I'm Just Saying...with Pam Stone

“He loves me...”

2008-02-25T07:23:00.000-08:00

“Soooooo,” cooed one of my dear, recently “involved,” friends, “what did you get for Valentine’s Day?”
From experience, I know that relationship neophytes are never really interested in an answer. Their polite query is for the sole purpose of giving a breathless report of what their “wonderful, new, man” gave to them on the Big Day.
“You start.” I replied.
“Well, I just couldn’t believe it. First, three dozen red roses. Then a copy of “Leaves of Grass,” (I can never think of this classic anymore without thinking of the Lewinsky scandal. Thanks, Monica.) and he booked a room for the whole weekend at The Grove Park Inn – we’re going to have a spa, dinner, the works!”
Awww. Don’t you find it sweet when people are in the blush of new love? When everything is heady and dreamy; when they haven’t heard for the twenty-seventh time that his mother wasn’t demonstratively affectionate, resulting in a difficulty of intimacy for you? Before the object of love is discovered to have bodily functions? It’s nice. A little obnoxious for the rest of us, but nice for them. I don’t begrudge them a bit.
I stand with a lot of people who have been in a relationship for so long that we vaguely recall (or was this a movie we recently saw?) feeling giddy seeing a flashing message on the answering machine or being amazed that someone is really interested in our life story – at least the first time the tale is told.
Like many of you, I don’t need a Hallmark Holiday to manipulate my fella into bringing home a box of chocolates like a cat at the front stoop with a dead mouse. It’s the same expression, really: “This is for you. You do want it, don’t you?” But he does. He’s a good man. And he’s a good man every day. I’ll take that hands-down over a weekend at The Grove Park Inn.
I will say, however, that this time I was armed and ready to reply after my friend finished her litany of gooey items.
“That’s nice.” I said. “Paul filled up the dually for me and then we drove to Clemson after he got off work to pick up a load of Timothy hay that was only $8.00 a bale and so, even with the price of gas, we still saved about $150.00 compared to buying it at the feed store.”
My friend could only work her mouth wordlessly.
Take that, Cupid.

Dog day afternoon

2008-01-23T10:57:00.001-08:00

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 have more than once told friends that if they ever hear that I have been arrested, it will be because I will not have been able to control my "inner mullet" in regards to treatment towards an animal. Living in a rural area, one simply sees more animals, I suppose, and generally, my dismay is inflamed by the all too common sight of wretched and lonely dogs, chained to a stake with little food or shelter and certainly no human or animal interaction. One can only imagine the despair of an animal that is imprisoned this way for 24 hours a day and always begs the question, "Why on earth do you have a dog?!"
Animal control can only do so much. I have telephoned them on occasion and they have responded quite promptly. There was a day last summer during the wave of 100 degree temperatures, that I drove past a young Doberman chained to a stake in the mid-afternoon. His owners were not at home and the pup had wound the chain around the stake until he couldn't move more than a foot in either direction. There was no water, no shade, and he was in such distress that he could neither lie down or stop moving, panting uncontrollably. Animal control arrived, unchained him and he bolted under the house for shade. Water was given to him that he immediately ingested and threw up. A "warning" notice was tacked to the front door as two pit bulls, in a tiny chain-link enclosure around the side of the house, barked profusely. I felt I had at least released the young dog from his distress that day but as the owners moved a few days later, taking their dogs, I don't know what the future held for him.
I wish I had the ability to articulate the indignation I feel to the owners of such animals. I go from zero to spluttering anger in about 4 seconds. I know by opening my mouth I won't be able to diplomatically reason or educate, so I stay quiet: a coward, ineffectively smoldering.
The same feeling washed over me as I drove along Highway 14 from my farm to town, last week. It was pouring: a raw, penetrating rain that my windshield wipers were useless against. Ahead of me, in the bed of a bright green truck, easily traveling 70 mph, were four adult, golden, Labradors. One was distinctly advanced in years and they huddled together, fighting for space behind the truck's cab, to get out of the worst of the downpour and wind. Untethered and agitated, they circled the truck bed, sat, rose, pushed against each other and waited for their ordeal to end.
It was all I could do to safely keep up with the speed of the driver and when we finally arrived in town, thankfully detained by a traffic light, I was able to maneuver up alongside the truck. He looked straight at me and my outrage was impulsively released with an angrily pointed finger at first him, then the dogs, as I mouthed the word, "Idiot!" He remained expressionless and continued on his way.
Man's inhumane actions toward man have always broken my heart and when it comes to animals, who ask for so little and give their all in return, I am beyond bewildered. It's the ignorance that kills me. I'm sure the owner of the Labs would have dismissed my concern with, "Ah, they've got heavy coats, they're fine." Or the people responsible for the thin horses in a nearby, muddy, field with no grass or shelter from the elements would wave a hand and say, "Hell, they're OK."
I think of the old cowboy proverb that says, "You can tell the inside of a man by the outside of his horse." Nothing truer was ever written and it applies to any animal. Man might like to think his best friend is his dog, but one can only imagine who his dog would choose...

Houston, we have poop!

