A Countryside Golf Course Memorial

The following piece is part on of a three part series looking at Countryside Golf Course. Countryside will be closed and eventually paved into submission beginning this September. Why? Greed. The course is located on prime business real estate on the south side of Roanoke Regional Airport. Specifically, I will incoporate my own personal reflections with the official hole descriptions from Countryside. My memories of times on the course with my two older brothers, two sisters, and parents will be the primary focus of my recollections. Graphics, photographs and hole descriptions are used with direct permission from Countryside Golf Course's managing professional.

Built in 1967 on the "Old Kinsey Dairy Farm," Ellis Maples designed an 18 hole championship course that blends the natural beauty of the surrounding area with a unique and championship layout that still holds up today. Rolling fairways, undulating greens, scenic lakes, winding streams, and strategically placed sand traps are some of the many challenges that you will face during an enjoyable day at Countryside.

Hole 1 | Par 4 Maple Tees | Oak Tees | White Pine Tees | Cherry Tees 390 yds | 375 yds | 340 yds | 296 yds Countryside’s 1st hole is visually pleasing to the eye. You get a good look at the 375- yard hole that’s guarded down the left side by two small fairway bunkers. Some trees protect the right side of this generous fairway. If you drive the ball a little too far, a large oak tree may block you out. A short iron is all you will need into this funneling green. Play to the center of the green or else you may end up in one of the bunkers. A birdie is a real possibility to start your round.

A birdie is a real possibility to start your round. That’s really only half the story. In many ways the par four first hole at Countryside is about the easiest on the course as long as you can drive the ball straight. With any deviation from straight, you will find yourself in big trouble.

Early on, I made a living out of visiting the right side of the fairway. When you stand on the tee, you are faced with a beautiful, generous fairway way off in the straight distance. However, between here and there, a large, spreading sycamore tree guards the area. Without fail, in a group of four playing with me, someone would become intimidated by the Pebble Beach-like audience at the tee and duff their ball into the tall grass short of the big tree. Others would challenge the tree and lose. The tree was famous for slapping the ball back into your face. Still others would defeat the tree head on only to find that their ball had disappeared into the mundane tall grasses in the right rough or worse yet into the Olympic-sized pool guarding the right out-of-bounds. Clever strikers would know to push left of the tree, but that course would also lead to massive sand trap disaster.

If by some luck, you could make it past the tree and find your ball clear of traps, a birdie was a real possibility. However, you still had to deal with the annoying green guarding traps. Again, Maples rewarded a straight shot. Bumping and running the ball up was a smart play. Lofting and spinning the ball back to the pin was the sexy play. The green, however, played longer that it looked and was terraced making ball position in relation to the pin very important.

Hole 2 | Par 5 Maple Tees | Oak Tees | White Pine Tees | Cherry Tees 524 yds | 524 yds | 448 yds | 426 yds #2 is a dogleg right 524-yard par five that can play much shorter than its actual yardage. This can cause a dilemma of sorts for the longer players. You now have to choose whether to go for this semi-island green in two or to lay up short and leave yourself a short wedge into a fairly small green that slopes from the back to the front. Once again, a real birdie possibility to start your round.

Cross the road and visit the second hole. This hole has evolved over the years from a wild wallop-fest to a more exact target shoot. Still the basic premise for success prevailed through the years. A Par Five, the first shot looks a bit innocent. However first time players would be wise to talk with experienced duffers about first shot strategies. Being a dog-leg right, some would recommend gunning their initial drive over the mounded fairway bunker. That’s just what Ellis would have wanted you to do. Stalking close to the bunker is a fairway parallel out-of-bounds line running the length of the narrow right rough. Making a mistake on the drive meant losing a ball or busting an apartment window. Uninitiated safe drivers may pace their ball somewhere in the acres left of the fairway bunker. While safe and secure, positioning the ball in that spot almost guaranteed the golfer a bogey simply due to distance. Some long ball hitters were even further penalized by driving left and long. In recent years, the out-of bounds marker on the left has come into play as the Trane company has build a warehouse right on the OB marker. Any massive drive from a Big Bertha down the left side flirted with steel.

