The floor show... and it's free

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.

There's several good reasons to move to a rural area: no traffic, dark, quiet nights, soothing vistas of bucolic green – these probably top the list. So I'm always amazed when my fellow Landrum and Tryonites fail to experience the reasons they claim to have moved here for.

"Did you see the lunar eclipse the other night?" I asked, still vividly recalling the silver slip of moon before it gradually bled into its own fullness.

"No." was the vague reply. "When was it?"

After filling in the date I'm met with a shrug of the shoulders. "I think I was on-line paying some bills."

It saddens me to think that Mother Nature has to compete for her unappreciative children's attention. It's nearly impossible to wrench a video game from a child's hand or turn off the television in any house when "American Idol" is airing. Still, the world outside quietly continues to offer heart swelling beauty each and every day. I sometimes grumble about rising each day at 6 a.m. to tend my horses but, in all honesty, there is no place I would rather be. Even on the most brittle of mornings when the frozen air (or urine-soaked shavings) sears into my lungs, I always take those few moments to watch the sun's arrival just above the tree line: sometimes a delicate, shell-pink, and other times a blazing gold, it never fails to stir something ancient, something primeval inside. And I will admit that I have felt so very close to God while tending to the garden that I have chosen to stay there instead of hurrying inside to shower and change for church on more than one Sunday morning. Man has yet to build a cathedral that can compete with the dappled light that filters through the leaves in the orchard as though they were stained glass.

I'm pretty sure it's going to be an uproarious spring. The forsythia that hasn't been pulled through the paddock railings and ingested by my horses is frothing with tiny yellow flowers and everyone knows the daffodils were out early. Each morning I pause and take note of the buds, still tight, but just beginning to relax on our dogwood and apple trees; it's lovely to actually witness the daily journey of the seasons.

It wasn't too long ago that I was being interviewed for a magazine article. I've often been asked, "What made you decide to get into show business?" and my stock reply has always been, "Because I have no marketable skills." It's good for a laugh. But the real answer is much simpler, if not a bit infantile: because I have always wanted to play outside.

Here's hoping that all of you will do just that.

What I would show George Clooney

Even if you have never listened to my radio show (frankly, I'm an NPR girl, myself) you will know from local news coverage and breathless, middle-aged, housewives that George Clooney is in town. Well, not actually "in" town, but devastatingly close: Boiling Springs. Yep, a school teacher just emailed me, with photos as proof, that George was filming a scene at a middle school there.

Who would have ever thought? I mean, really. One of the biggest stars, ever, is right in our backyard. I've sent out countless appeals, over the air, to bring him to 'The Unabomber Shack" from where I broadcast. I'll even devote the whole show to Darfur. I know where he is staying! Sigh... I should know better: Having lived in Hollywood for fifteen years, earning a living on a sit-com, there ain't no way anyone can get to you with the layers of publicists, agents and security that surround you with the tenacity of a plastic wrapper on a brand new CD.

There's been no response from the radio invitations or threats. This either means he is simply not interested or that my listening audience totals about the same number of Cooper Gap residents who are boldly pro-zoning. At any rate, George, you don't know what you're missing. I have a whole day planned for you:

First, breakfast at The Junction. Rib-sticking food and entertainment for out-of-towners. Most people have never witnessed folks actually free-basing grits and sausage. Yes, I realize it's "all you can eat" but, really, pulling a chair up to a buffet is simply rude, don't you agree?

Next, a tool around Hunting Country with the windows open (as we have just left The Junction) followed by a forced march up to Pearson's Falls. Yes, it is beautiful and, no, my dog isn't supposed to be there, but shut up about it, OK?

Third, a little spin around Lake Lanier. George, there's the old Lake Lanier Tea House. You've got big bucks. If you buy it and restore it, I promise that Paul and I will run it as an authentic German restaurant, complete with Beer Garden. You don't even have to pay me. I just want to be able to sit outdoors on a brilliant spring afternoon and look at the view through the slightly opaque liquid wheat in my favorite pilsner.

Lunch will take us to The Lake Bowen Fish Camp. Yes, I understand your breakfast hasn't yet digested, but the "Slick 50" that catfish is fried in will leave skid marks through your colon. C'mon: where else can you eat fourteen hundred hushpuppies and still not be full? The service is wonderful, everyone's friendly, and, afterwards, outside, as the afternoon mellows, we can throw bread to the rats that live under the rocks. They're huge! I'm going to have my nephew, dressed in his favorite cowboy outfit, photographed riding one.

As the day winds down, a walk through Campobello to see if any cars have been sold yet, then a perusal downstairs at "Two Birds" in Landrum to see if that "Leonard Nimoy Sings!" album is still there. Yep, thought so. Finally, let's step into 10 Trade Street just to show you that we boast a sign of the Apocalypse: a restaurant that offers non-battered or fried food indeed existing in the deep South. Oh, by the way, that's Morris. Yes, it's a giant horse. No, I don't know why he's wearing a hat.

So you see, George, you might just blow it. Yeah, yeah, you've got your mansion in the Italian Lake District. Yes, the home in Bel Air is also spectacular. You're right around the corner from Wolfgang Puck's and Rodeo Drive. But you've never seen Hogback Mountain early in the morning, with the breeze lifting the veil of mist from its crest, or the "V" of geese that fly over my farm each evening, against crimson streaks of setting sun and you sure as hell have never had "The Heartstopper" at Side Street Pizza.

You just don't know what you're missing.