2008-01-08T07:50:00.001-08:00

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.
Yes, I was aware this title might raise an eyebrow or two... read on, it will all make sense.
Having spent something like 20 years on the road touring as stand up comics, Paul and I know what it is like to go out for New Year's Eve. It's the big "money gig" of the year for any comedian, generally earning triple what one would normally make, simply for one night's appearance. I've been in front of restive, drunken, patrons, five minutes until midnight everywhere from San Francisco to Atlanta. I've jumped off stage in Chicago, five minutes after midnight, to grab a cab to O'Hare to catch a flight to London. And each one of those nights, as I reapplied make-up between shows with a trowel and 'Spackle,' I would say to myself in the mirror, "I cannot wait to just stay home for New Year's!"
That fervent wish came true when Paul and I moved, fulltime, to South Carolina in 1999. New Year's became a gloriously mundane tradition of sprawling on the couch, with terrier bookends and a cat on each lap, in front of a roaring fire and Dick Clark on the television. We'd never, ever, have to go out on New Year's again!
Funny how naive some folks can be.
This year found us indeed out, not only in the wee hours of New Year's but the following night as well. With a very sick Mini-mule. Some of you might recall an earlier column I wrote entitled "Lionel the Mini-Mule" which described how Paul discovered the ancient, abandoned, fellow at his nursery. We brought him home and tended to his parasites and neglected hooves and were pleased that he had had a lovely year of Mini-mule bliss living among my other horses and, in particular, Moose, a 27 year old draft horse. Now he lay before us, as the effects of the injected pain-reliever, Banamine, wore off, beginning to writhe and thrash with the pains of colic.
Winter sees a lot of colic cases, particularly in older horses with a slower digestive system. Like people, horses don't feel particularly thirsty when it's freezing outside and the food they eat, without the necessary fluids, can become an impaction inside their intestine. As their throat is a one-way street, there is no relief from this distress and they become agitated, rolling and, the fear is, "twisting a gut." At the age of 25, Lionel was no candidate for surgery and the vet's exam revealed a 'displacement' inside, not good, but moving gut sounds, which was good.
Twice was inserted a long tube down his nose to his stomach which was pumped with a bucket of water to see if we could flush something through but to no avail. Not sure if there was indeed a twist, we were in a dilemma: put him down now to avoid any unnecessary suffering, or try a last ditch effort: hook him up with an IV to fill him one last time with fluid while keeping him comfortable on the banamine. By the morning, if there was no movement, we would put him down. What was heartbreaking was that each time the pain was taken away by another injection, he was completely at ease with bright eyes and a braying welcome. It was easy to kid oneself that he was just fine.
Throughout the night, Paul and I traded off checking on his progress. His last shot of banamine would wear off by around 3 am. The wind whipped up and the air was brittle. Walking through the crunching frost of the paddock at 3:30, Paul saw him peering comfortably out of his deeply bedded stall, Moose standing sentry by the open door, dozing. The beam of the flashlight, flashing within the stall and along the ground revealed what was possibly Mini-mule droppings although Moose appeared to have stepped right in the middle of them, flattening them out, so it was difficult to tell who was the owner. At 5 a.m., it was my turn and with a nod towards the Saint Francis statue calmly surveying the fields from the front yard, and a quick prayer under my breath, I ducked through the apple orchard and opened the paddock gate. At first, I only saw the pale outline of Moose, standing nearby, and then Lionel poked his head around his buddy's shoulder and with a shuddering bray, welcomed me from both ends.
Some people treat themselves to a champagne toast on New Year's. Others go out dancing. Still others cram themselves into Times Square. But nothing, nothing, I tell you, is as glorious as the sight of Mini-mule poop at 5 a.m.

Resolving to laugh!

2007-12-26T08:11:00.001-08:00

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.
The most common New Year's Resolution, I am quite certain, is "to lose weight." A nutritionist friend of mine says that most folks who attempt this feat, beginning on January 1st, are doomed to failure because it takes skills and understanding of how your body works to be successful.
Another friend said, "Saying, 'OK, starting January 1st, I am going to lose 25 pounds' is akin to saying, 'OK, starting January 1st, I'm going to build a house.' Oh, really? You know how to do that? You have all the tools and know how to use them? You have a structured plan? You have the ability?"
Jeepers! That kind of pressure is going to lead anyone into free-basing Haagen-Daz.
Wouldn't it be nice, for a change, to put together a New Year's Resolution List that is easy to do and guarantees a reduction of stress? And while I won't promise you'll lose weight, I think you'll actually have fun. Remember that? Give it a shot:
1. The next time you're introduced to a stranger at a cocktail party, tell them you're on medication and could burst into tears at any moment if the word, "corn" is mentioned.
2. When you take your used goods to the local recycling place, ask the manager where you should put goats.
3. Start using phrases like "Goodness Gracious Me!" in an Indian accent whenever you are surprised.
4. While circling the parking lot looking for a space, pick out any man you see and yell, "Sheila, hey Sheila!" When he turns around, say, "Wow, sorry, you look just like my friend, Sheila!"
5. If anyone asks you the breed of your dog, reply, "Chinese tufted-rat burger."
6. When at the check-out at Bi-Lo, hold up a banana and ask the cashier, "Now, is this guaranteed to get out grass stains?"
7. The next time someone asks, "How are you?" Answer, "Flawless!"
8. If pulled over for speeding and the officer asks, "Do you know how fast you were going?" say, "Heck, I dunno. The speedometer only goes up to 120."
9. Start a rumor in your neighborhood that you saw a big truck unload a crate full of monkeys into one of the houses.
Finally, for those of you who still insist you should at least attempt to diet January 1st, just try this:
10. Tell any new acquaintance that you just lost one hundred pounds. This way, everyone will think you look amazing.
Happy New Year!

Glad tidings please bring... and that's it!

