The Fair, My Father, and a Lesson in Living Without Regret

In 2023, I was headed back to Minnesota for another season at the fair. Life had shifted. During COVID, my folks and I moved to Florida to be closer to their great-grandchildren, and now we were making the long cross-country drive back together. It felt like a gift: my parents would get to see their siblings and extended family in Minnesota again, and I’d be stepping into another year at the fair.

That trip was full of laughter and stories, the kind of memories you don’t realize are

treasures until later. My dad was driving his electric car, and the lack of charging stations meant more than a few unexpected adventures. At two in the morning, we’d find ourselves sitting in a quiet parking lot, waiting an hour for the car to recharge. In those moments, we listened to scripture for Dad, loud music for my great-nephew Dom, and I couldn’t help but smile at how life can weave such different generations into one small, sacred moment.

But life, as it often does, held twists we couldn’t see coming. Somewhere on the road, my mom, dad, and Dom all caught Covid. On the final leg of the trip, I drove through the night and took them straight to the emergency room as soon as we arrived in Minnesota. They spent three days in the hospital, receiving the care they needed, and then went home to my brother’s house with home health support. Once I knew they were safe and settled, I finally turned toward the fairgrounds.

I was grateful. I am thankful we made the trip, grateful for the laughter on the road, and grateful they were in good hands. I felt ready to work the fair, my heart lighter knowing I had brought them home.

But just a few days later, everything changed.

On day six of the fair, my sister called: “Dad’s not doing well. He’s back in the hospital.” Updates trickled in, and by day eight, her words pierced through me: “He’s not leaving the hospital. It’s only a matter of time.”

I left my tent, with everything in it, and rushed to the hospital. For the next four days, I stayed by my mom’s side. On Labor Day, the 11th day of the fair and its final day that year, my dad took his last breath. We had been with him in those final days, creating as much peace and dignity as possible. Bishops from his church came to pray. My nephew Nick read scripture. My niece and her family drove from Florida with all the grandkids so they could say goodbye to us. Eighteen people gathered around his bed when he passed, surrounding him with love.

It was heartbreaking. But it was also peaceful, even joyful. My dad lived without regrets,

And he left without them, too.

That year, I didn’t finish my time at the fair. My nephew and his dad packed up my tent, tossing everything into a trunk for me to collect later. Friends at the fair sent texts: “Where are you? What happened?” Because that’s what community does—it notices when someone goes missing.

I had planned to use the fair income to fund a dream trip to Peru and Machu Picchu. It felt impossible, in those raw days, to even think about travel. But I remembered something Dad had told me when I first put down the deposit: “I never regretted the trips I took. You need to go.”

He knew life was fragile. He knew there was a chance he wouldn’t be here when the trip came. And he wanted me to go anyway. His words echo in me still: “I never regret the things I do. Life is about experiences. Enjoy every minute.”

That was Dad’s wisdom, and it became my compass. Even in loss, he gave me permission to keep living fully.

The fair has always been about community, tradition, and joy. But in 2023, it also became

the backdrop for one of the most profound transitions of my life. I lost my father during the fair, but I also gained his legacy, a final reminder of what matters most.

Life isn’t about holding back, waiting for the “right time,” or worrying about what could go wrong. It’s about embracing experiences, loving people fiercely, and choosing joy, even when it’s mixed with sorrow.

My dad lived with no regrets. That’s how I want to live, too. And every time I step onto the fairgrounds now, I carry his words with me like a quiet anthem: Enjoy every minute.