“Who
wants to go to Silver Dollar City?” my dad yelled from inside the house.
I ran
to the door, screaming “I do! I do!” thinking I would be the first to hear the
exciting news. I looked around the kitchen and saw that everyone else was ready
to go.
Dad
laughed and said, “Then, put your comfy shoes on and let’s go!”
Grandma
and Grandpa had both worked at Silver Dollar City. Grandpa was an electrician
when the town was little more than Marvel Cave and a small village. He helped
install the wiring in rides like Fire in the Hole and The Lost River. He had
most recently worked in the saw mill, demonstrating to young guests how wood
was cut in the 1800s. In 1969, he made a cameo appearance on The Beverly
Hillbillies TV show. The cast and crew filmed five episodes of the popular series
at the park, trying to fetch a husband for Ellie May.
“Turn
her on, Herb,” the town mayor said, which became Grandpa’s legendary
two-seconds of fame. I had watched nearly every episode of the hit show, but
had never seen the one that hoisted Grandpa into the spotlight for a short
time.
Grandma
wasn’t an employee of Silver Dollar City. She sold her pioneer dolls in one of
the craft shops. She charged thirty dollars for each doll. Mom continually
encouraged her to raise her prices, but she was more satisfied when tourists
were able to enjoy her handiwork and take a piece of Branson home with them.
“Aren’t
you going Grandma?” I asked.
“No,
I need to stay here and look after Wanda. You kids have fun and watch out for
those baldknobbers!” she said.
We
hopped into the truck and headed through downtown Branson to Silver Dollar
City. Small shops lined the quiet streets. One shop caught my eye, as it had
every time we drove by it. It was painted light pink and wore a sign that read,
“doll house,” in big letters. I wondered what could have made those dolls so
special that they lived in a large palace. Pottery and basket stores paled in
comparison to the pink fortress, suitable only for wooden and china royalty.
Within
a half hour we arrived at Silver Dollar City. The tram pulled to a stop, just
as we hopped out of the car. My sister grabbed my hand and led me to a seat.
“Keep
arms and legs in the vehicle at all times,” said the driver through a bull
horn.
The
tram stopped and let a handful of guests off at the park entrance. Limestone
rock walls lined the park, similar to the ones at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
Just inside was a gazebo and square dancers in matching full red skirts, boots,
bandanas, ruffled shirts and hats, were getting ready to take the stage. The
men wore red pants, white shirts, red vests, hats and red colonel ties around
their necks. A small band of banjos and fiddles were ready to accompany their
performance.
“Bow
to your lady. Now bow to your corner,” said the caller.
In
unison, twelve dancers began swinging and dancing on stage. They repeatedly
changed partners and I was amazed at their ability to follow the caller. “Now
circle left, forward and back. Allamande left and swing your partner! Pass
through. Now promenade!” yelled the caller as he clapped his hands and stomped
his feet. The crowd began clapping with him, while the dancers spun quickly and
changed formations.
I
began slapping my knee and stomping my foot with the banjos, clumsily running
and hopping closer to get a better look at the exhibition.
“Howdy
folks,” said the caller. “Come on up and put your hands together.”
The
dancers’ full skirts flew high in the air, exposing multiple layers hidden
underneath as they spun to the music from a century ago. I skipped and twirled
from the ground, trying my best to mimic their choreography. I was consumed by
the folksy atmosphere and getting caught up in the moment, forgetting the
cardinal sibling rule, which was to never act like you know your brother in
public, I snatched my brother’s arm and spun him in a circle.
Corey
jerked his arm away. I froze for a moment and could see the fire in his eyes. I
closed my eyes and said a silent prayer, ‘please don’t let him hit me, please
don’t let it hurt.’
“What
are you doing, idiot?! Keep your hands off of me!” he screamed.
I
stood still for a moment, holding my breath, trying to recover from the
rejection. Suddenly my dad grabbed my arm and began dancing and clapping with
me. I was relieved and began laughing and dancing once again.