2007-12-12T11:44:00.001-08:00

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 am delighted to say that Paul and I, over the past couple of years, have succeeded in keeping Christmas simple. My rabid political rants have resulted in well-meaning friends who have, overnight, timidly returned jaunty little Santa figurines or snow globes, meant to be stocking stuffers for yours truly, because of the dreaded little decal on the bottom that reads "Made in China."
Instead of knickknacks in our home that live eleven months lumped away in a closet, the house is filled with the symbolic greenery cut from the woods: the holly with its fat, vibrant, berries historically represent the "Crown of Thorns" and the berries, the drops of Christ's blood. Candles, placed in windows, are reminiscent of the goodwill by the Victorians as a sign to passerby that warmth and comfort could be found within. Pine and ivy curls around the nativity.
I find such fulfillment, settling back on the couch and drinking in the sights and scents of these decorations, knowing that they haven't contributed a penny to that overused and annoying term: "commercialism."
If I had a dime for every person who has ever wailed, "Christmas is sooo commercial!" I would be bloated with wealth. The phrase seems to have been around forever, I certainly have used it and keenly recall my mother's laments. I thought it might be interesting to try and trace its roots...
Paul and I own "A Charlie Brown Christmas" on DVD and it is a must that we play it every year, generally a week before the big day, with a glass of good wine in hand, dogs on our laps and a fire roaring in the hearth. Besides acknowledging the sentimentality of this 1965 classic, we always comment that, with its religious overtones, particularly Linus actually quoting biblical scripture with the reading of Luke 2:8-14, there is, quite frankly, no way this lovely film would be made today. Before beginning to research this column, I always assumed "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was the first real cry against the commercialism of Christmas. Ignorant was I!
Scholar Charles C Haynes, observed in an article he wrote for "The Daily Herald," "...even the Puritans foresaw this problem by passing laws to prohibit celebrating Christmas on December 25th... an ill-fated attempt to ban from the New World a holiday celebrated in England with drinking and feasting originally associated with the Roman festival of Saturnalia." The Puritans truly wanted to keep Christmas, well, pure.
Actually, if you think about it, the blame might just lie at the feet of the Three Wise Men. They could have simply brought to the Christ child praise and music, but they chose to bring a weird little spice no one has ever really seen, incense and gold – Gold! Bringing an infant cash – that's as bad as when grandparents smother their grandchildren with extravagant gifts that overshadow the gifts given by the children's actual parents. I understand the rationale behind the gold, but it proved to be a difficult act to follow.
Well, I'm just not playing anymore. Paul and I give each other stockings each year and that's it: modest little trinkets, perhaps imported chocolates and much needed gloves, shoved deep down inside the toe with the obligatory candy cane sticking out of the top. If you try hard enough, you do not have to take part in the commercialism. Or so I thought. It's pretty good at trickling in. Watching "It's a Wonderful Life" for the five thousandth time the other night, Paul and I noticed that when George and his Guardian Angel, Clarence, were in Nick's Bar, Clarence hears the ring of a bell and informs George another angel "has gotten its wings."
The bell was the ring of the cash register.
Oh, well. Even Charlie Brown and Linus were brought to you by Dolly Madison...

Everyone benefits!

2007-11-20T08:22:00.000-08:00

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.
God and I have this deal. Well, let's just say I offered God this deal and I'm assuming he's OK with it; I haven't received a memo.
I feel downright blessed about my life in many respects: through my work I've had the opportunity to travel the world: skiing in New Zealand (Oh, all right, a lot of falling in New Zealand), riding horses across southern Ireland, spending Christmas in Salzburg, drinking in the views from Capri and hoisting many a pint in the English countryside. Stateside, there's been trips to the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Muir Woods, Bean town, Wrigley Field and embarrassingly finding myself on a nude beach in Sarasota. Can I just say that I've always wondered why the people you least want to see naked insist on being naked? In public? There's something very disconcerting about walking behind a naked person to whom gravity has been unkind and wondering why, besides foot prints, you also see shallow trenches on either side? But I digress....
Because I have lived a life which can only be described as full time Adult Recess, I mentioned to God that to thank him, I would do my best never to turn down performing at benefits to help raise funds for worthy charities. And so I answered the call countless times in Los Angeles: Concerts for Battered Women, AIDS, the Humane Society, Muscular Dystrophy, Amnesty International, the Homeless… I can't even remember half of them but felt a desire and moral obligation to be a part of them all.
Moving to Landrum several years ago, I became aware that there are several worthwhile charities in this area as well. I also became aware that, unlike Los Angeles, where a charity has its pick of literally thousands of performers to choose from, I was pretty much it. Perry Como had died just after I moved here and I don't think he felt, at that point in his life, up to doing much performing, anyway. I'm quite sure I was soon programmed into several speed dials:
"Hello?"
"Yes, we're having a benefit to raise money for Habitat For Humanity... would you mind doing headlining a Comedy Concert?"
"No problem."
The calls came fast and furious: Red Cross of Polk County, Cancer Survivors, Crop Walk, Animal Shelters, Domestic Abuse Shelters, AIDS, Therapeutic Riding Programs... truly, I've been happy to oblige. The problem is, I try gently to explain to the callers, is that this is a town of just over two thousand people, the point being, well, everyone has seen my act by now. They're sick of me! Talk about saturating the market... even new jokes become old after a couple of months. And while I realize that each and every charity means something dear to someone, there's some that, quite frankly, I have to turn down...
"Yes, hello, we run an Alpaca Rescue service and we were wondering if you would agree to perform..."
"Alpacas?"
"Er, yes."
"The animals with the really bad perms?"
Silence.
I probably didn't make any new friends during that short telephone call.
That's also probably why each time I see an Alpaca, they always seem to be glaring at me.

