24 Years in a Tent: Life at the Fairground Camp

If you really want to experience the Minnesota State Fair, try living on the grounds for 2 weeks in a tent. For 24 years, that’s exactly what I did.

My tent became home during the fair, through blazing August sun, pounding thunderstorms, sticky humidity, and the crisp chill of September nights. I cooked simple meals with what I could pack in or prepare with boiling water.

There’s something raw and wonderful about waking up to the sound of crews setting up food booths, or falling asleep to the muffled hum of the fair winding down every night. Life in the campground is waking up outside; it's the sights, the sounds, and being in the middle of it all, fully immersed.

Of course, storms were part of the deal. Over the years, I weathered many, but 2024 was a doozy. Around two in the morning, the sirens blared, warning us to take shelter. My air mattress slowly deflated, maybe it was the barometric pressure or the hot days and cool nights. I found myself stuck in the middle of a deflating queen-sized balloon, flailing like a fish out of water, as the tent bucked and whipped around me.

I scrambled barefoot out into the storm, just in time for a branch to fly off a tree and whack me in the head. Pajamas soaked, I tried to zip the tent to save what dryness was left, then ran for the storm shelter, a concrete basin under the water tower, where I huddled with dozens of other campers, RV-owners included. For five long hours, we sat together while the storm tore through the campground.

By morning, exhaustion set in, but the fair doesn’t wait for anyone. I decided I'm not sleeping on the ground, just couldn't do it. I headed out early to buy a new air mattress. I ended up sitting in traffic for an hour to get back into the fairgrounds. I reset my camp, and headed off for my shift from 2:00pm til midnight. It was grueling. But in its own way, it was unforgettable, one of those “you can laugh later” stories I’ll carry with me.

Camping at the fair has always been about more than convenience or budget. It was inspired by a childhood memory, standing at the fence, watching my Aunt Faye paint inside the fairgrounds, whispering to myself, “Someday, when I’m big like you, I’m going to stay here too.”

Living in that tent became a promise kept, a way of honoring her after she passed far too young. Every year I camp, it feels like I am walking in her footsteps.

But 2024 carried more layers. It was my first fair without my mom, who had passed two months earlier. The storm, with all its chaos, became a strange kind of distraction from the heaviness of grief. And as I put my camp back together that morning, bruised and sleep-deprived, I realized that this fair had become a place of remembrance. I wasn’t just honoring Aunt Faye anymore; I was carrying the memories of my mom, my dad, and even my former marriage.

And perhaps most poignantly, this year, 2025, my 60th birthday is a week away. A milestone birthday layered on top of years of loss. The fair became less about survival or spectacle and more about reflection, about who I’ve been, who I’ve lost, and who I am becoming.

Camping at the fair taught me resilience. It taught me to laugh when the mattress pops, to find shelter when the storms roll in, and to lean on community when everything feels uncertain.

2024 taught me something deeper: that even in seasons of loss, life continues to offer us spaces of meaning. The fairgrounds became a canvas where memories of Aunt Faye, my parents, and my own life’s milestones wove together into one living story.

It reminded me that life is not about avoiding the storms but about finding shelter, patching things back together, and carrying forward the legacies of those who came before us. And sometimes, even when we’re barefoot in the rain at two in the morning, it’s about smiling through the chaos, because messy, imperfect, and feeling is what it means to be alive.