“Do
say do your partner,” said the caller. Dad folded his arms in front of him and
skipped a circle around me, while I skipped in place, unsure of what to do. His
square dancing techniques reminded me of a sacrificial Indian dance, and I
began to empathize with my brother’s reluctance to make a complete spectacle of
himself. I brushed it off though. I was getting a rush from the excitement and
wanted to continue dancing with the only partner option I had.
“And
promenade!” shouted the caller. Dad took my arms and we skipped side-by-side
through the small crowd that had congregated in front of the stage.
Mom
and Jacki clapped and tapped their feet as Dad and I shuffled about. Corey
stood a fair distance from the stage, looking the other direction in hopes of
Scotty beaming him to another planet.
“Now
bow to your partner. And you’re through,” announced the caller.
The
crowd cheered and clapped for the dancers.
“And
let’s hear it for this little lady,” said the caller as he motioned to my dad
and me. All the dancers clapped for us.
“That
was some fine dancing,” he said. I smiled and curtsied to the crowd, then
quickly, realizing I was in the spotlight, covered my face in embarrassment. I
ran to my mom who was laughing at my sudden shyness and buried my face in her
blouse.
“What’s
the matter?” laughed Mom.
“You
looked like a complete dork,” said my brother.
“Oh,
I thought we done good,” said Dad as he patted my shoulder.
“Young
man?” said an official looking guy in a deep voice as he approached my brother.
Corey’s
eyes got big and filled with fright as he peered up at the man in uniform. The
badge on his shirt read “sheriff.” Uh oh, my brother had done it now. The
sheriff likely heard him call me a dork and everyone knows that’s unacceptable
language to use at Silver Dollar City.
“Yes?”
my brother answered quietly.
“You
look like a strong, honest fella,” said the sheriff as he circled my brother,
inspecting his physique. “How would you like to become an official Silver
Dollar City deputy?”
“Okay,”
answered my brother excitedly. “What do I have to do?”
“As a
member of the law enforcement team at Silver Dollar City, it is your sworn duty
to abide by all official Silver Dollar City rules and regulations set forth by
our founding fathers and to make sure all guests of our city follow them as
well,” said the sheriff. “Can I count on you, young man?” he asked in a
militant voice.
My
brother nodded his head.
“Then
raise your right hand and repeat after me,” said the sheriff. “I, state your
name.”
“I,
William Corey Crump,” repeated Corey.
“Promise
to uphold the constitution of the City of Silver Dollar,” said the sheriff.
Corey
repeated the oath word for word.
“I
hereby declare you an official deputy,” announced the sheriff as he handed
Corey a silver badge.
“Whoa!”
said Corey as he accepted the badge.
“How
about that?” said Dad, messing with Corey’s short hair. “You’re a gen-u-ine
deputy.”
“Let
me see!” I said as I pushed my way between my brother and dad while they
marveled at the medallion. “Where did you get that? I want one,” I begged.
“No!”
shouted my brother as he pulled away his badge. “It’s only for official
deputies.”
“But
I want to be a deputy too. Dad, can I be a deputy? Please!” I asked.
Dad
looked at Corey, so proud of his new title, then back to me. “I’m afraid Corey
is right. Only a sworn deputy can wear a badge.”
This
was not fair at all. I folded my arms and pouted, exaggerating my disgust in
the matter. Once again, it was obvious that my parents favored my brother.
There was no denying it. I had heard the story numerous times. They wanted a
boy so badly, but were cursed with three girls in a row. They had given up,
resigning themselves to a life with unstable, hormonal drama that comes with
the weaker sex. Finally, years later, they were blessed with their coveted boy.
I’m certain angels appeared from the heavens that day, singing a beautiful song
and worshippers drove for miles to bring lavish gifts and to catch a glimpse of
this gift from God. My birth, on the other hand, was likely accompanied by
crickets who chirped a note or two to acknowledge my entrance into the world.
“Hon,
what would you like to do first?” asked my dad as he bent down to make eye
contact.
