It was one of those weeks. No, not in a bad way, in a sort of “found money” kind of way. You know the feeling, you come home and park your car and when you step over the curb you see a dollar bill lying in the gutter. Times a hundred. This past week I tapped into a character gold mine. All of the foibles, fears, joys, hopes and delusions of humanity were laid out in the crisp sunshine. I found all of this and more at The Puyallup Fair.
What’s that?
Which was my initial reaction as well. My first task was to learn – much to my public embarrassment – that the word wasn’t pronounced “Poo-y’all-up” but instead, and unlike any other Indian word I’ve come across, exactly as it is spelled. At least I think so. “Puyallup” is the name of a local Indian tribe and translates as “the generous people”. I’m not sure if they received that name before or after they gave away all their land to the settlers from back east.
Anyway, Puyallup is the county seat of Pierce County, named for the late President, just south of King County which was originally named for Pierce’s Vice-President then subsequently historically revised to be named for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. But we’ve been through all that before. Puyallup now is most famous as the site of the annual Puyallup Fair and it is there that the story ends.
The story begins, as you might have guessed, back on the farm. The rampaging deer are hiding in the woods at the north side of meadow watching with unabashed delight as their lunch is unloaded from the delivery truck. Six fruit trees and nine blueberry bushes sit unprotected in an open area next to the house. I could hear deer saliva splash on the ground as their Pavlovian conditioning kicked in. The delivery guy moved to climb back into the truck.
“Uh, now what?” I asked.
“Well you just go dig fifteen holes and plant them.” He waved amiably.
“They need to be planted?”
“Yup,” he said as he started the truck.
“Fifteen holes?”
He looked out and double-checked his arithmetic. “Yup. You have a nice day.”
I could see the deer rubbing their dainty feet together in vegetarian glee.
By this point in time the posts for the deer fence were in the ground but the rest of the components were still happily residing in sealed boxes. I opened the box containing the electric fence energizer and read – something I normally don’t do – the instructions: “Be sure to let the battery charge IN FULL SUN for at least five days before using”. You are shitting me. This project was sliding toward disaster.
I moved all the trees and bushes inside the perimeter of the fence in an effort to make the deer think that the plants were able to move on their own. I heard chuckling from the woods. I put the fence energizer in the sun to start the five-day clock then opened the other box and dumped the contents on the ground. Fence parts scattered everywhere. I picked up one of the black plastic shapes and studied it for a minute or two. What is this? The object’s topology would give M.C. Escher a headache and I was supposed to figure out (there were no directions) its purpose. Fortunately, there were only a few different shapes and no worm-holes resulted from ill-advised spatial interactions. Long story short, a few hours later the fence was up, all the wires were in place, and I threw the switch. The indicator needle on the energizer pegged in the green. The battery came fully charged (whew!) and the fence was hot.
Which is when I learned that I am so happy because, as they say, ignorance is bliss. In my rush to get the fence components delivered I had neglected to add a “fence tester” to the order. Consequently, I had no way to tell if the fence was actually working. The deer saw this and started creeping closer. I didn’t think that it would be wise to leave the plants unguarded, even for a moment, so I decided that I would have to play deer and test the fence myself.
There is a legend that one sure way to see if an electric fence is working is to pee on it. This, even now, seems like a bad idea. But, some contact would be necessary. My biggest fear was that, due to my rubber soled shoes, I would not be able to fully participate in the electric current and might have to resort to the previously mentioned test. How wrong I was. My first tentative taps on the wire yielded no jolts. Now, figuring I was protected by my in-sole-ation – sorry, couldn’t resist – I reached out and grabbed the wire. KER-ZAP! My hand bucked off the wire as the current coursed up my arm and I ended up smacking myself in the face. Slightly stunned, I stepped away from the fence and watched as several racks of antlers skulked away through the trees. The fence was complete.
I returned to the house where my friend was working inside.
“You look beat,” she said.
I sat down heavily and kicked off my still-smoking shoes.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m sure the livestock will be easier.”
Animals! Shit, I forgot!