The second shot on this hole is really the picture shot on the course. In fact during drought years with water being rationed in the valley, this stretch of fairway was the only fairway irrigated, because it presented such a beautiful snapshot to drivers on nearby Interstate 581. It’s rather humorous that the official description claims that this shot is shorter than its actual yardage. In reality, the second shot plays longer than it looks. The reason is because just short of the almost island green, the land slopes gradually downward from quite an elevation and then back up. The optical illusion created is one of closeness while the distance is masked by the hollow. Ellis Maples used this same illusion with even greater success on the twelfth hole on the course.

Lurking to the right of the green used to be a small, but beautiful, lake. This lake was the home of all kinds of aquatic life from bass to evil snapping turtles. Of late, the lake has filled with sediment, sludge, and interstate trash and debris. The green itself was a fair surface with a slight tilt toward the fairway. It was always important to never go long past the green for a slimy, algae –filled creek lurked immediately behind down a steep slope.

Hole 3 | Par 3 Maple Tees | Oak Tees | White Pine Tees | Cherry Tees 188 yds | 162 yds | 137 yds | 110 yds #3 is the 1st of five Par 3’s on the course. This 162-yard tee shot plays uphill and usually into the wind. You must take at least one extra club so that you don’t end up short and in the bunker that guards the left side of this left to right sloping green.

Fears. This annoying little hole, perhaps the most unattractive on the course played to all of my fears: uphill, wind, water, proximity to previous green, and fast moving honking cars. This hole used to be a bit different when it was originally designed. I remember the tee being farther from the hole, but sometime in the 80’s wise road builders decided that the tee box would be better suited as part of the continuation of the frontage road. These wise builders were wowed by the seductive industrial offer for the property next door, and knew they had to provide clear frontage access between Hershberger and Peter’s Creek Roads. Since the original frontage road stopped just west of the third hole, these savvy developers pushed for the expansion. In a cruel twist of fate for these city developers, the main industry coaxed onto this prime industrial property, Innotech-makers of specialized contact lenses developed by Roanoke’s own Drs.Blum ‘n Newman, who promised thousands of Roanoke City jobs and loads of tax money for the city coffers, was sold first to Johnson and Johnson and then to some French company. Innotech was a company in search of a product and never really made a dent in the competitive contact lens market. Now, their beautiful flagship, a state-of-the-art building sits abandoned beside the repositioned #3 tee box.

Back to the hole, when the tee box had to be moved, the only solution was to move it closer to the number 2 green. Knowing how I play golf, I was always afraid that some golf hack like me would peg me on the tee box as he overshot the number two green. Hence, I was never comfortable on this new box.

This hole scared me from the time I was a pup. My father would sometimes let me play this hole when I walked a round with him. I always disappointed. Pressured by close followers and staring at a slow moving deep ditch creek within 20 yards of the box, I invariably duffed my first attempt into the creek. Feeling that I needed to hurry, I would quickly squander my second attempt off the tee. From there, my goal was to cross the creek and then burn my way to the top of the hill to the sloping green.

As I got older and better, the creek had less effect on me, but I became intimidated by the rushing interstate traffic and by the evil hill and facing wind. I found that I could never quite judge the distance right. When the wind seemed gentle on the box, it was a gale on the green, always in your face. If by chance the day was calm, my patterned memory always caused me to explore Trane Manufacturing’s office yard beyond.

Some people cursed this green. It was no doubt challenging because it sloped greatly from side to side and was especially hard to grip on the front and right sides. Unless you were able to get the ball pin high, you ran the risk of visiting the hill again. Luckily, I was usually playing from the edge of the green anyway and was usually able to place my shot closer to the pin. Beauty and charm: this hole had none. Annoyances: this hole had plenty.

Hole 4 | Par 4 Maple Tees | Oak Tees | White Pine Tees | Cherry Tees 390 yds | 380 yds | 340 yds | 309 yds The 380 yard 4th favors a little cut shot off the tee. Push your tee shot too far right and you will be out of bounds. If you go too far left, you will be in Ike’s Creek. A well-struck driver or 3-wood will set you up with a short or mid-iron into one of the biggest greens on the course.

