OPINION: Eastern Carolina Agricultural Fair: A fair to remember

The Eastern Carolina Agricultural Fair under way at the fairgrounds brings back some fond and not-so-fond memories.

The only thing I ever won in my life was a big stuffed dog named Fluffy. I won it at the 1963 ECA Fair.

I was leaving and had just enough change in my pocket to play one more game. I think you had to throw a softball and knock something down to win.

I was in my prime in those days, five years removed as a Pony League pitcher.

I knocked down whatever I had to knock down to win Fluffy. She was so big that I had to let her ride in the rumble seat of my 1939 Plymouth convertible.

But the memory of Fluffy also resurrects thoughts of the 1961 fair. I was a junior in high school at the time.

Several of my friends and I came over for the fair. We watched the guy ride around the barrel at break-neck speed on a motorcycle. His first name was Speedy.

Speedy would get the motorcycle running at the speed of light. When he got to the top of the barrel, where the spectators were watching, he would grab dollar bills from their hands. He would take his hands off the handlebars and ride in daredevil style around the barrel.

Smoke billowed from the motorcycle. The whole place reeked of gasoline and smoke.

But in those days of yore, we young boys had more on our minds than the games and rides at the fair.

You see, back then they had the hoochie-coochie shows.

I remember going by the hooch stage and seeing the sterling young ladies who performed inside. They would parade around outside to draw the mostly menfolk inside.

And most of those men were either single or they had given their wives and children plenty of money to ride the rides while they viewed the view.

The barker was barking and the music was blaring.

The music was appropriate for such a midway scene. Dee Clark was singing “Hey Little Girl in the High School Sweater.”

They were also playing “The Stripper” by David Rose, “Pretty Little Angel Eyes” by Curtis Lee, “Bony Moronie” by Larry Williams and “Let The Little Girl Dance” by Bobby Bland.

Now among those in the group with me as we stared at the hooch girls and listened to the music was a future TV star named Cecil Chandler. We were all attempting to get in the show, knowing full well that we were underage.

A friend of mine, who was shorter than I, was standing tiptoe in front of me as we weaseled into the surging line. Cecil was in another line.

The moment of derring-do had come as Buddy Knox was blaring away with his 1958 hit, “Party Doll.” My friend in front, who is now a general surgeon, miraculously made it in.

It wasn’t the same for me. The woman ticket taker looked down at me disparagingly and said in a most belittling voice, “Little boy, you get out of line now.”

The same held true for Cecil in the other line, except it was a male taking up tickets. He was at least nice to Cecil.

“Sonny,” he told Cecil, “You come back in a couple of years and I will make sure you get on the front row.”

As for me and several other rejects, we just slinked on off. About all we could do was listen to “You Better Move On” by Arthur Alexander and try again another year.
I never tried again because a much better show of this nature came to Darlington six months later. We all got in, including Cecil.

It was a revealing and indelible event to say the least. Cured my curiosity for hooch shows.