Reflections from the Road 3.31.25

 I spent Wednesday through Saturday at the Carolina Pickers Antique Festival at the Denton Farm Park in Denton, NC. I had been a vendor for a couple of those events two or three years ago but was not satisfied enough to become a regular vendor at the twice a year event.

I signed up to be a vendor at the event this year in the hope that I would have a better experience than before. I will be kind. I did not have a better experience. The same problems continue. The roads through the event are mostly gravel at the Farm Park and this time of year, especially with the drought, it is very dusty. I could deal with that, but they have people with golf carts and ATVs and other offroad vehicles that ride around like the whole thing is a 600 vendor drive through. By the end of the event, most of my merchandise and my skin and clothes are covered with a layer of dust. At home Friday evening, my wife asked if I had been making mud pies in the bath. I get dirtier selling "stuff" at the Carolina Pickers Festival than I get mowing my yard on a hot day.  If by now, you have surmised that I will not be returning to the Pickers Festival, you are correct.

Incredibly enough, no one approached me to ask if I authored the Random Moments of Lunacy blog. Cue Mac Davis singing "It's Hard to be Humble". Good news, four days toiling away in literary anonymity has not altered my perspectives a bit. 

I hate the whole "Pickers" terminology. It somehow gives the impression that I search high and low looking for unusual items that people are going to empty their pockets to own. It's simply not the case. I am in search of cheap shit that I can sell for a healthy profit. Sell to the masses, live with the classes. Sell to the classes, live with the masses. I haven't sold enough crap yet.

I am certainly not a "Picker" like Mike, the late Frank, Robbie, Jersey John, Dave and Danielle are. If you don't know those names, turn on any rerun of "American Pickers". Regardless of the time, it's on a cable channel near you. My encounters are not scripted. Rest assured that my comments are not the work of a scriptwriter. Plus, there are no commercials when I speak. It's pure unvarnished swill when my lips move. 

While I toiled away without anyone aware of my literary prowess, I did get high praise for my memory. The vendor next to me and I were talking on Saturday morning. I had told him that I worked in the restaurant business. He asked if I had worked in Davidson County. I told him that I had managed a Popeye's in Lexington from 1986 to 1989. He asked if I remembered two girls Angie and Tiffany, who had worked there. I gave him their last names and said that Tiffany was a big-haired blonde girl. His wife laughed and said that she had seen the old pictures, my memory was correct. The guy was stunned by my recalling them. They are relatives of his. He said that he would be talking to them on Sunday and telling them about meeting me. At least the memory still works.

There was a guy across the way from me who was even more loud and obnoxious than I could ever hope to be. By noon on Thursday, the first day of the sale, I had heard him repeat the same story more than forty times. The guy next to me was pointing out the little variations in his story. By Friday morning, I was considering offering a cash reward to the first person to duct tape that guy's mouth. He claimed to be a teacher and a coach. He reminded me of a pedophile who I know. I am thinking about calling his school system. Could he be the first Picker Pedophile?

A few other observations after a few days of crowd watching. I miss the days before we started wearing underwear as outerwear. If your belt is below the crack of your ass, you need to pull up your pants. RFK is right, we are a fat nation. When a twelve-year-old asks "What is a magazine?", we can go ahead and close the case for supporting public education. Four Americans on a golf car is just our version of a railroad cattle car without the rails. There are more Hispanics than rednecks in Randolph County. 

A kid who looked to be about ten years old, started to pick up a pocketknife that I had for sale. I told him that I didn't let people under eighteen handle the knives. He replied, "It's okay with my parents if I handle them!" It only took a nanosecond for me to respond, "Your parents don't own the knife, I do. Put the son of a bitch down!" If you guessed that he didn't buy anything, you are correct. His parents were smarter than he was, they looked in my direction but didn't bother discussing the issue with me.

A female vendor was complaining on Thursday morning that it was cold. I pointed out that her pants were torn in several places and that she might be warmer if they were not torn. She assured me that this was the "style". I told her that she needed to be stylish in a warmer locale. Her husband pointed out that he had told her the same thing and she called him a "smartass" also. Was she a slow learner or a slave to fashion??

Here's a free plug for a supplier of mine: Glaze King Donuts in Asheboro. I stopped there on my first trip to the Farm Park a few years ago. I stopped there every morning on my way this year. My wife said that it was the highlight of her day when we stopped there. Just a couple of notes here: The huge apple fritters are a meal. The maple bacon bars have chunks of bacon on them, not bacon bits. You can feel the cholesterol surge through your veins as you eat one. On Saturday, I treated my heart to a stress test and had them fill the maple bacon bar with vanilla creme. (50 cents extra) I didn't bother checking my blood sugar again until Sunday, I knew that it wouldn't be low. Wait!! Glaze King Donuts is on Albermarle Road, just a few yards off I-73. Closed on Sunday, sorry.