Perhaps this is the most beautiful hole on the course. The fairways widen from the narrow chute at the tee box area. What the official description fails to mention are two of the most interesting features affecting the course, creeks and a road.

The course was served by one main creek, Ike’s Creek, that snaked its way through the course. Maples used it on many holes. On the fourth, he had the creek flow towards the golfer at the tee box. Generally the creek would be out of play except for fearful short right-hand hooks. Then creek crossed under the cart path just in front of the teebox and was joined by another creek, dry in summer, which ran parallel to the right fairway. Then the happy creek went on its merry way to mess with my dreams on number three and to fill the lake on number two. Creeks and ditches are always places to definitely have your ball avoid.

Aside from the amazing creek, roads definitely came into play here for some people. My brother, Jody, is most famous in my family for his performance on this hole. Jody was always a powerful striker of the ball back in his youth. He could crush a drive using the family’s vintage MacGregor driver. However, he was also known for mammoth slices. When Jody played this hole, his stroke became a potential lethal weapon. Holes three, four, five, and six 9to some extent) parallel a frontage road and Interstate 581. Number four is the closest in proximity to the Interstate, so when Jody powered off the tee, his blast frequently flirted with the six lanes of traffic moving at 60+ miles per hour. I once watched as he nailed a massive slice off the tee and his ball bounced in the first lane of southbound traffic, bounced high into the air, then bounced in the middle of northbound traffic before disappearing across the road somewhere near the airport runway.

The green on this hole was the most beautiful on the course. It was very possible to run the ball in close to the pin, but even if you missed the approach and landed somewhere else on this large green, it was reasonably possible to drain a long putt. With the green flanked by beautifil white pines, standing there offered a real sense of peace. A greater experience is standing there as a 737 landed. After the jet passed just a hundred feet above your head, a massive jet wash-a strong hot wind, blew across you. It was oddly refreshing for all of your senses.

Hole 5 | Par 4 Maple Tees | Oak Tees | White Pine Tees | Cherry Tees 410 yds | 400 yds | 365 yds | 323 yds The slightly downhill 400 yard 5th favors a little draw off the tee. Once again, if you push your tee shot too far right, you will be out of bounds. If you go too far left, you will have to deal with some trees. Here again, accuracy is the key, so you may want to hit a 3-wood for control. This will leave you with a mid-iron into another large green. Make sure to favor the right side of the green due to the bunker that guards the left.

First of all, this hole offered relief for the typical golfer. As you left the fourth green, you came to a water cooler filled with crisp, cool drink. Planted in a shady spot, this tee box was a great relief on a hot day. The fact that a stand of woods flanked the interstate side of the driving area, it also offered the first chance of other more pressing kids of relief. Strange little one paths dive about ten feet into the tangled woods beside the tee box and just stop.

The initial drive on this hole is blind. You really can’t see the green. The object is to place the ball atop the gentle rise just beyond the airport light towers. Perfectly placed, you can be set up for an amazing second shot onto the green. Tracking the flight of your ball as it heads slightly downhill and rolls onto the green is one of the most amazing feelings to have in golf.

If you get wild left, you would find that you were dodging white pines the rest of the way in and would have to approach the green from the evil left side. If you were wild right, then you can have a journey into another world. Seemingly the rough goes on forever before it gives way to the parallel woods. However, the rough tucks into a little forgotten zone a fair ways downstream. Balls go in, but rarely come out of this zone. Some of the greatest shots I’ve seen where blasted out of this dead dream zone and flailing blindly for green safety, escaping from the doldrums of the waving grass.

Hole 6 | Par 3 Maple Tees | Oak Tees | White Pine Tees | Cherry Tees 200 yds | 163 yds | 119 yds | 119 yds #6 is the second Par 3 on the front side. At 163 yards, this hole plays a bit shorter due to its downhill elevation change. Ike’s Creek runs along the front and right hand side of the green. Make sure to take enough club into this pie shaped green.