God bless Mr. Linder

2007-11-08T06:44:00.001-08:00

Love your mother

2007-11-08T05:26:00.001-08:00

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 write this as I look at a report from The Atlanta Journal which warns that “Atlanta Has Less Than 81 days of Water Left.”
Whew.
Video reports from nearly all southeastern lakes show several feet of red clay shore, boats, once floating and tethered, now lying on their sides in the mud. It’s a frightening time. Here in the Tryon and Landrum area, we certainly know first hand how bad it’s been. Those of us with livestock fret over the availability of hay and the fear that wells are drying up. “How sad is it,” my co-host, Ramona Holloway, remarked on our new radio show we are presenting on Sundays, “that I have to wait until an actual watering ban is implemented before it occurs to me to conserve water?”
How very, very true. During a normal summer, tucked safely into the pattern of rainy systems sucking up moisture from the Gulf and sweeping through every four or five days, I don’t think twice about watering my dressage arena. I leave the tap running as I brush my teeth. And when I fill the horses’ water troughs, I’m ashamed to admit that I have forgotten to turn off the hose~ once even for the entire night! But the water table was high, our well is deep.......excuses are terribly convenient, aren’t they?
One of the most inspiring sermons I ever heard Father Doty, our rector at Holy Cross, preach, was in regard to stewardship to the Earth. I cannot quote his text but of what I remember, he explained that when people hear the phrase that “Man was given Dominion over the Earth,” there is the tendency to understand that the word “dominion” has an aggressive feel to it. When we “dominate” someone or something, we think of putting it under our thumb. We rule it! We do whatever we want.
However, Father Doty informed us that the word “dominate” has its roots in divinity and stems from the word, “Dom,” which, in its Latin translation, means, “Deo Optimo Maximo: To the Best and Greatest God.” Keeping that in mind, if we then are given the Earth “To the Best and Greatest God” then how dare we foul it? How dare we take its precious resources without a thought of conserving? As a struggling Christian, I believe that Christ was very clear in that we are expected to serve each other and, of course, Him. His expression of serving was overwhelming.
How then can we, given “dominion” over His gift, not have a natural affinity to serve it? If we are given a thoughtful, lovely gift, should we simply rip off the wrapping paper, say, “Oh, yeah, thanks,” and then proceed to destroy it?
On our radio show, our third host, Sharon Decker, a lay minister, gave wonderful tips on how to conserve water: if you buy bottled water, don’t throw it away with water still in it – use that to water your plants then recycle the bottle. Keep a bucket in your shower and let the excess water fall into it also be useful in watering plants, even flushing your toilet!
Turn that tap off when brushing your teeth. Using your dishwater actually uses less water than washing by hand, but only if the machine is completely full....
There’s countless other things to do that I believe we have a moral obligation to undertake: recycling, driving fuel efficient cars, planting trees. Especially if you live in the country.
So many of us have moved to this slice of heaven in the desire of living closer to nature and breathing clean air. How then dare we to methodically and carelessly destroy and greedily remove its resources?
Shame on us for waiting to be told.

An open letter to O.J.

2007-10-11T07:21:00.001-07:00

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.
Will you please just stop? None of us can take it anymore. You won't remember me but I met you a couple of times, years ago, in Los Angeles – we even co-hosted a television show together, however, you've met millions of people and you've done tons of stuff since then. I remembered you because, after all, you were O.J. Simpson: star athlete, gorgeous, charismatic with a flood-lit smile. Even my manager was star struck.
"He's so handsome!" she whispered to me backstage.
"Yeah, but didn't you hear, he just plead 'no contest' to beating his wife." I replied.
"I can't believe it." she said stoutly. "I just can't."
Fast forward to 1995. I was driving my car through Hidden Valley, California, on the way to the barn when radio programming was interrupted for breaking news. The verdict for your murder trial was in. Breathless, I pulled my car over on the shoulder and turned the volume up. Surely, surely.............
"We find the defendant, Orenthal James Simpson, not guilty." And following that, several more "not guiltys" were read in a monotone voice by the jury foreman in regards to the murder of Ron Goldman and all the other, gruesome, details.
I'll never forget pounding on the steering wheel in anger and disbelief. "The Trial of the Century" (actually, I think Nuremberg probably deserved that title a wee bit more) had drawn to an unforgettable close. It had been part of all of our lives for months and months. We were sick of it and it was impossible to escape from: every newscast, every radio station regurgitated the latest developments from bars, restaurants, airports.
It was with smug satisfaction that I witnessed you and your entourage being turned away from toney eateries in Beverly Hills.
Regular patrons made no bones about informing management that if you were ever allowed a table inside, they would never return. The "not guilty" verdict meant nothing to us. As un-American as that may be, no one cared.
After the "guilty" judgment was proclaimed from your civil case brought forward by the Goldman family, at last there seemed to be a little justice. I thought after you retired to Florida to live quietly on your $30,000 per month pension, that, at least, would keep you out of our sights for good. No such luck.
What followed were countless arrests. It was nearly comical: stealing $60,000 worth of Direct TV, a road rage incident, your girlfriend calling 911 to report verbal and physical abuse and your youngest daughter, Nicole's daughter, Sidney, also phoning 911 in hysterics claiming "verbal abuse."
And now this: a "sting" type armed robbery in an off-the-Strip casino, The Palace, to retrieve items which, actually, should have gone to the Goldmans. Again, the lies: there were no guns involved, it was merely a "business dispute," and there was "no robbery."
As I write this, you have been arrested as guns were found and the suspicious audio tape clearly informs us that your were screaming like a maniac. I'll bet Nicole heard that raging more times than she could have counted before her murder. I'll bet your daughter hears it still.
So, just go away. Television psychologists claim you are a "sociopath" and are unable to feel remorse and believes the world should cater to you. If that diagnosis is correct, I'm afraid we'll be hearing more from you in the coming months and years. You can't bear to be out of the news. Just do me one favor.
Please don't write another book. I don't think I could bear seeing, "If I Committed Armed Robbery in a Vegas Casino."

State Fair to middlin'...

2007-09-27T07:13:00.000-07:00

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.

The war between the states

2007-09-13T08:25:00.000-07:00

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!

Hooligans!

