Fifty years ago, when I was a callow youth of 16, when Sylva had a Main Street that went both ways, the Ritz Theatre was featuring “Ruby Gentry” and “With a Song in My Heart,” and Troy’s Drive-In always cut the juke box off at midnight, Jackson County celebrated its “Grand Centennial.”

The local politicians and civic leaders, seized with a patriotic fervor, transformed our town into an 1850’s village. Buggies, hacks, horses and mules became commonplace in Sylva. The local men joined an organization called “Brothers of the Brush,” grew handsome beards, sported bowlers, derbies and bow-ties and wore honorary badges (I still have my grandfather’s.). Not to be outdone, the women swore allegiance to “Sisters of the Swish,” and the sidewalks of Sylva teemed with sun-bonnets, long dresses and stylish aprons.

In the middle of these festivities, the local paper announced a week-long celebration at Mark Watson Field complete with floats, marching bands, dances and .... gasp! an “historic pageant!” Each night the history of the county would be enacted — a living history of Jackson County’s 100 years of progress. A “professional dramatist” had been employed and was busily composing an epic complete with mock wars, marching soldiers, high school bands, majorettes and nightly fireworks!

Caught up in the festivities, my friend Bobby Blackwell and I visited the football field which was filled with carpenters erecting booths, bleachers and stages. The pageant director, a man named Larry (something), promptly hired Bobbie and me as “night watchmen.” He stressed that he had much valuable property — costumes, records and electronic equipment — and since the “historic pageant” couldn’t be dismantled each night and reassembled each day, he needed two vigilant and capable young men to guard his stuff. We were given flashlights and told each night to prowl constantly through the sets and stands, looking for thieves.

Ah, what a marvelous week this was! Each day, Bobbie and I lived in a time warp as we watched grizzled mountaineers toting flintlocks amble in and out of local businesses. Confederate soldiers and mounted horsemen patrolled Main Street between the Fountain and the Coffee Shop. Miscreants and malingerers were jailed in a stockade, the prisoners consisting mostly of deserters from the Brothers of the Brush (they had shaved) and Sisters of the Swish (they had appeared in public bare-headed). Floats honoring everything from local enterprises to Boy Scouts swam majestically up and down the streets.

But most memorable was the “historic pageant.” Each night, we crowded the bleachers to see the opening scene. While mighty drum-beats rolled and dramatic music played (“The Swedish Rhapsody”), the campfires of the “mighty Cherokee” blossomed in the darkness. A bevy of Cherokee maidens (cheerleaders) performed a sprightly fertility dance before burlap-wrapped teepees and railroad flares (campfires) covered the field. Oh, it was unforgettable! Floats with entire log cabins cruised across the field, “Appalachian Spring” and “Galloping Comedians” boomed from the loudspeakers, and the flags of 50 nations, held aloft by horsemen, raced across the field. I was never sure what this had to do with Jackson County history, but it was colorful. After the marching soldiers, the county’s teachers, the mayor and some dignitaries, a 30-minute fireworks display boomed and whistled. More dramatic music played and the skyrockets lit up the Courthouse.

After the local citizenry disbanded, Bobbie and I plodded through the wreckage with our flashlights. Sometimes Larry, the author of the drama, brought us coffee and did an inventory of his valuable property. One night I asked him questions about the production — why the 50 flags, for example, or what the flamenco dancer (his wife) had to do with the history of the county. “Nothing,” he admitted. “It’s just for dramatic effect.” After Larry retired to his rented cabin in Maple Springs, Bobbie and I listened to “Randy’s Record Mart” on our portable radio and peered nervously into the darkness. Each hour, we would circle the site, looking for stealthy thieves. Occasionally, we found parked cars in the pine thickets bordering the field, but their occupants didn’t seem to pose any threat to Larry’s equipment.

At the end of the week when Larry folded his tents and packed his equipment, I told him he had been an inspiration, that I planned to be a dramatist, too. He was touched and gave me two records that he had played each night of the pageant (“The Saber Dance” and “The Warsaw Concerto”), and the flag of Nicaragua. After Larry was gone, I sometimes flew the flag from the top of my grandfather’s house. “What’s wrong with that flag?” my grandfather said. “It don’t look right.”

“It’s from another country,” I said.

“Why are you flying it on top of my house?”

“For dramatic effect,” I said.

Last month Sylva celebrated its Sesqui-centennial with historical presentations, lectures and music. I caught myself remembering Larry and those nights filled with thunderous music, railroad flares and “dramatic effects.” I drove by Mark Watson Field and saw nothing that resembled Larry’s pageant — no village of the “mighty Cherokees,” no flamenco, no mounted horsemen with the flags of 50 nations. And here, I have kept my flag of Nicaragua all of these years.

(Gary Carden is a writer, storyteller and teacher who lives in Sylva. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com)

 

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