The sixth hole harbors one of the saddest stories at Countryside. When this championship course was first built in the late 1960’s, the sixth hole was a proud postcard. An elevated tee looking down upon a green guarded by a beautiful lake is what greeted the golfer. It wasn’t until I found a way to cross that lake that I felt I had gained acceptance into manhood. My brother, Greg, received his first birdie on this lake hole. He blasted off, but landed short right onto the frozen lake. His ball bounced high and skittered onto the green a few feet away and pin high. Nervously, he sank the birdie putt.

Somewhere, somebody at Countryside decided to drain that beautiful lake.

Still coming soon: Diving for Balls

Pets Everyone Knows

The Innocents


Felix and 95


Riley in Snow


Niles


Champ


Buster and Bo


Buster and Bo


Buster on Recliner



Buster


Callan and Riley

Burning Money

For the past few years, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an expanded piece about the strange world of parlor bingo in Roanoke. I’ve started this work close to twenty times, but each time I run into some serious roadblocks to effective writing. Simply put, I have never been able to describe what I’ve seen and experienced through many years of working as an attendant in vivid enough detail. There is a story there, however, and I plan to uncover that story slowly here on this blog. Piece by piece. Layer by layer.

Burning Money

Part One: Understanding the Mania

“Beano!” At American country fairs early in the last century, winners would scream in ecstasy. Bingo! is a game that has been traced back to Italy in the 1500’s. It was originally a lottery game called, “Lo Guioco del lotto D’Italia.” Over the next few hundred years, the game spread to France and Germany before finally landing in Atlanta, Georgia. The year was 1929 when the duo of Edwin S. Lowe and Carl Leffler revolutionized the game. Lowe renamed the game after supposedly hearing a winner mispronounce “BEANO!” by screaming “BINGO!” No doubt this contestant, a gray-haired lady with a cigarette dangling out of her mouth, had her hands too occupied with cards and markers to take the time to extract the cancer stick from her swollen mouth. Hence, her “Beano!” was muffled into BINGO!” Lowe must have thought that was his ticket to fortune. Leffler redesigned the basic card so it closely resembles the form we know today. Within a few years, Lowe was contacted by a Catholic priest from Pennsylvania who wanted to use Bingo! as a church fund-raiser. Contrary to what people may believe, Bingo isn’t referenced directly in the Bible. For that matter, neither is gambling. By 1934, over 10,000 games a week were being played all over the country, and these days over $90 million is spent on the game each week-most of that in the Roanoke Valley of Virginia. http://inventors.about.com/library/inventors/blbingo.htm

I remember a few years back when people were trying to reestablish the sport of kings, thoroughbred horse racing, in the state of Virginia At that time, there was a cry from across the state that allowing such gambling into peaceful and tranquil towns and cities would make us wallow in noisy dens of inequity. Just two years ago; Vinton, Virginia-a town connected to Roanoke like a neglected relative- just barely passed a referendum to allow Colonial Downs horse racing track to set up an Off Track Betting (OTB) parlor. People screamed about the morality, the greed, and the sin…while they puffed away on their cigarettes in their bingo parlors. I’ve heard that Vinton, spends more money per capita on Bingo! than any other place in the world. While many continue to attack horse racing, Bingo thrives and is embraced.

Let me state this as clearly as I possibly can. Bingo is gambling, high stakes gambling. Roanoke boasts many bingo parlors that churn out game sessions just about every day of the year. Happy’s (Now closed), Valley Hall (Vinton Bingo), Salem Banquet Hall, American Legion Hall (Now Closed), and Charity Games Incorporated (Voice of the Blue Ridge) are all places that I’ve personally visited to learn more about this madness. In each of these places and for each of several sessions every day, players stream in to the buildings bursting with cash. After paying for their basic card set and obligatory extras, they will have already spent their first $30.00. Soon after that, the real madness begins, and it’s not the actual game.

Bingo parlors are built as charity profit sharing institutions. Basically, organizations rent the hall and run their games. The hall owner receives a cut of the proceeds as does the charity. Their take is strictly regulated by the state’s gaming commission. Many organizations completely fund their particular enterprise by running Bingo! Bands, swim clubs, and athletic clubs are the predominate sponsors in Roanoke. The “take” is a combination of money made after all pay-outs in each of the approximately 25 games played in the sessions as well as a built in profit in the sales of instant “tab” games.

