The Hometown Carnival

Most things cost more than a quater today, but thanks to a group of forward-thinking volunteers, it still buys a carnival ride at the Wichita County Fair.

“The alligator, the alligator!” says Alison Carr, 8, leading her mother, Christine, toward a tyke-sized roller coaster painted like a giant green gator.

Fair goers face a dizzying choice—the Tilt-A-Whirl, Flying Scooters, Lindy Looper, Merry Mixer, a carousel, pedal cars, and six other rides that whoosh and whirl at the summer fair in Leoti, Kan. And each ride costs 25 cents, just as it did 20 years ago.

Built and operated by volunteers, this homegrown carnival is a “step-right-up” attraction that draws people from throughout western Kansas. It’s not much of a stretch to say that every one of Wichita County’s 2,531 residents shows up at the fair the first week in August. After all, it takes more than 2,000 of them to operate it for four days.

“This thing draws from everywhere. The town doubles in size,” says Roger Porter, who helped paint the 1940s kiddie cars that clack around a raised platform. “Where else can you go and have a lot of fun for a quarter?”

Residents turned into carnies after a traveling carnival company hired in 1981 pulled a no-show, leaving a fairground full of long-faced kids.

“They called the day of the fair and said ‘we got a better offer and won’t be there,’” Sharla Krenzel recalls. “You just don’t realize how much a carnival adds to a fair.”

Mary Gerstberger remembers that summer well. “I had four kids and the youngest was 4 and the oldest was 10. It was a dead, quiet fair. The kids were so disappointed.”

Knowing that their isolated town would always have trouble booking a quality carnival, residents formed the Wichita County Amusement Association to build and manage their own fun. They knew about other rural towns that operated their own carnivals. Some had been successful, some not.

The Leoti group insisted on what’s proven to be the brass ring—each ride costs a quarter. No more disappointed kids.

“We wrote the 25-cent ticket price right into the bylaws, so it can’t be changed,” Krenzel says. “That’s part of the success of this carnival. Everyone can afford to ride.”

Kathy Wing, association treasurer, agrees that the cheap thrills make this carnival a winner.

“I don’t think there’s anybody left in the country who charges a quarter,” she says. “We do this for the kids. It’s good, clean fun. And we haven’t gone in the hole yet.”

The first year, rides were a little makeshift. Members rigged a horse walker with plastic horses and a frame with swings made from tractor seats on chains. They partitioned two game booths with corral fencing. It wasn’t glitzy, but it was a start.

Since then, the carnival has grown by leaps and loops. In 1982, the association bought a kiddie car ride for $400 and a 16-foot Ferris wheel for $400. The next year, the Leoti Rotary Club chipped in $6,500 for a miniature train and 2,000 feet of track and donated it to the association.

The rides are secondhand, generally castoffs from established amusement companies. When they arrive in Leoti, they’re outdated, rusty, and often-missing vital parts, such as the Ferris wheel that was one bucket short. Then hometown ingenuity and elbow grease works its magic. Rides are parceled to barns, sheds, and garages for overhauling.

“The train (that the Rotary Club bought) was sitting in a back woods and the men literally had to dig it out,” Twilla Nickelson recalls. Her husband, Dan, a mechanic, helped restore the engine on the 30-passenger train, a replica of the Southern Rose that once operated between San Francisco and New Orleans.

The 1937 Tilt-A-Whirl needed a new deck and every seat had to be reupholstered. High school art students painted the eight whales on another kiddie ride and local artists painted the 16 seats on the Merry Mixer.

“Our town is really the right size for this,” Wing says. “We’re so small that everyone knows that it won’t get done unless you do it

yourself. It takes a winter of hard work, but each ride will be smoothly running and shine with a fresh coat of paint.”

Donations, memorials, and sales of 100,000 tickets (or $25,000) during fair week help keep the carnival whirling. When a resident died and left her home to the amusement association, the sale provided $25,000 to buy an antique carousel. Community organizations operate the game booths and raise several hundred dollars for their own projects.

The carnival association is successful, says Wing, because it doesn’t go into debt for equipment. Members hold fund-raising soup suppers, bake sales, garage sales, and auctions. Residents literally clean out backyards and barns to find goods to donate for the auctions.

“Non-running cars, knickknacks, porta-pots, furniture, and live goats—we sell it all,” Wing says with a laugh. “We work and make the money first. We don’t borrow any money or make payments.”

Since 1899, community members have gathered for the Wichita County Fair to showcase their green thumbs, livestock-raising skills, and blue-ribbon jellies. An Old Settlers’ Breakfast on Tuesday morning honors long-time residents and kicks off a jam-packed week of gospel singing, a 4-H style show, rodeo, parade, and teen dance. Businesses and organizations team up to serve a free barbecue dinner. Last year, they dished up 1,500 platefuls in Leoti (pop. 1,598). And Wing estimates that 15,000 people attended the fair and carnival.

“It’s a tradition now that the school reunions are held during fair week so we can bring all the residents back home,” Krenzel says. “And many families have their family reunions this week.”

On Saturday night, the carnival lights flash until midnight. That’s when as many as 100 people wait in line for rides, but no one seems in a hurry. The lines meander beside snack wagons that sell 50-cent snow cones and cotton candy and $1.50 hunks of homemade pecan pie. Older residents linger at picnic tables with friends and catch up on family news.

“People love this carnival because it’s home-owned and everybody knows everybody,” says Ken Breitkreutz, association president. “You can let your kids run around here and not worry about them. As soon as they run out of money, you know they’ll be back.”

Back for more quarters.

 

Marti Attoun writes from her home in Joplin, Mo.

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