At this point the conversation shifted to how a neophyte farmer decides on what types and breeds of livestock to keep given that PetCo doesn’t stock anything more massive than a Yorkshire Terrier. I concluded that it would probably be best to go and talk with some breeders but I hadn’t a clue where one would find any.
“I suppose if there were a state or county fair….” I mused.
At which point my friend pushed two tickets to the Puyallup Fair across the table. “Let’s go,” she said.
The Puyallup Fair, like similar events across the country was originally set up to allow rural agriculturalists to get together, show off their critters and produce, and leave as much of their money with the fair operators as possible. That much has remained the same but, given the growing urban and suburban population, the target demographic is now the burgeoning middle class out for a day on the midway.
And most of them don’t own cows.
Nevertheless several barns were dedicated, according to the program, to livestock of interest. But, because there weren’t enough barns available, the different species had to work shifts. When we were there the barns were filled with horses, cattle, cows and rabbits. Lots and lots of rabbits. Chickens, pygmy goats, and miniature sheep were sparsely represented; just a couple of cages and a few prisoners in the petting barn. The only livestock at the fair that we were considering for the micro-farm was that trusty guard animal: the llama.
Coyotes run freely on Bainbridge Island and any livestock loose in the fields are a target for their stealthy nighttime predations. Chickens, cats, and small dogs vanish on a regular basis. Llamas, for some reason, are genetically predisposed to disliking dog-like creatures. I’m not quite sure why as South America’s two wild dog species look more like an otter and a fox with a giraffe’s legs respectively, as opposed to the large toothsome canids of North America. Whatever the reason, llamas just get all wound up when coyotes approach and, in possession of a fearlessness bordering on stupidity, will chase them away.
We went to the section of the dairy barn where the llamas, alpacas and other oddly named creatures were relegated. I was stunned. My previous, and only, exposure to llamas was with Mocha, the Attack Llama at my sister’s rancho in New Mexico. Mocha is a seven-foot tall fur-bag filled with attitude and well-aimed spit. By comparison the llamas at the fair looked like they would be much more comfortable at the ballet than kicking coyote bee-hind in defense of their flock.
They were, in a word, laughable. Imagine a cute little toy poodle with the cute little haircut. Now make it six feet tall, patterned like your grandmother’s divan, and with buck teeth. That’s what these llamas looked like. They were so trimmed, poofed, teased and flounced that I’m sure it would take Carl’s whole box of hairdryers just to get one of them ready for the fair. Purchasing one for the micro-farm, along with its stylist and requisite trip to the Cape each summer, would surely eat into whatever thin agricultural profits the farm might generate.
Having struck out in the animal department we went to find something to eat. We had better luck with the animals. The seemingly thousands of food concessions offered the typical fair fare of corn-dogs, elephant ears, and cotton candy. There were also innumerable burger places where for eight or nine dollars you could play Russian roulette with botulin toxin. There were “Greek” places where you could get a “traditional” gyro sandwich for seven bucks or you could get a “vegetarian” version (a traditional, hold the meat) for eight. There was a deep-fried everything place whose offerings ranged from fat saturated Twinkies and Kool-Ade for the adventurous to deep-fried green beans and pickles for the more health conscious. In the end we settled for a small order of Original Belgian Frites (aka French fries but without the Gallic connotation despite “frites” being French) and a portion of corn fritters. There were about ten “frites” in the bag and five fritters clumped on a soggy piece of paper. All for only ten bucks.
Thoroughly disappointed, we left the fairgrounds to the rotund hordes waddling down the midway with a corn-dog in one hand and a funnel-cake in the other. We came away none the wiser regarding farm animals and unfortunately reminded that the Puyallup Fair, or any fair for that matter, is not a place to get lunch.
So the question of animals is still up in the air. The guard llamas on display at the fair might make the coyotes laugh so hard that they would be unable to attack but that’s about it. There was one glimmer of hope in the experience though. On our return it looked like the high-voltage fence actually did what it was supposed to. The trees and bushes remained uneaten. I think the deer have surrendered. In fact, judging by what we found, it appears they actually threw in the towel.