the fairgrounds

twice a month i drive through the state fairgrounds because it happens to be a shortcut to get to where i am going. i take a left on dan patch avenue instead of heading north on snelling and i drive through the green gates all by myself with no one to stop me because there is no one there.

sometimes there is an event there in the off-season, like there was on thursday - the beef expo. but mostly the park is deserted except for the constant and permanent things. the dfl building, condor fireplace and stone, the kool 108 booth, the skyride sitting empty without it's cars -- winding around on overhead cables, and various chainsaw carvings of eagles and bears.

something about driving through there in the only car on the roads of the fairground feels naughty and illegal, like running through the halls of high school at night in the dark. lockers gleaming against the glow of security lights, running fast up and down the corridors and stairs. no one should be here, no one allowed right now, we're closed.

but the state fair people don't seem to mind that some of us have discovered this sacred shortcut. no cheese curds today, no strollers, no horses or rides, just the place.

place is important. the ones we go to once a year, the ones we leave each morning and return to at the end of weary days. place is a setting that changes with time and yet it doesn't.

the state fairgrounds is such as this, just a place.

and in the offseason, it's all mine.