Well, Howdy, America!

So I have an idea. Wanna play?

Yeah, it's a bit, shall we say, naughty.

For those of us who cherish the open countryside and sigh with dismay each time we see pink ribbons fluttering on another large wooded tract, promising the coming of bulldozers and either a smattering of new, modest, vinyl houses or another "equestrian neighborhood" requiring clear-cutting the sides of mountains, there just might be hope. As 'The Bulletin' recently reported, NBC, noting that Polk County has been named one of the "Top Ten Places To Live In The Country," has decided to investigate this and is sending a film crew to, among other places, Ward's in Saluda. The point obviously being to show the bucolic and sleepy "Mayberry" feel of this charming little town which, as it happens, is fighting like hell to keep developers from turning it into the entrance to Columbus or Hendersonville.

All those currently snowbound in the north east and all those still cleaning up from hurricanes in the deep south will certainly be dazzled when this airs and realtors can expect their phones to be ringing off the hook. More developers from Florida, happily residing in their own, protected, communities, will be catching the first flight up.

So here's my plan: why not find the date of when NBC is scheduled to arrive in Saluda? Why not go for your own fifteen minutes of fame? I'm not saying to blacken out a couple of teeth and wear your best Confederate, "Forget, Hell!" T-shirt (but, hey, I'm not stopping you) and sidle into camera range when you've ordered your double cheeseburger. I'm saying, why not just ask to be interviewed and tell NBC viewers the whole truth about our lovely area:

"Well, Lake Lure used to be so nice and quiet, but you can barely hear anything on the weekend, or, really, any weekday during the summer with all the Harley Motorcycles down there. Honestly, there must be two or three hundred going around, full throttle!"

"You didn't happen to hear about that feller who had 'relations' with his Pit Bull, did you? It's OK, he's in jail now. I think."

"You didn't know that a Florida developer just purchased over a thousand acres of land just round the corner to bulldoze and develop? Yep, you can pretty much wave goodbye to Tryon Peak!"

"What's Broadband?"

"Nope, those trailers ain't going nowhere — ain't no zoning around here!"

"Possum. It's what's for dinner."

and if none of those work:

"Ever heard of 'Coon Dog Day?'"

Ultra-soundoff!

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

I'm not a "resolutions" type of gal.

Any annoying characteristics I have, from unabashedly breaking into "That's Amore!" while driving, to leaving a chunk of cheese out on the countertop until it resembles a Rubik's cube, will assuredly be pointed out to me by friends and my fella, Paul. I really don't need a particular date, say, January 1st, to make me cease and desist. A baleful look accompanied by a groaning, "I just hate when you do that!" generally puts the brakes on these things. For a day or two, at least.

What I would like to request, this New Year, is that other people make resolutions. And bloody well stick to them.

Here's one: As a childless woman myself, (and by the way, I hate the word childLESS. I simply didn't spawn. I don't want kids. I don't want a Porsche, either, but no one calls me "Porscheless"....) I still understand that people like to send Christmas greetings that are a flat piece of laminated card with a photo of their children emblazoned upon it. I get it: you're proud of your children! Problem is, I don't know who you are!

For years, I've been receiving cards from strangers with no return address and unrecognizable last names, featuring Haley and Devon in various costumes amidst Olan Mills backdrops, now somewhere in their twenties and looking rather bored in matching Ohio State Jerseys. So, please, no more.

This year trumped them all: I received a Christmas Card that featured a photo of an ultrasound. That's right: an ultrasound of a fetus. It took me at least five minutes to figure out what it was – like a festive Rorshach test. Proudly, turning it at an angle, I proclaimed to Paul, "Ha! It's a Fruitbat! With a hematoma!" Paul sighed, turned it right-side-up in my hand and corrected, "It's a baby."

Now, what am I supposed to do with such a thing? I am not going to proudly display this anywhere. An ugly little truth about Christmas cards is that most people arrange the most beautiful cards they receive at the front of their mantlepieces or hutches. You know, the reproductions of "Currier and Ives," glittery Santas and gilt-edged old master's angel and nativity scenes. If you think I'm sticking an ultrasound next to a Caravaggio, you've hit the eggnog early. It's going behind a vase, face-down, in a pile that includes Thomas Kincaid (I'm sorry but his paintings make my teeth hurt) and that stupid Wiemerarmer wearing antlers.
I suppose we're entrenched in an era that seems to embrace telling everybody everything about ourselves. Celebrities do it all the time: Roseanne periodically appears on Larry King and has informed us, over the years, of tales about split-personalities, prostitution, etc. Politicians, pundits and mega-stars dive into rehab as soon as they're arrested and reappear to cleanse themselves with candid autobiographies and "tell all" exclusives, so I suppose it's not too out of the question that a young, married, couple, elated by the prospect of their first born, would emblazon a copy of their ultrasound for all the world to see. Let's just hope it stops there. I shudder to think that next year, my quaking hands might be holding a card boldy exclaiming, "Happy Holidays!" while framed in sparkling snowflakes is the image of donor eggs. Oy.

Happy New Year!