know if it was due to my stubbornness or the plain disbelief that the land was not preserved in some way. The fair moving was something I could have accepted, as long as the land was preserved. They could have made it a park or just left it a field. Now I try to patronize the
asphalt carnival 2 or 3 nights a week, just for dinner. I really missed the food. After a few years off, once again I am spending my money at the church. Staying late one night by myself is usually reserved for Friday or Saturday. I try to keep to myself with maybe a wave or a "how you been?" to a familiar face. Although familiar faces are fewer and farther between every year.
I have made my peace with the fair and what it has become. The food is still something to look forward to once a year. How can we really complain? We had the
fair in the 60s, 70s,80s,and 90s. It was the wonder years for my generation. We had a pretty good run to say the least. Not many other communities had what we did.
There are parts of the new fair experience to deal with now that are a bit harder to accept. Just getting there is a challenge. Twice I was almost run over by one of the locals while walking cautiously along the side of the road. A policeman threw up his arms and shook his head. I understood his position, we were vastly out numbered.
I have still not become too fabulous or afraid to do my small part in keeping the tradition alive, and for that I am thankful.
Gazing out into the crowd, a new generation has adopted the asphalt carnival as it’s own. New memories are being created each year, along with another generation enjoying most of the food us old people grew up on. This is the carnival they know, and this is the carnival they will remember. It must still be profitable or the church wouldn’t be doing it anymore, that’s a fact. The volunteer workers and the people spending their money every year deserve the real thank you’s for keeping this tradition alive. As of 2011, another generation will be able to look back with wonder, for better or worse, at the asphalt carnival they had as children .
What the future holds for the fair/asphalt carnival or its present location is anyone’s guess. Convenience stores, strip mall, motel, gas stations, condos, all of the above? For what ever reasons , we should all try to enjoy it while we can. Because, as we learned in the past, when time comes for another change, there will be nothing anyone can do about it.