I returned to the Cumberland Fair, as I do every year, thinking it an exercise in nostalgia. Hearkening back to a simpler time, getting in touch with farming, etc.

I was wrong. Above all, the Cumberland Fair celebrates the senses. The pulsing, tactile sensation of the here and now. 

Today is the last day at the fair. It closes at 10 p.m.  If you haven’t already, come on out and feel the tingle. 

TASTE

Cheese dogs and corn dogs and sausage and fried clams and steak bombs and lamb curry and chowder and kettle corn “(“Friend us on Facebook!”) and lobster stew and pulled pork and nachos and pickled jalapenos and deep-fried peanut-butter and-jelly (what?) and crepes and fudge and samosas and fries and onion rings and —

… Mmmmm. Eating hot bread pudding with chocolate ice cream while watching oxen strain to drag sleds loaded with concrete.

 SEE

Giant pumpkins, varying in size from Grossly Large to Obscenely Large.

Rabbits resting, folded inward, sagelike.

Candy in the Exhibition Hall made to resemble bacon and eggs.

The odd, slotted pupils of a goat’s eyes.

Pyramids of preserved jellies and jams.

The relentless head shakes of roosters.

Tractor porn at the John Deere display.

Cows curled in their stalls, tails unconsciously flicking at flies.

The names of the games:  Machine Gun!  Roll-a-Ball!  Water Gun Fun!  Star Darts!  Cork Gun Fun 4 Everyone!

SMELL

The idiosyncratic fragrances of post-digestion extrusions deposited by cows, horses, and pigs.

Hot metal inside the blacksmith’s shop.

The sweet stench of maple syrup bubbling madly inside the sugar house.

The interior of the Farm Museum, dusty and woodsy barn-y.

And everywhere the scents of cooking oil and powdered sugar and frying, frying, frying.

HEAR

The century-old squeaks and groans of the horse-powered hay baler.

One sheep who won’t stop calling.  Mah.  Maaah!   Maaaaaah!

Harness horses practicing for the nightly races, clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop.

The 64-key street organ playing a Bavarian version of “South of the Border.”

The sputtering belts and gears of “Little Jumbo,” the 1918 steam engine.

Farmers urging on their oxen in the Pulling Arena with kissing whistles and “Hut!  Hut!  Hut!”  “Gee!”  “Ayup!”  “Ow!  Ow!”

TOUCH

Sinking your fingers into the lanolin depths of a Tunis sheep.

Crunching the ice in the bottom of the lemonade cup.

The whoosh of air in your hair as your car passes across the top of the Ferris wheel’s arc.

The fibrous necks of goats.

The jerky rise and fall of your stallion on the carousel.

Sawdust springy underfoot.

John Spritz is a marketing and communications consultant based in Portland, www.jspritz.com.

Illustrations by: Robin Swennes, www.designchoc.com.