Thursday, September 27, 2007

State Fair to middlin'...


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.

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.

Paul recently indulged me in a dream that has been gnawing inside for years.

A baby? Please... I nipped this family tree in the bud years ago. Hacked it down, paved it over. Quite enough dysfunction, thank you very much.

Another horse? I'd get that without even mentioning it to Paul.

No, I've been hankering (did I actually say, "hankering?") to go to a State Fair for years. Years. The last time was in Georgia, when I was about fourteen. My father took my best friend, Jennifer, and me and I'll never forget that when we asked Jennifer's mother which stuffed animal we should try to win for her, she actually said, "A snake."

Who wants a snake? Anyway, believe it or not, Jennifer managed to toss three pennies inside three glass jars atop a wooden table and, behold, there was an enormous, ten foot snake, wrapped around the tent pole, there for the taking. It was black with green spots and a hissing, purple, felt tongue.

We felt triumphant as we strolled through the midway, the snake wrapped around our shoulders. We decided the snake, named for alliteration's sake, "Sam," should accompany us on every ride. My father, looking at his watch every four minutes, was prodding us to hurry, so we only rode about three rides before we were hustled back into his Impala and driven home, Sam's head hanging out the back window and his tail, having trailed behind us throughout the fairgrounds, covered in dust and chewing gum.

It was magic.

So when I saw the ads proclaiming the North Carolina Mountain State Fair was coming to Fletcher, my mind spun backwards to being fourteen, eating cotton candy, caramel apples and riding the "Bobsled" and "Scrambler."

"Please, can we go, please?" I badgered Paul who wanted nothing more than to relax on the couch and watch the first football games of the season. "I'll drive. I'll pay for all the rides. I'll buy the food!"

He looked at my breathless expression for a long moment. "What are you, five?" he asked.

It worked. There we were, standing in line, buying tickets. Not bad: five bucks to get in. We strolled around the livestock, admiring cows and goats and saw a terrific demonstration of a Border Collie working sheep.

From there, the midway beckoned: flashing lights, sirens, blaring music and lots of people who showed excessive amounts of gum when they smiled. I was going to ride everything. Rearing before us in all its garish glory was "The Bobsled." We were ushered into our swinging "sled," the rock music exploded and Paul found it a good time to say, "Keep in mind that all these rides are designed to break down easily to be shoved into the back of a truck and driven to the next gig. There's probably twelve bolts missing." With that, the Bobsled slung into action, whirling us round and round at a furious pace, bouncing over "moguls" and smashing me into Paul, clinging to the bar.

"Ow." I said.

"What?" he yelled.

"OW! My neck hurts!" The G-force was really straining as I fought not to smash the sides of our heads together.

After an eternity, the Bobsled slowed. And stopped. And to my absolute horror, began to repeat its cycle. Backwards.

"Owwwwwwwwwwwwwww!"

It's an awful thing to realize, in a crushing moment, one's limitations. I'm not fourteen. I'm a middle aged woman with a stiff neck. All I wanted was to get the hell out of there. Paul bought me a slice of pizza and a soft serve ice cream and my mood lightened, somewhat.

"Let's ride the Ferris Wheel." he suggested. "The sun's just setting behind the mountains and we'll get a beautiful view."

The Wheel took us into its care and delivered us carefully and slowly to the top where it paused to give us the sight of a blazing sun descending behind the Blue Wall.

"I think this is more your speed," Paul said, patting my knee.

I nearly pushed him out. Stiff neck and all.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

The war between the states


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.

No, not the Civil War but the sly little remarks those of us hear who happen to reside in South Carolina by those who live in North Carolina.

"I don't get it," mused one pal who is always making fun of my zip code. "Why didn't you buy property in North Carolina? South Carolina is just so backwards."

Now, them are fightin' words....

I believe my home state incorporates impressive locales such as Hilton Head and Charleston as well as Myrtle Beach. Oh, all right, North Myrtle Beach, although you could probably find someone up there to airbrush a license plate that reads "Travis and Amber," too. We also have some terrific lakes, Caesar's Head, Aiken, Camden, and of course, Dill's Recaps.

I originally bought land in South Carolina in 1986. About seven acres of rolling field off Motlow Creek. Nearly every building in Landrum was boarded up. It sat hunched, humiliated, while its popular sister to the north, Tryon, went about its well-heeled business. I bought land in South Carolina because it was dirt cheap, there were endless places to ride and property taxes were a joke. My favorite pastime was to wave my tax receipt in front of my friends in Los Angeles who were selling blood to pay the taxes for a one bedroom condo they had purchased in Santa Monica. My property taxes were slightly less than renting a video. I loved the mountain views from my little parcel, planned to build a traditional farmhouse and small barn. Later on, an offer by the adjacent neighbor was made on the land, I sold and bought the farm I now own. In the meantime, under the early guidance of Mayor Brannon, Landrum's foot slipped into the glass slipper and she turned into a cultured swan. Even 'Ripley's' couldn't believe within a handful of years one get a latte or Guinness on draft.

Don't think I'm blinded by love for my state, however. I certainly see the faults. Most radically: the quality of the roads. I often haul my young horse to a friend's in North Carolina to use their indoor arena and it's a sad commentary to report that, even as a woman, I need a 'cup' to survive the jarring, bone-shaking trip. I can only imagine what my horse is going through. Like waking from a bad dream, as soon as the "Entering North Carolina" sign appears, the road turns from the surface of the moon to chocolate velvet, beautifully surfaced, not a pot hole in sight. Then there are the beckoning calls from Saluda, Hendersonville and Asheville, Cashiers, Waynesville.... the list of enchanting mountain getaways are endless.

Perhaps the way to embrace the value of both states is not to contrast but to compare the similarities. You may have Hunting Country, we have Gowensville. You have Biltmore, we have that castle that's always for sale on Fairwinds Road. You have The Pinecrest Inn we have The Beacon...ha!

Gotcha!