I was initially very disappointed not to find any bugs, but then the whole thing became clear when I discovered all those old wagons and things behind the courthouse. I was amazed to learn that they were still being manufactured at least as late as 1918 — sounds sort of like Smith-Corona in 1995.
Anyway, it was deja vu all over again, as they say. The vendors and exhibitors seemed to have just moved up the road from that thing in Southern Pines a few weeks ago, though the Buggy Festival advertised itself as “one of the Top 20 Festivals in the South,” which apparently somehow gave it a leg up on Springfest in Southern Pines.
Southern Pines had Carthage beat in at least one way, though. In fact, it probably one-ups most such events in the world. Where else would a freight train blow through a crowd of grandmothers and small children at 80 mph?
We had a great time wandering around, admiring the plastic pom-poms, beaded spoons and such, but the highlight came at the antiques section, which featured numerous objects from the distant 20th century.
I spotted a fine little wrought iron baker’s rack, originally priced at $50 but marked down to $40. I thought it would look nice on the porch, holding some of the stuff accumulated from past festivals. Before I could even look up from my inspection, the lady in the booth pointed out that the shelves on this gem would fold down, and she could do even better on the price.
“I can let you have it for $25,” she said. I said I’d think about it, and I did. I thought it would be a lot of trouble to carry it back to the car.
We continued to browse through the antique coat hooks and beer cans, when the wife spotted a crystal (allegedly) bowl for $20. Just about then, the booth guy passed by, shouting “Everything half price!” Well, that did it.
“Don’t you think it’s pretty?” My wife asked. I replied, “Yeah, sure. Don’t we have several of these?”
“Not like this. Don’t you think that’s a good deal?” she asked me. “Yeah, sure. I just spent eight bucks on lemonade,” I told her.
“Is that what this cost?” she inquired. “Yep. Of course, the good news is that the lemonade is about gone, but if you buy the bowl, we’ll have it forever.”
“Exactly.”
It is now on the kitchen counter, full of peaches.
I have a theory about these things. I think all that stuff at these festivals (except the food, I hope) is on about a five-year recycling program. It is bought, taken home, and dumped at the garage sale the next time the owner moves.
At the very end of the sale, the dealer comes in, buys everything that’s left for $5.25, and takes it to the next festival, where the cycle starts over. It’s kind of like lend-lease in World War II, except the junk doesn’t ever sink, it really comes back.
You have to wonder who frequents these events. Do the same people go to all of them? If the festivals are all alike, it seems reasonable to assume the attendees are, too. If that’s the case, you could make the whole process a lot easier if you just had a permanent festival site, and changed the name every week.
Think about it. The vendors wouldn’t have to move and the visitors wouldn’t get lost. You could have permanent parking. You could even put the whole thing under roof and keep it open all year. You could call it a shopping center! One of the benefits of deep analysis is that it can lead to new ideas.
I like to go to these events during heavy rainstorms. The crowds are small, the food lines are short, the vendors are anxious, and, most important, I wouldn’t be playing golf otherwise, which makes me much more pleasant to be around, as the wife will attest. Still, she doesn’t seem to enjoy the rain as much as I do.
If I suggest going to a festival during a downpour, I usually get a nasty look and a refusal. Oh, well, maybe I can play golf after all.
Fred Wolferman lives in Southern Pines. Contact him by e-mail at fwolferman@
sbcglobal.net.
