Re: Of Pond and Drought

As I told Reid the other day, I thank almighty God for a peeable back yard.

Which reminds me of my first real estate deal.

I represented a guy down in Fountain Inn who was looking for a "double wide out in the country". Well Fountain Inn is the Shangri-La of double wides out in the country, and, as it happened, I found the fellow the perfect set up: An 1800 square foot, brick underpinned palace perched on 3 wooded acres. Why it was the finest tin-dominium in Laurens County. At least he thought so. As it was, my client was a good ole Fountain Inn born and bred country boy, devoid of any city slicker pretense. After a while, I grew pretty familiar with his laid back demeanor and a little of my own mill hill refinement just couldn't help but ease it's way into our conversation. We were standing out in the back yard, checking out the lot, and before I could stop myself I said: You know, you've got a lot of privacy here. This is the kind of back yard you can whizz in any time you want to. Well, needless to say, that went against everything I learned in Real Estate School; but after hanging around with the guy all day, I knew he'd appreciate the comment. We both had a good laugh and two hours later I had my first signed contract. Sometimes you just have to be yourself.

And again, thank Heaven for the leaf and the piddle.

Of Pond and Drought

The Pond and the Drought
Larry Reid


There is a pond
In a depression below
Into it tiny springs
and rainwater flow
While perched up above
a log cabin on high
Which sits on the hill
between pond and sky

And each was at home
in it's own little spaces
and pond top reflected
smiling, happy faces

There is a deep well
at the top of the hill
a cold-water well
500 feet they did drill
And said well feeds
the log cabin on high
which finds it's place
between pond and sky

Over the years
the drought settled in
rainwater stopped and
springs trace grew thin
and proud, mighty pond
once teeming with life
oh my goodness started fighting
a fight for it's life

And I in my cabin
constructed a perch
A high, lofty deckwalk
home to cardinal and finch
from this perch I spied
the pond and it's woes
I began to get worried
"What if away it goes?"

I concocted a plan
decided course of reason
pond level depends not
on hot or cold season
It counts on the input
of H2O bounty
a scarce, scarce commodity
in this midlands county
So how would we feed
the pond down below?
Wait for some rain or the springs to start flow?
No! I surmised
And said "what the heck"
I whooped out the hoser
and peed off the deck

The steaming stream ran down
toward pond with no sound
but alas disappeared
swallowed up by dry ground
"More", said I. "More!"
And started to swill
I drank and drank water
which fed from the well
So it became habit
to look out beyond
and pee from the deck
to try and fill up that pond

I peed through the winter
In summer's warm eve
I peed by my lonely
Or with Gary and Steve
I peed before bedtime
Or when I arose
I peed off that deck until
pond level rose
I peed and I peed
from that deck it did flow
and pond level topped out
as fat as she goes

Satisfied with level
I cut off the flow
Now I pee like a socialite
in porcelain bowl
At times I get lonely
for natural relief
to stand out in nature
to piddle on a leaf
I resist the temptation
because of one thing obscene
the once proud, proud pond
is reclassified a "Peend"

The End

Re: The White Horse Drive In

I always envied Reid's Drive In connection. It lent him a certain savior-faire. And at last he allows us a peek inside the DI culture. Yet, I can't help but think that Reid is holding out on us. His briberies surely involved more than Snickers Bars.



Speaking of theatres, Reid probably used those free passes to the indoor cinemas to catch a flick or ten at the Fox (I'm pretty sure that's where I saw Godzilla Vs. the Smog Monster - riveting entertainment!). The Fox had big Red curtains that opened and closed in front of the screen. Many a time I saw a youthful Kurt Russell promo through the red hue of the Fox's curtains. About the floor: it was covered in a fine sheen of Coke and that buttery substance used on the popcorn. It was easy to bust yo ice if you weren't careful. And that would be tragic: who would want a broken ankle to ruin an evening of The Computer that Wore Tennis Shoes? As for the buttery substance: If you ordered a large popcorn you'd get a fairly large tub. The concessionaire would shovel in the popcorn, hold it under a container and then squirt in a huge amount of buttery ectoplasm. By the time you had eaten down to the bottom of the tub (about the time it took for Godzilla to whip the Smog Monster's ass; or about the time in The Graduate that Dustin Hoffman screamed "Elaine!, Elaine!), you would discover an inch deep puddle of the stuff. Ultimately, gallons of the buttery goo found it's way to the floor of the Fox theatre, hence, the cinematic slip and slide.

Awesome post Reid. When they took down the screen to make way for the reconfigured White Horse - Hwy 123 intersection, I knew that an era had passed. The last image I remember seeing on the screen was Mary Tyler Moore wearing a Habit. Sad. Just sad. Hi Ho.

Drive In Memories

The White Horse Drive In Theater

The Beginning
I first remember going to the White Horse Theater, one of several we attended growing up, when I was probably 8 or 9 years old. Mom would pop a big, brown grocery bag full of popcorn, make a gallon of Kool-Aid in a glass pitcher and pile all the kids into the old station wagon for an evening at the picture show. Dad would pay the lady at the box office the standard admission (kids under 12 were free...we remained under 12 until we were probably 14 or so), then he'd pick out a good spot near the restrooms and park us. After rolling down the window to pull the speaker box inside the car, mom and dad would encourage us to go to the playground, always located under the big screen. And we would play there until the cartoon lit up the jumbo screen over our heads.

