DELAWARE — I am not from Delaware. I was predominantly raised in a sister-plus-mother household in a home on the east side of Cleveland.
Family members have come and gone in my 23 years of life. But it wasn’t until I came to the Little Brown Jug that I fully realized the word “family” comes in many shapes, forms and sizes.
The deceased, the forgotten, the disgraced — they don’t carry much weight here. Where you come from matters less than you might think. Who you knew and who you know might get you through the fair’s front gate, but it won’t carry you much farther.
What matters more is being a stand-up, open and welcoming person who’s willing to experience every angle of life.
That is the Delaware County Fair Little Brown Jug experience.
My dear friends in the Cashman and Hampu family showed me this concept and more.
I started my day around noon when I rolled into the fairgrounds toting a parking pass that in hindsight didn’t mean squat. But by the grace of God we found a parking spot close enough to the grandstand that we wouldn’t miss a moment of the action — on the track, or otherwise.
Walking around the fairgrounds all week covering costume contests, fair food, 4-H sales and more, I was more than acclimated to the cattle fences and trailers that folks had stationed around the grounds.
What I didn’t know is that Jug junkies set these barricades up as soon as the All Horse Parade concluded.
But walking into the first College Gameday-like tailgate, I immediately knew why these spots were so vital to folks.
Sure, it was a space for a free beer or two, Bloody Marys, or Superlytes (a surprising choice) with a burger or hot dog to soak up the booze. But moreso, it was a cattle-fenced area for longtime friends to reconnect.
The day had barely started and before I knew it, I had shaken hands with guys and gals that even vaguely knew my chaperones. Fellow gamblers, past employees, the friend you didn’t know did that professionally, a bar owner, etc., all reunited before me.
Honestly, their conversations were like they lived next door to each other — like they had seen the person yesterday and asked what their Jug plans were ahead of the big day fully expecting to see one another.
It was incredible. Zero fakeness. These folks genuinely wanted to know how one another had been all these years.
For someone who doesn’t experience that a lot, it was shell-shocking. It was comforting. I felt like I belonged and it was only half-past noon.
For Christ sake Barley Hopsters’ Dylan Richards said he was covered in beer but happy to serve the early-morning Bloody Marys after getting three hours of sleep the night before the Jug.
He didn’t know whether or not he should reopen the downtown Delaware watering hole after the races had been run. Had folks had enough to drink? he asked himself.
That’s heart. That’s the Jug. I can sympathize and feel that. That’s real.
Welcome to the scaffolding society
As the old friends dissipated and scattered to cast their bets on the next race, the scaffolding section beckoned.
If you love football and/or tailgating, the pseudo-trailer park with a rickety, week-old bleachers section is the place for you. And to shoot you straight, it was the place for me.
I greeted, slammed beers, drank bourbon shots out of water bottles with the most down-to-earth, happy-go-lucky folks to ever grace this planet. Every age group (maybe more like 18+) ran rampant around the area to the right of the grandstand.
Card games where the risk-takers pitched in two bucks and got a horse from card numbers 1-8 also popped up all around the scaffolding gladiator arena.
Side note, the best view in the house is from the trailer park, also known as the scaffolding society (my name for the area). Resting a cold brewski against the chain-link fence keeping the demons off the track is a remarkable feeling of accomplishment: You made it.
You beat the betting lines, the Porta Potty posses, the long-lost cousins seeking a selfie. Congratulations.
But the brews, vodka and booze battles don’t end there. Before you know it, you run into you-know-who. Thou who-shall-not-be-named. Maybe it’s an ex, or on a more positive note, maybe it’s a co-worker you just didn’t want to see in your full Jug form.
So you gravitate towards the grandstand where surely things will calm down. Yeah, no.
The grandstand is arguably reserved for the real harness racing fans. The gents and ladies who are chain-smoking Lucky Strikes and sipping a Genesee from a cooler from the great beyond, they greet you near the grandstand. God bless those folks, we all know and love ’em.
But grabbing a few booze tickets, a slip for a perfecta you hope hits and a folding chair that feels like it’s from the ’60s — there’s no better feeling.
The grandstand, where you may snap a photo of Tracer the Pacer from Delaware Hayes, is a special paint-chipped spot. Put simply, it is Americana. It may be the last line of defense for the ways of old, competing against the internet ways of what’s to come, or already here.
You cast bets at the counter, not at a screen. I mean, let’s get real, that’s a key thing to note. We (unfortunately in my opinion) live in a world where FanDuel and DraftKings dominate the online betting sphere. But that’s not the case at the grandstand at the Delaware County Fair.
You get your ass up, hit an ATM and march your way through the betting lines and await destiny. It’s beautiful and it provides a sense of camaraderie.
But when those early bets inevitably fail to cash, maybe a pretty white tent calls your name from the distance. At least it did for me.
I scurried into the high rollers tent that had prime rib, wings, mashed potatoes and six free drink tickets a few races before the big one. God, It was immaculate. A lowly writer stuck out like a sore thumb at first, but that soon changed.
I downed my grub, got more cold beer (plus a rum-and-Coke or two) and found myself in a whirlwind of Jug history. Once again, I shook hands with the men whose families played a role in making the Jug what it is today. Long live those gentlemen, the party wouldn’t last this long without them.
But somewhere between Races 15 and 19, sitting there watching them go by, I realized why I was there.
I was there for all these different socioeconomic groups I’ve described. I wanted the whole, full-course meal. The deeper-pocketed, white-tent folks just off the first turn of the track brought the heat.
Amidst the occasional “it’s about who you know here” was once again a sense of belonging from the outsider perspective. If you know how to talk, how to gamble and how to keep on sipping — you fit like a glove in the holy white tent.
As the final Jug race took off and Jody Jamieson’s Redland Rocket Man held the lead spot before crossing the finish line first, I knew this whole place was home.
From every angle, with any Jug junkie standing beside me, I knew I was where I needed to be in that moment.
Jamieson told me in an earlier story that the Jug is a mythical day that casts nothing but sunshine and no rain. He was right.
Legendary announcer Roger Huston also told me that if you’re not yourself, you’re nobody.
Those words could not ring more true sitting here writing this. The Jug is a special, heavenly thing that is not to be trifled with — so is the human spirit.
Run wild like the horses in the Jug. Bet the long shot. Talk to that person you haven’t seen in years.
I did all that and then some, and by God, it paid off.
