same. The music of a full brass band playing “The Columbian March” wavered over thesummer-thunder sound of all this multitude of people. My eyes stung.
“Granddad,” Buster said, “I’m hungry.”
* * *
Dragging Buster, we drifted in this dream among the crowds. Like Venice, the fair was built on canals, arched with marble bridges. We walked forever beside the Manufacturers Hall. There across more water rose the great cut-glass dome of the Horticultural Building. On an island against the fiery night were the strange swooping roofs of the Japanese village. People moved around us in trances like ours, feeling the light on their faces. Ladies in gondolas trailed their hands in the bright water.
“Where can a fella get some grub?” Granddad called out to all in earshot. “I thought Chicago was a German town. Where’s the schnitzel?”
Aunt Euterpe quaked.
A man who didn’t know Granddad from Adam turned to say, “Well, old sport, they want an arm and a leg for eats here on the grounds. Try the Midway.”
Aunt Euterpe lurched. She grabbed at both us girls.
“What’s the Midway, Aunt Euterpe?” Lottie asked.
“It is a sinkhole of corruption,” she murmured, low and hopeless. “I made a solemn vow to keep you children clear of it. No decent—”
“Is it where the Ferris wheel is?” Buster piped up. He was always right there when you didn’t want him to hear.
“Anybody know where the Midway is?” Granddad called out. People began to point the way.
We led Aunt Euterpe, and she wasn’t herself. “If only I hadn’t written that letter to your mother,” she was mumbling. “What a can of worms I have opened.”
But Lottie gripped her elbow. “Never mind, Aunt Euterpe. If the Midway isn’t for decent people, you won’t see anybody you know.” It looked like Lottie was taking charge. “And throw back your veils, Aunty,” she said, “or you’ll miss your footing on all these marble steps.” Lottie was firm with her.
We found the Midway. We had two fine bridges to cross. Then past the great dome of the Illinois Building and behind the Woman’s Building, the White City stopped. We left the exposition and ganged with the thickening crowds under the Illinois Central tracks. Then there it was, bellowing music and blazing in lights of every color. The Midway—the Midway Plaisance, to give its proper name.
We’d left the white marble and fine statues behind us. This was another world. Here was Hagenback’s Animal Show featuring bears on bicycles. Here was the Blarney Castle in an Irish village pounding with clog dancers. The Persians were here, and the Javanese and the Congress of International Beauties. Music came from every direction until I thought my ears would drown. There were calliopes and tambourines and the beat of the cannibaldrum. Up on a stage at an upright piano a young man named Scott Joplin banged out tunes you could hear with your feet.
On both sides of the Midway the world had come to strut its stuff: an ostrich farm and the Turkish Village and the Panorama of the Bernese Alps. There was an ice rink here in the depth of summer, and everything lit up like a Christmas tree.
The sweetness of taffy pulled on giant machines hung in the air. Corn on the cob boiled in giant vats. Sausage was being fried with onions, though you could tell from here the lard wasn’t fresh.
Granddad parted the common people with his stick, and we clung like leeches to him. One false step, and the crowds would swallow you like Jonah’s whale.
Then I looked up and staggered back. Ahead of us in the center of the Midway was the fright of my life. It was the giant wheel. We were walking straight toward it. You couldn’t see to the top of the thing. It rose into the night. The creak of its struts and girders sounded in my dreams for years.
Granddad himself drew up and threw back his head. People rode the wheel in thirty-six cars. While they weren’t quite as big as railroad cars, they’d
“Granddad,” Buster said, “I’m hungry.”
* * *
Dragging Buster, we drifted in this dream among the crowds. Like Venice, the fair was built on canals, arched with marble bridges. We walked forever beside the Manufacturers Hall. There across more water rose the great cut-glass dome of the Horticultural Building. On an island against the fiery night were the strange swooping roofs of the Japanese village. People moved around us in trances like ours, feeling the light on their faces. Ladies in gondolas trailed their hands in the bright water.
“Where can a fella get some grub?” Granddad called out to all in earshot. “I thought Chicago was a German town. Where’s the schnitzel?”
Aunt Euterpe quaked.
A man who didn’t know Granddad from Adam turned to say, “Well, old sport, they want an arm and a leg for eats here on the grounds. Try the Midway.”
Aunt Euterpe lurched. She grabbed at both us girls.
“What’s the Midway, Aunt Euterpe?” Lottie asked.
“It is a sinkhole of corruption,” she murmured, low and hopeless. “I made a solemn vow to keep you children clear of it. No decent—”
“Is it where the Ferris wheel is?” Buster piped up. He was always right there when you didn’t want him to hear.
“Anybody know where the Midway is?” Granddad called out. People began to point the way.
We led Aunt Euterpe, and she wasn’t herself. “If only I hadn’t written that letter to your mother,” she was mumbling. “What a can of worms I have opened.”
But Lottie gripped her elbow. “Never mind, Aunt Euterpe. If the Midway isn’t for decent people, you won’t see anybody you know.” It looked like Lottie was taking charge. “And throw back your veils, Aunty,” she said, “or you’ll miss your footing on all these marble steps.” Lottie was firm with her.
We found the Midway. We had two fine bridges to cross. Then past the great dome of the Illinois Building and behind the Woman’s Building, the White City stopped. We left the exposition and ganged with the thickening crowds under the Illinois Central tracks. Then there it was, bellowing music and blazing in lights of every color. The Midway—the Midway Plaisance, to give its proper name.
We’d left the white marble and fine statues behind us. This was another world. Here was Hagenback’s Animal Show featuring bears on bicycles. Here was the Blarney Castle in an Irish village pounding with clog dancers. The Persians were here, and the Javanese and the Congress of International Beauties. Music came from every direction until I thought my ears would drown. There were calliopes and tambourines and the beat of the cannibaldrum. Up on a stage at an upright piano a young man named Scott Joplin banged out tunes you could hear with your feet.
On both sides of the Midway the world had come to strut its stuff: an ostrich farm and the Turkish Village and the Panorama of the Bernese Alps. There was an ice rink here in the depth of summer, and everything lit up like a Christmas tree.
The sweetness of taffy pulled on giant machines hung in the air. Corn on the cob boiled in giant vats. Sausage was being fried with onions, though you could tell from here the lard wasn’t fresh.
Granddad parted the common people with his stick, and we clung like leeches to him. One false step, and the crowds would swallow you like Jonah’s whale.
Then I looked up and staggered back. Ahead of us in the center of the Midway was the fright of my life. It was the giant wheel. We were walking straight toward it. You couldn’t see to the top of the thing. It rose into the night. The creak of its struts and girders sounded in my dreams for years.
Granddad himself drew up and threw back his head. People rode the wheel in thirty-six cars. While they weren’t quite as big as railroad cars, they’d
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