Highlands-A-Go-Go

The day was hot and hazy. Late in the summer, rain in Georgia can be sparse, and the air quality declines dramatically. (This is largely a function of the fact that there are approximately 1.5 cars for every man, woman, child, and houseplant in the city.) The result is that the late summer sky is seldom blue, but rather a kind of featureless, dingy taupe. While it’s not necessarily depressing, the temperature combined with the diffused light can subdue your mood. As a result, the discussion in the car was less ribald than would normally characterized our group outings, and more a steady stream of mildly surly sarcasm. “So what are we off to buy?” Rachel asked, settling her Jackie-O sunglasses on her nose. The haze resulted in a glare that was too bright for comfort, but not bright enough for the sunglasses. “Stuff for the set,” I replied, pulling off the Connector on the Langford Parkway exit. “I need some lamps, a percolator, a…” She laid a hand on my forearm. “Not you, dear. We know what you’re looking for. I meant the rest of us.” “Oh, I thought you were just coming to help me.” Jennifer let out her harsh, Cleveland “bwa-ha” laugh that she used when something struck her as absurd. “Oh, doll. Of course not. You’re looking for your stuff. We’re looking for ours. I, personally, am looking for a velvet painting of a fishing village at night that has the little electric lights in the windows.” “Dear God,” I replied, “Why?” Rachel clutched my forearm, her nails digging nails into my wrist slightly. “Dear, you must never insult someone’s Lakewood fantasy find. It’s like insulting someone’s religion.” “Huh?” “When you go to Lakewood, you are always searching for your fantasy find. Something that you believe will be there, and you’d buy without dickering over the price.” “You’re kidding.” “Would I make fun of faith?” “So Jennifer’s a Southern Velvetist?” Jennifer interjected. “No. They only search for velvet Elvises, the heretics. I prefer to think of myself more as a Velveterian. Reformed.” “Chris, what are you looking for?” Rachel asked, taking the sunglasses back off. “Antique art deco stainless-steel martini shaker.” “Oh, that’s not hard to find.” “It is with my initials monogrammed on it. You?” “Same as always.” She put the sunglasses back on and pointed where I needed to turn right. “A nineteen-sixty-four, twenty-six-foot Airstream Overlander Land Yacht.” “You’re kidding,” I said again. “I’m not.” “What in the world for?” Jennifer piped in from behind me. “Van, it’s rude to ask about someone’s fantasies.” “No, I don’t mind,” Rachel replied magnanimously. “My grandfather always fantasized about having one. He had a camper and used to take all of us camping, but he didn’t have an Airstream. He always said we’d know we had arrived when we could afford an Airstream.” We pulled into the parking lot. “How in the world would you pull it?” I asked as I got out of the Jeep. She rested her sunglasses on top of her head. “Quit trying to inject reality into my Lakewood.” We walked up the hill to the gates, paid our three-dollar admission, and walked through. The fair ground was built in 1938 and was the home of the Southeastern Fair until 1975. The fair left four huge turn-of-the-century, barn-like buildings that were stuccoed, and had been decorated in a sort of a faux–Spanish mission/Italianate villa style, complete with bell towers and Roman gods atop pillars. When you came through the front gates, you were on a level plaza between the lower levels of buildings three and four. Immediately to my right were easily two dozen booths open to the sky. The largest, just to the right of the gate, appeared to be selling doors, windows, pillars and entire porches that had all been salvaged off of Victorian buildings. Next to it was a truck with several tables lined up in front of an old panel van. The tables were covered with an amazing collection of housewares, all in a somewhat disreputable condition. Behind that booth, I could see another booth, filled with nothing but armoires. “Wow,” I said, impressed. “Where in the world do we start?” “Firehouse,” Chris replied. “Firehouse,” Jennifer agreed. “Firehouse,” Rachel declared. “Firehouse?” I asked as the three of the started off towards a ramp running upward at the far end of the buildings. The ramp ended at a road that ran in front of Buildings One and Three on the right and Two and Four on the left. On the other side, there was another plaza stretching away into the distance. The plaza was a veritable village of vendors. Some were selling expensive restored Victorian electric light fixtures and some were selling Adirondack chairs. One was selling salvaged stained-glass windows. Many were selling nothing in particular, but some of everything. A road wrapped around the plaza. Passing in front of Building One on the right, it wound to the back of the fairgrounds, turned left and then returned in front of Building Two. At the back of the plaza, between the buildings was a small fire station. It had been converted into a bar-and-grill. While I tried to look in the booths, Jennifer, Chris, and Rachel made a straight path to the bar without looking left or right. Inside, a particularly cheerful woman with dark hair greeted my friends with a simple “Three Bud Light drafts?” “Four,” Rachel replied. Two minutes and ten dollars later we were back outside, sipping our beers. “Okay,” Jennifer announced. Now we’re ready to begin. Which way?” We decided to tour Building Two first. “One of the things that is important to note about Lakewood,” Rachel said, putting her sunglasses back on as we walked towards the end door of Building Two, “is the search for the theme ingredient.” “The theme ingredient?” I asked. “Yep,” Chris replied. “Every Lakewood, every single month, has a theme ingredient.” “What does that mean?” “At every Lakewood,” Jennifer informed me, “you will no doubt see something your mother or your grandmother or someone else in your childhood had that you completely took for granted. Suddenly, you come to Lakewood, and you see the object, which you haven’t even thought of in twenty years, and there are thirty of them in different booths as you walk through the event. That’s the theme ingredient.” We walked towards Building Two. I had to admit I was a little put off by the “insiderness” they were bringing to this event. On the other hand, I was mesmerized by both the ritual they were bringing to the event, as well as the sheer amount of stuff surrounding us. We entered Building Two, and I forgot all about the “theme ingredient.” We were greeted by music as we entered, and directly in front of us was an oak player-piano, easily a hundred years old, playing Cole Porter’s “Miss Otis Regrets.” Jennifer began singing, “…and found that her dream of love was gone.” Chris and Rachel joined in, “Madam, she ran to the man who had led her so far astray.” And suddenly, much to my amazement, I found myself singing along. “And from under her velvet gown, she drew a gun and shot her lover down, madam. Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch todaaaaaaaaaaay.” I might have been self-conscious, except no one in the crowded building noticed. It was as if people breaking out into song as they entered the building was the most normal thing in the world. Which, of course, it was.