Small Town Festivals

An essay by Chad Schomber

It’s not about the funnel cake. I’ve told myself that. But then I eat it anyway, standing under some rigged-up string lights with powdered sugar falling down my shirt like dandruff from a sugared god.

They call it a festival. Could be for corn. Could be music. Could be summer itself, like we all forgot it comes around every year unless we pin a ribbon on it and deep-fry something. Doesn’t really matter. The signs all look the same. Spray-painted plywood propped up by hay bales, nailed to trees, or swinging off chain-link with zip ties that snap by noon.

You park in a field that was probably a swamp last week. Walk a little too far in shoes that aren’t quite right for grass. There’s always that moment, just before you get there, where you wonder if this was a bad idea. You smell onions. You smell the grills. You hear a band that sounds like they practiced once, maybe twice. You step over a kid crying into a snow cone. And somehow, it starts to feel right.

No one knows where they’re supposed to be. There’s a booth selling tie-dye next to a woman who’s hand-carving soap into shapes you’re not supposed to laugh at. The prize-winning zucchini sits under a tent with a ribbon so large it looks sarcastic. Everything smells like old fryer oil and hot nylon. There’s no breeze. Just the thick breath of July pressed against your back like an unwanted hug.

Somebody brought a llama. No sign. No explanation. Just a llama, staring into the middle distance like it’s just seen things. You nod at it. It nods back, maybe.

Most of the time you don’t even see the festival all at once. You see it in pieces. A pink balloon caught in a tree. A kid dragging a stuffed animal twice their size through a puddle. Someone asleep under a table, using a paper towel roll as a pillow.

The loudspeaker crackles every thirty minutes with a voice that sounds like your uncle trying to fix a CB radio. “Attention folks… if anyone sees a pair of red Crocs, please return them to the information booth. They are not yours.”

You buy a raffle ticket even though you don’t want the prize. A quilt. Or a fishing rod. Or a year’s worth of car washes from a place that definitely won’t exist in a year. Doesn’t matter. You buy the ticket. It’s a tax you pay for being here.

Every once in a while, you run into someone. Not someone you meant to see. Just someone who remembers when this thing used to be smaller. Or bigger. Or better. Or not as commercial. You both nod like historians and then pretend you have somewhere to be.

And still, something happens.

Not dramatic. Just... something. The music hits a moment where it almost sounds good. The sun drops low and makes the dust look like gold. A toddler dances with a popsicle stuck to their cheek. You catch the eye of someone working a booth, and they give you a look that says, “Yeah. I know. This is weird. But hey.”

You leave with a sunburn in a place you forgot skin existed. Your shirt smells like meat smoke and plastic. Your pocket holds a half-melted peppermint and a business card for a guy who sells wind chimes and bandanas.

And for some reason, you feel better than you should.

Not full. Not fixed. Just... better. Like you remembered something small and stupid that you didn’t know you’d lost. Like maybe there’s something to be said for a day that doesn’t try to impress you.

The best parts of a summer festival never make it on the flyer.