Quickly
forgetting the neglect that had been bestowed upon me, I shouted, “Fire in the
Hole!” I had never actually ridden the carts of terror. The last time were had
come to Silver Dollar City, I was too frightened. My macho brother had talked
about the thrill ride for months following the visit.
“Then
Fire in the Hole it is,” Dad said as we headed for the ride.
“You’re
going to chicken out,” said my brother. “It’s really scary. Last time we were
almost hit by a train. It just barely missed us!”
“I
will not chicken out!” I screamed back.
“Yeah,
right,” said Corey. “You just wait. It’s really dark and scary in there and the
whole thing is on fire.”
I
felt a trembling in my stomach, but insisted I was ready to risk my life to
prove my courage.
The
line extended beyond the entrance. Nervous kids stood, fidgeting with
anticipation.
‘Was
there really fire in there?’ I wondered. ‘And how many people had been crushed
by the out-of-control train that apparently ran through this exact location
time and again?’
CAUTION
– YOU WILL GET WET, read a sign just inside the entrance.
The
line moved quickly and before I was mentally ready to sacrifice myself, the
gates opened and it was my turn to hop aboard.
“Don’t
chicken out!” teased my brother.
“Will
you ride with me?” I pleaded with my mom.
“Well
yes, of course I will. Come on,” she answered as she grabbed my hand and led me
to the small cart. She had no inhibitions about risking her life.
The
attendant pressed the bar into our laps, but I could still move about freely.
“It’s
not tight enough!” I complained to my mom. “I’m going to fly out!”
“Here,
let’s hook our arms together,” said Mom.
I
reluctantly joined arms with her. Slowly the cart began moving into the
darkness. ‘What kind of mother would put her child in harm’s way?’ I thought to
myself. Within seconds we were sailing through open, black space inside our
rickety cart, jerking to the left and swiftly to the right.
Up
ahead we could hear the commotion of a town set ablaze. Small burning buildings
were lined, side-by-side as we made our way through. Life-sized dioramas
depicted scenes of hillbilly misfortune.
“Red
Flanders, get back in here and put on your pants,” I heard a female voice call.
“I
tell ya, I ain’t got no pants no more. The dang baldknobbers stole ‘em,”
answered her husband from atop a tree, wearing only his long underwear.
We turned a corner and entered a
village invaded by baldknobbers who wore what resembled white flour sacks over
their heads. Armies of them pointed rifles at unsuspecting townspeople who were
stricken with terror.
Laughter filled the cave and it was
then that I realized the fire wasn’t authentic. Strobe lamps and special effects
created the illusion of a devastated town. Relieved, I started laughing with my
mom.
Suddenly my laughter turned to fear
once again as I saw a light ahead and what sounded like a train approaching,
out of control.
“Choo-choo,” it roared. The train
was headed right for us. There was nowhere to go. This was it. My fate was to
become a victim of the train, like countless others who had been goaded into
this Russian roulette game. I closed my eyes tightly and gripped my mom’s arm.
Just seconds before we collided
with the oncoming train, I felt my body become airborne as the cart took a
steep nose dive to avoid the train. Passengers screamed for their lives. I was
silent, scared beyond comprehension.
“Fire in the hole!” I heard a voice
yell from somewhere inside the cave, but before the words were finished, a
bucket of water was thrown into our cart.
“Mom!” I cried. “I’m all wet!”
“Didn’t you read the sign?” she
asked, while chuckling at my reaction.
Our cart rounded the corner and
came to a jerky stop. Dad and Corey stood alongside the track, pointing and
laughing at my drenched hair and the obvious look of displeasure on my face.
“Were you scared?” my brother
teased. “Fire in the Hole is such a baby ride!” he laughed.
“Shut up!” I screamed.
“Come on, Corey,” Dad said as he yanked
him by the ear and pulled him into an open cart.
“Have fun!” I yelled as I stuck out
my tongue. “I sure hope you don’t get wet!”
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