2007-08-23T06:46:00.001-07:00

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 caught myself the other day, after seeing a couple of battered mailboxes lying in the street, uttering the word that plants me firmly in what I call the "old fa**" phase of my life:
"Hooligans!"
The horror of it all. And if that's not bad enough, as I was hacking my young horse down the shoulder of my normally quiet country lane, I yelled at an approaching speeding, truck, "Hey! SLOW DOWN! There's kids on this road, pal!"
It's just a matter of time before I'm standing, shotgun loaded, in the middle of my property yelling at passersby to "Get the hell off my land!"
What's happening and how did it sneak up on me? To quote Albert Brooks from the film, Lost in America: " I used to be hip, honest!" Really. Not that many years ago, I could have told you every band that played on every alternative station in the country. My buddies and I eschewed anything that smacked of "trend" and frequented only the most secretive clubs. Our normal hang out was "The Central," in Los Angeles: a dingy, hazy, bar one reached by descending a narrow, dank, stairwell which we had to abandon in disgust after learning it had been bought by Johnny Depp, renamed "The Viper Room" and gained notoriety as being the celebrity hangout where River Phoenix overdosed in the parking lot on a lethal combination of drugs.
Breakfast was occasionally taken weekdays (never weekends, too many tourists) at Duke's on Sunset, elbowing in at a back table, sharing a ketchup bottle with the likes of Tom Waites or the hung over drummer from the Ramones. No one spoke. No one hit up anyone for autographs... there seemed to be a mutually respected, shared, bond of conduct.
So, what happened? I certainly didn't have kids, thus there has been no moral obligation to set a "good example," and I certainly haven't left my progressive sense of politics. It is possible, however, that I am simply weary of man's continual unkindness towards his fellow man. Whether it be the unfathomable cruelty behind the bombings in Iraq, the misery that is Darfur, the greed behind sub prime lenders, or the blatant disregard for the health of children and pets in exchange for our frenzied pursuit of "Everyday Low Prices," I've just had it. I'm tired of mindless violence, even if it's by a couple of bored sixteen year olds cruising back country roads at night looking for a bit of mischief. I certainly egged a house of two in my early teens. I wasn't even angry at the family: I simply joined in with the other kids because it was dark, our parents were out, and the sense of danger was intoxicating.
I just want things to slow down. I want people to be kind and respect each other's opinions. I want people to stop throwing their cigarette butts out of the car window. I used to say I wanted things to be the way they were back in the "good old days" of the 1940s and 50s until a friend of mine pointed out that during those "good old days" he was prohibited from being served at a lunch counter. So, now, to confound things, I'm realizing that there never really have been any "good old days" for every group of people.
Oh, well. If I retained one thing from my three years of college it's this: "For every action there is a reaction." There's not a reason in the world I can't walk up to the house with the battered mailbox and enquire if they'd like help in repairing it.
Hooligans.

Rats!!

2007-08-09T06:30:00.000-07:00

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 and I are fortunate enough to have "Depression era," European, parents who have always warned, "If you can't buy it with cash, then you shouldn't buy it."

'Nuff said. With the exception of a mortgage, I try my very best not to finance anything. Even in a High School economics class, we were shown how many thousands of dollars more a car costs when you finance it instead of paying for it upfront. Later on I learned that a new car depreciates nearly 30% the moment you drive it off the car lot. Truthfully, I've never owned a new car in my life. And I always pay cash.

I say all of this to give myself some sort of self-righteous superiority while admitting that, therefore, it's a big deal if Paul and I are driving a car that was manufactured in the same decade in which we are actually living. Right now, our newest car is a 1998 Honda. It looks quite good: no dings, a few scratch marks from Bonnie and Rosie leaping against the driver's door (wretched curs) and just a little sap from parking under the Pin Oak trees. Having just turned 140,000 miles, we figure we've easily another 60,000 miles before we have any sort of trouble. The fact that we live four miles from town and, frankly, never go anywhere, means the odometer will turn 200,000 miles in the spring of 2018. We can rest easy in the reliability of our little car.

Or so we thought.

Driving my mother back from a recent doctor's appointment, I noticed the air conditioning wasn't as effective as usual. There also seemed to be a weird vibration occurring when I depressed the accelerator as it labored up hills. I met Paul at home with the awful news: "Pepe is unwell."

Yes, Pepe. Well, don't you name your car? Our others are Arnold, the dually, and Sammy, my beloved 1992 Isuzu Trooper that has been parked near where the woods skirt our property for around two years, now. We named Sammy after our favorite Thai restaurant in Los Angeles. The employees always picked up the phone with such exuberance when we called to place an order for delivery: "Hello, Sammyyyyyyyyy's!"
This flourish, naturally, was aped by both Paul and I when we would discuss what we wanted for dinner: "Do you want Greek, sushi, or should we call Sammyyyyyyy's?" And even though the Trooper is Japanese and not Thai, it just seemed to fit. It's a blessing we don't have children. We might have named our first, Subway.

So Pepe, after a fruitless administration of cold compresses and Vick's Vapo Rub, was admitted to Stott's Garage overnight, for observation. The list of potential problems plagued our sleep: "Transmission, timing belt, valve job........." Any unexpected cost also means Paul has to put off getting a new table saw, again, until next month.

At 8 a.m. sharp, the phone jangled. Paul and I eyed each other nervously. Surely they would have called during the night, if..... if......

Paul snapped up the receiver barked into it several times before slamming it down and rushing out of the room.

"What is it? What is it?!" I cried.

"Wrong phone!" he yelled from his office. "It's my cell phone that's ringing."

Connecting just in time with Stott's, we were given the unexpected news. It wasn't the transmission, timing belt or valves.

It was a rat nest.

Rats, not mice, but rats, had built the equivalent to Trump Tower beneath the water pump. Evidently, another rat had begun an offshoot to White Oak Plantation near the fan belt. Well, you know Polk County: they'll approve anything. I'm terrified their next move will be to annex Sammy.

So all's well that ends well. And I can't really blame the rats. We love Pepe, too.

Driven crazy

2007-07-26T06:46:00.001-07:00

Extreme Religion!

2007-07-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

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.

Well, why not? We have extreme snow-boarding, cycling, and, really, religion's been extreme for years. The Crusades, The "Troubles" in Northern Ireland, Henry's split with the Pope, fifty thousand Huguenots slaughtered in France, Eric Rudolph blowing up family planning clinics, Olympic Park (all of these come under the heading of Christian examples, by the way), and now, most recently, Islamic fundamentalist extremists. Different religions, same approach: "You do not agree with me? Then I kill you all. Now, let us pray." It's almost comedic if not so mortifying. Each generation witnesses horror. I suppose it's our turn...

