This is who you become after 50 years at the fair

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By COLLEEN KENNEY / Lincoln Journal Star

When Rose Hitz was a teenager, she told her folks she wanted to work at the State Fair. But her folks told her no.

Good girls don’t work at the State Fair.

That was more than five decades ago. She’s 69 now, and has worked at the State Fair every summer for 50 years.

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Rose Hitz has worked the State Fair 50 years. She laughed and said, "I was going to have my ashes scattered at the fair, but now I don't want them in a research park!" (Robert Becker)

Rose Hitz has worked the State Fair 50 years. She laughed and said, "I was going to have my ashes scattered at the fair, but now I don't want them in a research park!" (Robert Becker)

Rose laughed as she told the story Friday at her post at the 14th Street gate. She’s the white-haired one, the Queen Mum who’s worked this gate for about 20 years. Or is it 25? The years fly.

She’s the one in the Yamaha golf cart, the shift supervisor the past 10 years or so, flying from station to station to help visitors and check on her loyal workers.

This is her State Fair family.

Bob. Roger. Jim. Pat Who Makes Great Cinnamon Rolls.

Rose takes care of them and they care of her.

“What number’s your sunscreen?” she asks a worker who’s just arriving.

“Sixty,” the worker replies.

Rose approves.

This is her Pooh Pooh, the Winnie the Pooh stuffed doll strapped to her golf cart.

A carnival worker threw him at her one year. He was torn. She sewed him up.

This is her loud laugh.

“I drive recklessly. So Pooh Pooh has to be safe and belted in. How long have you been with me, Pooh?”

This is her voice pretending to be Pooh.

“I’d say, probably four or five years.”

These are her blue eyes, which sparkle when she laughs. They make cotton candy the color of these eyes. (Her blue earrings sparkle, too.)

These are her State Fair lips, not so chapped as they used to be before the invention of sunscreen.

“Now I’m kissable all year!”

This is a State Fair mosquito, landing on her sun-kissed cheek. And another one, landing on her thigh.

This is her State Fair tan, on her muscular legs beyond her cutoff shorts.

These are her State Fair shoes — orange, red and fluorescent yellow — that look as if she stole them off a sleeping clown.

Ralph, her husband, found them for her in Vegas. At the end of each State Fair, she washes them and puts them away in a plastic bag until the next year.

This is Rose, later, under a tent, listening to one of her workers complain about a lady. He’d told her she couldn’t drive beyond the barricade. She yelled at him. He ended up letting her through.

“I hope her tires get blown out when she gets down there,” he says. “No, I don’t.”

“They hassle you, you call me,” Rose says. “I have my radio and we’ll just call for backup.”

But this is Nebraska, Rose says, so “99 percent” of the people who come through this gate are friendly.

This little red shack on the grass is her “State Fair house.” It’s smaller than a goat stall, but at least it’s air-conditioned. A table is covered with today’s potluck: smoked salmon, crackers, candy, a crock of meatballs, sun tea.

This is Rose’s second-to-last State Fair, because it’s supposed to move to Grand Island in 2010. Don’t get her started.

This is Michelle Etmund, who’s worked at the gate 15 years.

“Oh, Rose is wonderful. She’s the best gate boss there is. She keeps us all in order. She says at the beginning of the year, ‘Don’t take it personally if I yell, because I have one State Fair voice, and it’s loud.’”

This is a softer version of Rose’s State Fair voice, saying how much she’s going to miss it someday.

“I can’t imagine not doing it.”

Reach Colleen Kenney at 473-2655 or ckenney@journalstar.com.