<< Back 10/9/02 The allure of the Tia Juana Wildcats By Gary Carden Well, the Cherokee Fair has come and gone again. In recent years, the tents, booths and Ferris wheels come so quietly and depart so quickly, I sometimes fail to notice. I hear that the trend is toward more cultural and traditional exhibits with an emphasis on activities that are “culturally” meaningful. I’m equally pleased to hear that the fair now fosters “ethnic pride” as well as “educational and entertaining” activities. But, I also miss the “old Cherokee Fair” of the ’50s. Between the time I was 12 and 17, I had a bevy of disreputable uncles who took me (and my friends) to the fair. Uncle Stoogie, on furlough from the Air Force, or Uncle Albert, in from the Navy, would smuggle Douglas, Charlie and me out of town. The whole expedition had a kind of “secret mission” quality and a slightly wicked air — as though we were visiting a place that combined Oz and Babylon. We were, as an old mountain expression had it, off “to see the elephant.” The fair had a smell then, and it was discernable a half-mile away. A fog of hot grease, fry bread, cotton candy and roasting meat hung over the fair grounds and wafted along Highway 441 through the chill October air. Lights shimmered, the Ferris wheels turned and swings revolved. We could hear calliopes, fireworks and laughter long before we got to the ticket booth. The banks of the Oconoluftee and the woods adjoining the fair grounds were would be sprinkled with colorful blankets, quilts and sleeping bags belonging to Cherokee families who “camped out” for the duration of the fair. “Get your ham, ram and bear,” bellowed Johnny Young from a portable kitchen. “Step right up! Step right up!” yodeled a dozen barkers, and suddenly the night was filled with mystery, in-trigue and illicit knowledge. Bingo tents, metal tanks filled with water and fleets of plastic fish (with numbers on the bottom), pyramids of wooden milk bottles, shooting galleries, darts and balloons, the aroma of chili peppers, Italian sausage and ... oh, be still my heart! ... a trio of dark-complexioned women called “The Tia Juana Wildcats” who shimmied on a wooden stage. One night, I ate three hotdogs and a cone of cotton candy and then rode the swings until I threw up. Douglas and Charlie went to see the Tia Juana Wildcats. (They were older than me.) Uncle Stoogie and I played bingo for three hours and I won a pink radio. I rode the Ferris wheel and threw up again. It was a wonderful night. On the way home, bundled up in blankets in the back seat of Stoogie’s car, Douglas and Charlie showed me their souvenirs — two curly, black hairs that they had purchased form Juanita (one of the T.J. cats) for 50 cents. They looked like two tiny watch springs and Douglas kept his in a clear, plastic window in his billfold that year. I remember he was a big hit in study hall that year where Juanita’s ebony follicle was reverently passed around like a holy relic. Charlie’s mother burned his. Uncle Albert helped me rig a 1,500-foot, copper wire antenna for my pink radio, and when I turned it on at night it filled my sparse little bedroom with a warm, pink light. It stayed on all night, and I would awake at 2 a.m. to hear Tommy Tucker playing champagne music from “high atop the Roosevelt Hotel in downtown Cincinnati.” The following year, I returned to the Cherokee Fair, determined to get my own souvenir — my own talisman, but the Tia Juana Wildcats didn’t return. Instead, there were two red-headed hoochie-coochie dancers called the Chili Peppers. Luckily, they also sold souvenirs. I kept mine in a match box with an Indian-head penny on top of my pink radio. The old Cherokee Fair was raunchy, rude and raw. I guess it was inevitable that it would change ... become more wholesome. Maybe that is why I haven’t been back. (Gary Carden is a writer and storyteller who lives in Sylva. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com)