You can hear it before you see it: the clatter of stock trailers on Church Street, the thrum of a tractor pull warming up, the murmur of neighbors swapping news over a slice of homemade pie.
For two late-September days each year, Altenburg’s “Best Little Fair in the Land” becomes the front porch of East Perry County, a place where the future shows up with the marching bands and the past arrives on steel wheels.
The East Perry County Community Fair is small-town Americana without quotation marks — and it has a party trick no one forgets: mules that jump like high school hurdlers.
ROOTS TRACED TO 1937
The fair traces its roots to 1937, when local farmers and church folks organized a homegrown showcase for livestock, crops and crafts. It’s been remarkably faithful to its spot and season ever since, pausing only for World War II (1942–45) and, more recently, for COVID in 2020 before roaring back in 2021.
Held on the third Friday and Saturday after Labor Day, it unfolds on the same familiar fairgrounds in Altenburg — free parking, free admission, free entertainment—drawing families from across the county line and far beyond. How many people? Pick a year and the numbers tell the story: estimates often land between 20,000 and 30,000 for the two-day run, with recent years flirting with record crowds. That’s a lot of lemonade, pork burgers and handshakes for a town you can stroll tip-to-tip in 15 minutes.
OLD AND NEW
Part of the fair’s charm is how old and new sit side by side: 4-H and FFA judging next to kids’ rides; quilts and canned peaches across from a gleaming line of diesel pickups; a Friday parade at 1:30 p.m. that still stops traffic and conversation in the best possible way. The set list changes a little each year, but the vibe doesn’t. It’s neighborly, inexpensive, and proudly local.
JUMPING MULES
And then there are the jumping mules. If you’ve never watched it, imagine a volleyball high jumper with long ears. Handlers lead a mule into a narrow chute, turn it toward a bar (often draped or flagged so the animal can judge the height), and ask for a clean leap — from a standstill. Miss once, try again; clear it, and the bar goes up, usually in small increments. Classes are set by the mule’s height—small, medium, tall—and winners from each class spill into an open division where bragging rights live. It’s equal parts skill, trust and stubbornness, and the crowd reacts the way crowds always have when gravity gets defied: with gasps, squeals, and the kind of laughter that sounds like relief.
HOW IT STARTED
How did a county fair in southeast Missouri become mule-jumping central? The origin story that handlers and announcers pass down goes like this: raccoon hunters preferred mules for their steadiness on slick ground and their good sense at night. When a fence blocked the chase, a hunter would throw his coat or a blanket over the rails and ask the mule to pop over from a dead stop. Soon, the boasting started — “my mule can jump that, too” — and friendly barnyard bets became a bona fide sport. Local announcer Charlie Mangels has told versions of that tale for years, a bit of oral history that fits the practical ingenuity of rural life.
SINCE 1982
As for Altenburg’s first official jumps, the fair records and news releases point to 1982 as the start of the competition here. Since then, the event has become a magnet for handlers across the region, with prize money and bounties sweetening the pot — some years offering a bonus if a mule breaks the fair or even world mark.
Recent lineups have featured a dozen or more animals, and the top heights regularly hit the five-foot neighborhood; one report pegged a best of 60 inches just shy of the fair record. Beauty of a mule jump The beauty of a mule jump is that it doesn’t gild itself. There’s no saddle bronc flourish or trick-riding pageantry — just a handler who knows his animal, a calm set-up in the chute, and a quiet cue.
The good teams look unhurried, almost domestic, until the instant of lift. A small mule under four feet at the withers springs like a loaded bow; a tall mule folds and unfolds with the neat geometry of a pocketknife.
The crowd pays attention to the details—the slight side-step to square up, the ear flick that says “not today,” the split-second when a hoof kisses the rail and makes the bar tremble. Then comes the verdict: the applause when the bar stays; the collective groan when it clatters to the clay.
FAIR CULTURE
The contest also reveals something about the fair itself. Mule jumping rewards patience, partnership, and a sense of humor about the natural limits of a very independent animal. East Perry’s fair culture works the same way: volunteers stack a summer’s worth of planning into one weekend, trusting that neighbors will do what neighbors do—show up, pitch in, and laugh off the hiccups.
That’s why the parade grand marshals are often the sort of folks you see in the checkout line at Buchheit; why the food stand profits turn back into community projects; why out-of-towners remark less on the carnival and more on the conversations they had in front of the livestock barn. Hunting for lore
If you’re hunting for lore, you’ll hear plenty on the grounds — handlers who can tell you exactly how they took a hesitant brown mule and taught it to love the chute; an old-timer recalling when the bar was a few inches lower and the prize money a few bucks lighter; teenagers who watched the jumps as kids and now line up to volunteer at the gate.
The fair is a memory machine that keeps adding new scenes to its old reels. First-timers For first-timers, the checklist is simple: arrive early Friday if you like parades; wander the exhibits and the livestock barns; keep an eye on the schedule for Saturday’s mule jump (late afternoon is a good bet); eat something fried and something baked; and—this is essential—plan on running into someone you didn’t know you missed until you saw them in Altenburg. The rest takes care of itself, just as it has since 1937.
A complete schedule and additional information can be found in the East Perry Community Fair special section included in this issue.