And yet we continue, in our own, personal, ways, to follow. Whether it be to twice Sunday services, a Wednesday evening Bible study, praying five times daily (now that is self discipline. I usually only get half way through the Lord's Prayer before dozing off...) to Allah, plugging through Hebrew classes in the fifth grade... we're all searching, we're all seeking comfort and guidance.

Suddenly, there's another newsflash: the latest image of the Virgin Mary has been seen under an overpass. That is an improvement since the image before that was a cheese sandwich and, before that, on a screen door. I can't tell you how happy I am when I read these items in the paper. It stops me dead in my tracks before I can fall prey to bigotry and point a finger at Islam and say, "These people are maniacs."
Because the overwhelming majority are not and it's heartening to see the moderates speak up against those that continue to pursue murder and mayhem. I reflect upon my Muslim uncle (a most mild and charming man) and the waiter in Las Vegas who, after several return engagements, became my friend as he was always working the late shift that I took advantage of after a show. I am always ravenous after a show. And it's got to be scrambled eggs with cheese and raisin toast. Don't ask me why. It's the only time I eat it, ever.

Mohammed and I discuss politics between decaf refills or when it's slow on the floor and he has a chance to talk. He shows me where he is able to commit to his praying, in a tiny alcove that houses the coffee machine and silverware. His prayer rug is rolled up and leans against the wall behind the door. It is touching. He is so spiritually evolved and intellectual that it is a constant challenge to keep up with him. What I can confirm is that his message is peace. Always. That what must be chosen is the ballot, not the bullet, and everyone in every country has a moral obligation to closely follow foreign policy and witness how it affects the world.
I haven't seen Mohammed in a couple of years. I don't even know if he still waits tables at Harrahs. I've been mostly home doing my radio job and teaching dressage.
When breaking news shows another day of indiscriminate violence and bloodshed, I do send a fleeting thought his way and on Sundays, as I dress for church, my eyes linger over the delicate bracelet that he gave me as a gift when he returned from a trip to Egypt with his children. I had crumpled into the chair at my usual table, bleary eyed after performing three shows on a Saturday night to packed houses of people who had just lost their kids' college funds at the Craps Table, when he approached me with a tiny parcel. "I am so glad to see you again!" he said, placing the box next to my dinner plate. "I saw this on my visit and thought you would like it."

The bracelet is thin and plain with the exception of the engravings of the symbols of Christianity, Islam and Judaism, all entwined. It's not real silver and it was probably around five bucks. But it is one of the most valuable things I own.

So when we all watched the recent, frightening, news of two London Mercedes, laden with bombs and the same people trying in vain to ram the Jeep Cherokee through the Glasgow Airport doors, I thought, "Well, Mohammed, we pray different prayers but I know both our prayers were answered."

Because both terrorist attempts were largely unsuccessful.

There is reason to rejoice.

Rain, rain, get over here!

2007-06-27T05:52:00.000-07:00

Girls night out

2007-06-13T10:28:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: Commedienn
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.

As I write this, Paul has been overseas for nearly a week. He’s expected back tomorrow evening. When he patted my hand and said, “I’m going to miss you!” I felt a quick surge of guilt because, well, I have the house to my own!

Oh, bliss! Don’t get me wrong: I love the man but every woman can relate to coming in at the end of a tiring day and seeing the kitchen just as immaculate as she left it. No crumbs scattered on the countertop, no greasy knives or plates heaped in the sink, no slowly-souring milk forgotten to be put away.

Obviously, the toilet seat is down but, even better, no wet towel crumpled on the bed and no sweaty socks dropped on the floor beside the washing machine.

This, I’ve never understood. I mean, the washer is right there. All you have to do is lift the lid and drop the articles inside. It does all the work: suds, rinse, everything, but it does not and never will project a hand that comes out of the top and pick up clothes left on the floor.

Secondly, there’s television. I’m quite fortunate: Paul and I have very similar tastes (except basketball) and share a penchant for BBC America. We also enjoy reading. However, we both consider ourselves slightly intellectual and snottily refuse to embrace pop culture so it is with great guilty relish that I have watched “The Girls Next Door” on E Entertainment Television, which chronicles the lives of three Playboy Bunnies sharing the Mansion with Hugh Hefner. You know what? It’s fascinating! I realize that their days consist of romping around frequently topless and shopping (not at the same time), but they seem genuinely kind and they’re not hurting anyone. Well, perhaps Hugh. I can’t imagine being 80 years old and having three girlfriends under the age of 25. No wonder he’s always in his pajamas, the poor man’s exhausted.

So I’ve rather fallen for these girls and, with a sigh, realize I can’t watch them ever again if I want to keep Paul’s respect. If I let the show linger on a nanosecond longer than casual channel surfing, he would eye with me with great disappointment, pick up his class of Volnay and the John Adams’ biography he’s currently reading and leave the room.

But tonight, between “Masterpiece Theatre” and “Clatterford,” I shall gleefully tune into “The Girls Next Door” for a final viewing and open a bottle of Chardonnay.

Here’s to you, girls. By the way, how on earth do you get them to do that? Do you use tape?

A life sort of well lived

2007-05-23T11:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Because I chose to drop out of college in my third year and move to Los Angeles in order to investigate the possibility of making a living as a stand-up comic, I've always thought, if nothing else, I've lived a rather adventurous life. Performing gave me an opportunity to visit nearly every state in the Union as well as throughout Canada and Europe. Because most of my friends know me as "Horse Pam" and as horses are all I generally want to talk about, they haven't really heard of this other, shadowy, life I've led.

There are wonderful stories to haul from memory to bore potential grandchildren, had I decided to spawn, so perhaps when I'm 85, I'll simply regale the stuffed bodies of my beloved terriers, Bonnie and Rosie, propped up against the back of the dining room chairs at Thanksgiving, with these true life tales. They'll look at me blankly.