The drive in was about five or six acres of asphalt paved berms and a concession stand/projection booth in the middle of the lot. It was a flat-roofed affair built of brick and built low so all behind it could see the screen. The box office was located at the rear of the lot so that late-comers to the show would disturb customers as little as possible. A painted wall at the entrance reminded you to “use parking lights when entering”). The berms were designed to raise the front of your car just enough to see the huge screen while leaning back in your spacious front seat (back then, most front seats were spacious bench seats). As you pulled into the space, you minded the speaker post so as not to pull too close and block your exit from the car. After parking, you rolled down the window and pulled in the huge aluminum speaker with the single volume knob. (A short film trailer at the end of the evening would remind customers to replace the speakers on the posts so as not to break your window or rip the speaker from the post.
The car horns would signal to the projectionist inside that it was damn well dark enough to start the picture. It always started with one car horn and before you could count to three the entire field was ablaze with a cacophony of Oldsmobile and Buick horns, Chevy horns, Ford and Dodge horns, the occasional and always hilarious VW horns, an 'ahooogah' or two and the loudest and most obnoxious – the old Cadillac hood-mounted horn, with a dual and sometimes triple horn arrangement.
At the playground, we tried to meet girls. Our dad and uncles would always be teasing us about pretty little things having “the sweets for us”, which encouraged us further. We weren't sure why we needed to meet girls, but meet them we did. More than once I remember holding hands with a strange but fine young lady under the towering figure of Jean Seberg or Raquel Welch playing on the giant screen overhead. In my mind, I was holding Raquel's hand. We would show off on the swing set, walk the plank on the seesaw, surf the slide and monkey on the bars, all to call attention to ourselves and gain favor with the girls. And then the cartoon would ignite the screen and we would sit down by the playground speaker, hold hands and wonder 'what comes next?'. The standing rule in my family, the unwritten Drive In law was pretty much standard fare: be back at the car before the feature started. This would give me daylight/dusk time to meet her, horn time to be allowed to hold her hand, coming attractions and the cartoon to continue to hold hands and find out something about them, and then skee-daddle to the car just as the opening scenes of the feature unfolded...throwing yourself in the back seat just in time for Mom to fuss about your lateness and how 'you were lucky that the movie hadn't officially started 'cause if it had she would be dusting britches, now sit back and be quiet'.
The movies were usually second runs, so called because they had first run in the walk-in theaters, then would make their way to the drive in circuit. We saw titles like Beach Red (War), Blood Feast (Horror),
The Pink Panther (Comedy), Zap-In (Adult), John Wayne movies out the ass and Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns. We stretched out in the station wagon, popcorn bowl and Kool-Aid on the seat next to us, only the occasional sound of a kid whining “I can't hear it – turn it up” drowning out the film's soundtrack.


Working Man

My sister Linda was the first in the family to start working at the White Horse Drive-In Theater. She took a job collecting money at the box office, which lent an air of power to my sister for the first time in my life. Not that I needed the services of a free pass into the theater, my age would take care of that for another couple of years. I was impressed, however, that she had the power to get you in free to the movies. So imagine how I felt just a year later when I replaced my older brother Steve in the popcorn room next to the box office, popping corn by the crate-loads, hauling it to the concession stand and keeping the heated box filled with buttery-tasting, fresh-popped corn. I've had many a WWII veteran tell me that the only reason they chose to come to the White Horse over another drive-in was because of that popcorn.
One of the perks of working in a movie theater in the early 1970's in Greenville, SC was a small card called the “employee pass”, which allowed me to present it at any theater in town and see a movie free of charge. I really liked this perk! I used this card at least twice a week for about three years, catching up on all the classics I'd missed, as well as first run features like “2001-A Space Oddesey”, “The Graduate”, and “Godzilla vs. The Smog Monster”.
One of my other duties at the Drive-In, after coming into work early to pop the corn, was to make my way down to the concession stand just before intermission and man the soda fountain, pumping drinks for any and all. Another perk was all the soda I could swill. When the rush was finished I could be found in the projectionist's booth, learning the ins and outs of screening film. While I never officially ran the booth, I did pickup enough knowledge to be able to switch out projectors during reel change.
On occasion, the Drive-Ins would have the all-nighter – a five-movie extravaganza!
Shows would begin at dark and play until dawn. I had to get special permission from my parents to work these events. Instead of my usual five dollars per night, these film-fests would net me ten bucks.
I probably took home around 30 bucks a week working at the WHDI.

Girls
Certainly the best part of working here was the sheer number of fine young ladies who would frequent the drive-in with their folks. Since I was working there, I felt a sense of importance that delivering the newspaper never brought me. Here, I could slip the young lady a box of popcorn, give them a free refill of soda, or even afford to buy them a Snickers bar.
It was at the drive-in that I met Donna, my first true love. Her mom worked in the box office and Donna would keep me company in the popcorn house until I got off work. Then we would go to her mom's car and do what young teens would do...kiss and hold hands until her mom came and kicked me out of the car. Good times.

The End
The White Horse Drive-In is gone now, along with almost all drive-ins across the country. Although there are still a few left, their heyday has long since vanished.
You can still find one here in SC – The Monetta Drive-In, or “The Big Mo”, located between Batesburg and Aiken. Last summer, Laura and I went down to see a flick and enjoy a gut-bomb hot dog.
As soon as I pulled in to our space I saw all the kids running around the playground, the line to the concession stand backed out the door, “These are my people”, I whispered, and felt truly at home.