It may surprise many of you to learn that I attended local Catholic schools from kindergarten all the way through my senior year of high school. Or maybe that doesn’t surprise you, maybe that makes perfect sense. Wait, should that be surprising? What’s it say about me if it’s surprising? Or what’s it mean if you pretty much already assumed I was taught by nuns. Is that something you can tell just by looking at me? What have I become? Who am I?

Wow, that really opened a can of worms.

My grade school buddies and I must have carried home five pounds of crappy plastic toys won through the festival’s many games. Seriously, I had at least eight pairs of those skinny, one-piece, wrap-around Totally Eighties sunglasses. Quite a hit with the ladies, I must admit.

But here’s my point: Catholic schools. One thing I loved about attending my Catholic grade school was the church’s annual summer festival. It was a magical time of year when the school’s staff happily banded together with the parents and the general congregation, volunteering to build booths, pitch tents, cook food, work shifts in the beer garden, and do whatever it took to stage a small carnival on school grounds.

There was so much frenzied activity leading up to the big day – it was exciting. For me. I guess I never talked to my parents about it. They may have been totally complaining about having to band together with quasi-strangers to build booths, pitch tents, cook food, and work shifts in the beer garden, all for an organization to which they already paid tuition.

Moving on. I loved this time of year. The festival itself was great, and I had the dual pleasure of getting to work it while also spending all day attending it. My grade school buddies and I must have carried home five pounds of crappy plastic toys won through the festival’s many games. Seriously, I had at least eight pairs of those skinny, one-piece, wrap-around Totally Eighties sunglasses. Quite a hit with the ladies, I must admit. (My older sister thought they were awesome.)

My all-time favorite booth was a fishing game called “Go Fish!” or “Fun Fish!” or “Uncle Jimmy’s Fantastic Fishing Experience!” or something. I’m sure you’ve seen it. There’s a four-foot wall painted with an underwater scene. Giddy kids/fishing enthusiasts stand on one side and toss a fishing line over the wall. On the other side, someone attaches a random prize to the clothespin “hook,” like a plastic army man or a pack of Smarties or a pair of those aforementioned sweet sunglasses, and then they give the line a little tug. And people, this is when the magic happens. The customer pulls the line back over the wall, and gasps in awed delight at the fabulous catch.

I haven’t played the game in probably 20 years, but this is exactly how I remember it.

Now, being a “Go Fish!” customer was fun, but what I really liked was working in the booth behind the wall. I probably don’t have to explain the intoxicating power of making someone’s hopes and dreams come true – or crushing them in an instant. In mere moments, I could make you the happiest kid on earth. (“Mom, I got a tiny package of Legos! There’s like, five whole Legos in here!”), or I could make you the saddest kid at the fair. (“Mom, why’d I get a tiny portrait of Pope John Paul II?”)

Mostly, you just gave cool prizes to your friends and the girls you liked. (You’re welcome, Amy Schultz. I figured you’d like those My Little Pony puffy stickers.) Dream crushing power aside, it was just fun to be a part of a big event like that. It really made summer all sunshiny and awesome. Everyone came out and gathered in a parking lot full of hastily nailed-together booths, and they all smiled and had a good time and ate lots and lots of charcoal grilled chicken. At least, that’s how I remember it.

Plenty of these mini-carnivals are still happening all over the Chippewa Valley yet this summer, so get out there and enjoy all those little game booths and all the little kids working hard to have fun. You might get lucky and score some killer ’80s shades. Wear them with pride.