I'll interpret that to mean barely concealed fascination. My one way conversational nuggets will begin something like this:

"Once upon a time I had a Pit-bull named Max that nearly pulled down Jay Leno's pants."

"I'll never forget doing a show from the back of a flatbed truck on a beach in Spain in front of 2,500 sailors...."

"You'll never believe this, but one night in London, I literally, on the street, bumped into the actor Christopher Lloyd and the American Ambassador to England. An hour later, the three of us were eating strawberries and sipping champagne in Christopher's suite at the Dorchester 'til 3 a.m.!"

Along with these name-dropping yarns are also tales of hot-air ballooning in San Diego, flying with eyes screwed shut in a glider above the Bavarian Alps and regaining consciousness in a dew-soaked vineyard somewhere in northern Italy. No, I shall not expand further. It's like an acquittal means nothing to you people.

The point of all these illustrations? Simply to provide a sprinkling of samples, gentle reader, so that you might agree, "Well, this will be nice to think of when she's in a nursing home..."

Well, consider me trumped. On all levels.

My English cousin, Hunter, has just returned to his West Sussex cottage after a week's visit here at the farm. He's an interesting fellow who has led a varied and interesting life. Like me, he is childless with adventures tucked away bubbling to be shared. His mother, my late aunt, worked for Orson Wells for over thirty years and that, in itself, is pretty amazing. The travel required by her spilled over into Hunter's life and gave him ample opportunities to live wondrous experiences. As a boy, he was sent to the same boarding school which was attended by Prince Charles. As a young man, he came of age in swinging London around 1964. Now, I ask you, what is cooler than that? However, not having spent any real time with Hunter for over a dozen years, there was much about him that I didn't know. I didn't know that he was a model railroad enthusiast. I didn't realize he had once been a surveyor. And I certainly didn't know the best story of all. The story that reduced all my adventures to a crumbling, dried arrangement.

"Did I ever tell you," he began, as I steered onto Highway 9 towards Lake Lure, "that I introduced the "Twist" to Romania?"

I merely gaped.

"Yes, I was part of a youth delegation allowed into this then Eastern Block country and the kids our age had never heard any Rock and Roll. I brought in a Chubby Checker LP, began to show them all how to do the dance and they went wild! Evidently, it spread like wildfire."

The lush countryside pouring along each side of the car turned as dull as two day old iced tea.

It's as if I've never lived at all....

The Imus mess

2007-05-10T07:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Alright. Since I've had my own radio show for roughly four years now, I think I can speak on this topic with a little experience.

Having done both a two-hour show and a four-hour show, there is an enormous amount of material that is used. Experienced performers are comfortable enough to improv: "wing it." I pretty much do this my entire show. Having toured as a stand-up for twenty years, it is second nature for me and not at all daunting. As a matter of fact, it's the only way I can perform. So, it's great for radio. It's awful when I'm trying to succintly explain to Paul that the drain's backed up and he has to try to figure out why I would include grass seed and Dick Cheney in the report.
When one opens one's brain to improv, thoughts rush in like a Cheetah on speed. I have had entire ideas, characters, pacing and punch lines kick open my head like a gunslinger busting into a saloon. However, at the same time, there is an edit button. There is also a doorway that reads "No Entry." That's anything that would be hurtful, overtly offensive or flatly untruthful.

To me, the saddest thing of all regarding Don Imus' remark describing the Rutgers' Women's Basketball Team was not that he actually said it, but that he actually thought it. Why would it even occur to him? And it rings so hollow, afterwards, to bray, "But I'm not a racist!"

This is what I think needs to be addressed front and center. I truly don't think Don Imus believes he is racist. I don't think most of us do. I'm sure I didn't, when I've held my purse tighter as a black man walked past. I'm sure my friend didn't when, after talking to a woman over the telephone, upon learning that she was African-American, said, "Wow, you don't sound black!" Therefore, I don't think people actually understand what being a racist means. The definitions in the dictionary boil down to hatred and intolerance, fear and suspicion. The end result, however it is delivered, is always deeply painful. Don Imus feels that he meant it as a "joke," and he has said he "wasn't angry" when he said it, as Michael Richards was when he spewed his tirade at The Laugh Factory, in Hollywood. That's almost worse: when one is furious, one can easily slip into irrational behavior. But when one says something in jest, with plenty of time to consider whether it's hurtful or not, can this, honestly, be justified? Is it alright, therefore, to say to someone, "Man, you are as fat as a pig." and then clap them on the shoulder and howl, "I'm just joking!!" Would it be alright, therefore, to refer to our local High School Girl's basketball team as "ugly, redneck, sluts?" and then cry, "Why are you so angry? It was a JOKE."

And it's not enough to brush off racist remarks by saying, "Well, you know, they call themselves those sort of words." Some do. More of them don't. Some make millions of dollars performing filthy, degrading, lyrics. Just as many are deeply offended by them. I can certainly relate to that. As a white woman, I am offended by the actions of many a white man and white woman. I was offended by the endless coverage of Anna Nichol-Smith and her string of lovers, all claiming paternity of her child. That story was broadcast by white men and women on networks owned by white men, hoping to lure white viewers to buy products from white-owned sponsors. That story, for weeks, was considered far more important than the innocent Coalition and Iraqi lives that were lost. You see, a dead kid from Alabama doesn't make money like a dead starlet. At least according to a white guy in power.

Entertainers have the freedom to express themselves to the height of their intellectual capabilities or go the easy, unoriginal, route to shock and grab a quick buck. But entertainers, like everyone else, do not deserve a free pass. If anyone else in this country: a CEO, an airline pilot, a doctor, or a university professor took to the microphone at a meeting and announced that they worked with "a bunch of nappy-headed hos" they would be deservedly fired on the spot. What entertainers must realize is that we are their employers. By simply not listening or viewing, by not supporting sponsors, we can fire them as well.

