In a recognition of summer’s close I offer up this nostalgic glimpse into my wild & untamed youth, much of which was spent annually working at the Canadian National Exhibition.

That is me above, at 15 years, playing the Campbell’s Soup Girl. In the summer of 1985 I worked in the Food Building at the CNE, doling out complimentary styrofoam tubs of chunky soup for my corporate masters. Then, at 4pm each day of the Ex, there was a parade through the grounds: marching bands, costumed characters, and friendly corporate mascots.

For some reason I volunteered for this, as Campbell’s always had a car in the parade. At first it just seemed like a good chance to escape the hungry hordes at the Food Building, all sugar’d up on Tiny Tim Donuts and hunting madly for free samples. There were outfits for both a boy and girl. I always ended up as the girl, but didn’t really mind. I guess I was the only one who did it willingly; which meant the only way the other guys would even do the parade was if they didn’t have to be the girl.

I quickly learned the benefits of my costume. The parade began everyday outside the Carlsberg Pavilion, which contained a beer garden. On my very first day as the Campbell’s Soup Girl, I figured my get-up might actually win my very underage self a place at the bar. It worked. With my big plastic & plaster headgear on, skirt and knee-high socks, I waltzed right past the garden’s sentries, who laughed & guffawed, then took a seat. I ordered a beer, got served, & took my head off. Everyone still laughed. After this I was a regular and the parade became my routine.

The downside came on sweltering days, after cascading two or three beers quickly down my gullet, the costume would get very hot. During the parade I sat up atop the backseats of the convertible and waved to the crowd. This could be dizzying. I almost fell out of the car a few times.

But I was a diligent worker. After the parade I had another job. I manned a stall for the Ontario Bean Producers’ Board in the mezzanine of the Coliseum. The most boring job ever. I just sat there. They wouldn’t allow me to read a book. Occasionally, an old lady would stop to enter the contest we were offering: the winner, by raffle, won a Bean Cookbook. I called it the Fart Manual. Whatever tipsyness I still felt luckily got me through.