The scrumptious fish fry at the Warren County Fair is reason enough to go. Although we planned a short trip, we still had a small must-see list and plans for people-watching. We only got the fish.

Oh yes, we got the aromas of the sausage, pepper and onions on our way to the fish stand. Then we ate the golden, hot, crunchy fish. To die for.

Ready to explore, I noticed the black clouds rolling in just as Dear Richard said, “We need to find shelter. It’s going to start any minute.” The gentle folks at the office offered us shelter during the worst of the cloudburst, then a ride to our car. Sadly, we were not prepared for slippery footing. Goodbye to the baked goods and the quilts. Our 2023 Fair was Fish. Fried. Finito. I think we were there for 35 minutes.

As we headed home, I entertained Richard with the story about the 1980s week I worked at the fair.

My late husband was active in politics. Charged with selecting election candidates, he wanted every slot full for Judge of Elections, Electors, or Constables. One night, coming home late from party headquarters, he announced that I was going to be on the ballot. “For which position?” I asked. I had already worked the polls and wondered which seat he nominated me for. Then he grinned and said it was for Constable in the Third Ward. “You will win because you are unopposed.”

“W-H-A-A-A-T? Are you crazy? I can’t be a constable. I’m a mother. I have a job, Doofus.”

“Listen,” he said. “Your role is to keep the peace at the polls. Basically, you just sit there. If electioneering gets too close to the door, you move them back. That’s it.”

“Well, what about process-serving and all that stuff?”

He pooh-poohed everything. I was NOT HAPPY. I didn’t know anything about the office until after I was sworn in at the courthouse as a Pennsylvania State Constable. “Here is the handbook of your rights and responsibilities,” offered the magistrate.

That night I learned that I had arrest powers over breaches of the peace committed in my presence, and all felony offenses.

So, what does this have to do with the county fair?

The August following elections, the fair board asked the county’s constables to provide the fair security. After thinking about for three seconds, I decided to volunteer. I didn’t tell Tom until the night before my first shift. “I’ll be busy all week at the fair so you’ll have to do dinner with the kids. It’s just five nights.”

It was his turn to say W-H-A-A-A-T? Then I changed into my new uniform shirt, Stetson, and brass badge to show him what I’d be doing. I had borrowed a belt, cuffs and nightstick from a retired Indiana trooper.

“Absolutely not. I forbid you to do this,” he barked.

I was grinning. “Too late. I already promised and they’re counting on us. We’re all volunteers and I can’t be a no-show.”

His eyes bulging, he replied, “If you get hurt …”

I interrupted. “Don’t sign me up again for anything without asking me. Okey Dokey, Hunny Bunny?” He might have been angrier than I had been.

At the fairgrounds that muggy first night, we had an encounter with a loud, profane, little drunk who definitely needed an attitude adjustment. Because he was swinging a baseball bat at all comers, I didn’t volunteer. Then a woman came to me saying that he had just broken his wife’s hand and she needed help. His wife was sobbing in pain as I accompanied her to the office. I told the staff about the fracas and the dozens of threatened fair-goers. Things like this just don’t happen at the fair.

I returned to the growing circle around the foul-mouthed screamer, just in time to see him jump someone. The fight got nasty quickly. Two other constables arrived. Gary grabbed him and we both wrestled him to the ground. The third constable held his legs down. I sat down on his butt, pushing my nightstick between his shoulders, while Gary grabbed the handcuffs off the back of my belt. The perp showed no interest in cooperating. We decided to keep him on the ground until the State Police arrived. I sat on him for 10-15 minutes and somebody handed me a Pepsi.

When I got home, Tom asked how it went and did anything happen. “I broke a fingernail,” I said. “And it got really hot.” I waited a few days to tell him.

On Friday night of that long-ago week, I had my first fair fish fry. The rest is history.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com