Lionel the mini-mule

2007-04-13T12:04:00.000-07:00

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.

It's a quite common sight: a stray kitten is tenderly brought home in the arms of a round-eyed child, proclaiming, "But it'll die if we don't keep it!"

Or...

a thin, wormy, female mixed-breed, freshly torn from a litter of puppies is kicked out of a car on a quiet road. This I expect: we live in the country. We've already taken in the above, described, most dearest of terriers. What I was completely unprepared for, however, was Paul coming back to the barn one freezing morning not too long ago.

Normally, when Paul returns quickly after leaving for the nursery it's because he's forgotten his wallet. Or laptop. Or office keys. Or pants.

This day was different. He drove his Honda right up to the barn where I was nearly finished mucking out.

"Do you have an extra halter I can borrow?" he asked.

Now, c'mon, that's a loaded question.

"Someone's dumped a horse up at the nursery." he went on to explain.

"A horse? Someone dumped a horse?" I said, in disbelief. "How big? What size halter?"

Paul leveled his hand around mid-chest. An experienced, equestrian eye would figure that to be about 15.2 hands. I grabbed a "Cob" sized halter and jumped in the car with him to appraise the latest foundling. When we arrived at the nursery, one of Paul's employees was holding by the mane, a thin, shaggy, chestnut mini-mule, all of about ten hands in height. He could have worn the halter as a truss. I looked at Paul. "Your sense of perception seems to be off."

"Well," he replied. "I saw him from a distance."

This from the man who built a linen wardrobe for me that we, literally, could not get it into the house. He also purchased two rocking chairs for our front deck that are exact replicas of that giant chair on the hill on the way to Pumpkintown. I find him to be a latent admirer of Paul Bunyon.

Anyway, that's how it began. The mystery of Lionel (named after the curmudgeon character in the Brit sit-com, "As Time Goes By") became a bit clearer when it was learned that he had been removed from one field for chasing calving cows and broke out of his confinement at another place. We heard through the grapevine that the owner was quite relieved that we had taken him in. We tended to his overgrown hooves, gave him his shots, wormed him and received a kick in the thigh for our efforts. The vet said he's about twenty-five years old.

Paul is enamored with him. He led Lionel home from the nursery with a newly purchased, jaunty red halter and lead. A winter, foal-sized, blanket secured the animal from the biting winds.

When he arrived home, he was introduced to his new room mate, my twenty-seven year old draft horse, Moose, and immediately lay down in a fresh bed of shavings and fell into a deep sleep. In the morning, Paul was up before dawn, bringing his new pet an armful of hay and breaking the ice in the water trough. He was head-butted for his trouble.

A man and a mini-mule. It's a beautiful thing.

The floor show... and it's free

2007-03-26T10:51:00.000-07:00

What I would show George Clooney

2007-03-02T10:36:00.000-08:00

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.

Well, Howdy, America!

2007-02-23T08:07:00.001-08:00

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!

2007-02-07T10:49:00.000-08:00

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!

‘Aunty Em!’

2007-01-10T11:42:00.000-08:00

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 a big ol' believer in global warming. Indeed I believe we are reaping what we have sown. That's just my opinion, well, and a few thousand scientists. Regardless if you think it's merely a blip on the planet's history, the fact is that the long term trend shows us getting warmer, faster. The dire predictions of melting ice caps, stranded polar bears, dreadful droughts and frequent forest fires haven't really touched us here in the foothills.

Until a few days ago.

Tornado warnings on New Year's? And then, again, a few days later?

Sure, say climatologists. Warm balmy air, hitting cooler air, means intense weather. It used to be confined to the spring. Face it, Toto, there's a whole new world unfolding out there for all of us. We don't even have to drive our Escalades to see it!

I consider myself pretty much a survivor of scary phenomenas. In 1994, Paul and I rock and rolled through the catastrophic Northridge Earthquake. Allright, screamed like little girls. Our belongings were hurled everywhere. I must say, the living room looked so much better! Nothing was broken, even in the kitchen. Actually, that's rather a sad commentary to be in one's thirties and possess nonbreakable place settings and glassware.

On the heels of the earthquake was the Malibu Fires. I was utterly panic stricken. It had been a normal day and I was adjacent to Malibu in Hidden Valley (no, it has nothing to do with salad dressing), giving my horses their daily work when, suddenly, like a javelin, tongues of fire appeared a couple of ridges away from the barn. "Dear God!" I cried to our seasoned groom, Jose. "Do we need to get these horses out? How far away is that?" Jose shook his head in a "been there, done that" sort of way. "No, no," he replied. "we're fine. That's very far away."

In twenty minutes, the fire had leapt over hills and the flames were sixty feet high. Five fire engines screamed down our road towards the barn. We were the last farm on a dead end road. Behind us were seven miles of ridges and the Pacific. In front of us were forty mph winds. "You can't leave." ordered one fireman, most calmly, I recall. "The fire has jumped the road and is burning on both sides and the road is closed." When I pointed out the enormous propane tank behind the newly constructed home on the property, I was amazed how quickly men, loaded down with gear, could move.

Both stories had good endings. I was also in the middle of the Rodney King riots, but I'll save that for another column. Suffice it to say that trying to load two, screaming, spitting, cats in a Saab with a dumpster on fire behind you and windows smashing in front of you, just to try and get the hell out of town, is not the way I had intended to spend the evening.

All of this brings me to our recent tornado warnings. I don't like them. At all. Honestly, I'd rather be in an earthquake. I don't want to "see" what may potentially kill me.

And my biggest fear of all is spluttering to a local reporter with a microphone, "It sounded jest lika Freight Train!" I don't care who you are, you'll end up saying that. With my hand on my heart, a few weeks ago, CNN reported a freak tornado spawning havoc down a London street and the first person they interviewed, was an English woman who cried, "It was terribly frightening. It sounded rather like a freight train!"

And for a couple of seconds, I swear she sounded southern!