The real madness in the bingo hall is the tab games (a.k.a. instants, cards, tickets). The games are very similar to lottery scratch games, another gambling game sponsored by the state. In tab games, players purchase tab or cards which are usually about 1 x 2 inch rectangles. Eager, greedy players then pull perforated tabs to hopefully uncover fabulous cash prizes. Each game comes in a box with a predetermined number of tickets with a defined number of winners. Typical games have between 1000 and 2000 cards. All cards sell for $1. Usually, the top prizes are in the neighborhood of $500 to $1000. Some tab games build a jackpot which has been known to reach into the $20,000 range.

When the doors open about an hour before the first actual Bingo game, customers stream in with wads of cash, and after they purchase their bingo cards, they begin feasting on the tab games. It is not uncommon for one player to dump $100 at a time to purchase cards. The games are very addictive, and some people play twenty cards at a time throughout the whole session. They crack the tabs like a hoarding houseguest around a jar of salted peanuts. More, more, more! They want more, more, more. Once while working at Voice of the Blue Ridge for the Gator Team, my instant team sold 14 boxes of tickets (2,000 tickets per box) during our 3 hour session.

Bingo today is huge business. The people who play this game are people you might think could least afford to play, but addiction rules.

Next: The People Who Play

Coming Soon-

Looking For the Lost -a new series:

Diving for Balls- Part one of my golf ball hunting series

The Importance of Being Garst

Coming Soon: The Bingo Parlor...gray hair tinted by cigarette smoke becomes blue hair.

The Importance of Being Garst

I confess. I have an unusual fascination with the Garst Family, one of Roanoke’s pioneer families. I suspect that this curiosity goes back to my childhood days. I was born on Garstland, Dr. in Roanoke, Virginia back in 1960. From those earliest times, my life has been intertwined with Garst’s.

Garstland Drive supposedly is named for the Garst family. One branch of their family ran a grist mill on Mason’s Creek, not far from my house while another branch ran the Garst Brothers Dairy, Roanoke’s largest dairy earlier last century.

My home was on a street that dead-ended at a wide pasture. The land was all owned by “Old Man Garst.” I never knew his first name, but I suspect it was Samuel. Mr. Garst was a person to be feared in my youth. All kinds of lore rose among the neighborhood children about him. My older brothers and other kids around had tales telling of times when Old Man Garst would come out of his two-story white farmhouse and pepper kids with buckshot for trespassing in his fields. Being a naturally fearful person, I was terrified of him. I personally only dared gaze upon him when hiding behind a tree as he would sometimes drive slowly by in his ancient, green Chevy pick-up. Old Man Garst was a wrinkled, withered man with denim overalls and no teeth. His shotgun was always at the ready as he puttered around his farm tending his horses, cows, and chickens while spitting a trail of tobacco juice.

Despite the fear, or perhaps because of it, I used to roam the pasture and explore its treasures. Within this 30 acre tract, there were three structures that I remember situated between two hills with a gentle brook running slowly to Peter’s Creek. This idyllic valley was filled with sweet grass and the beginnings of a scrub forest of cedar, Virginia pine, paradise trees, and blackberry briars. Rabbits roamed freely along with plodding turtles and the occasional snake (always assumed to be poisonous...but most likely not)

The structures were points of fascination. Old Man Garst’s house, itself, was situated on the other side of the hill from the main valley. It was a two story white farmhouse that seemed to be in a state of some hard times. Even though it was a tall structure, the top of the house did not offer a view of the pasture on the other side of the hill. So he was not afforded a view of any trespassers on his property. This was a good thing, because we were always there. We just made a point to not stray too close to his chicken shed.

On the hillside along the brook near the west end of this tract was an abandoned two story house. My father says that people lived there until the early 1960’s, but I only knew it as “The Haunted House,” completely abandoned and in a state of ruin. I never ventured there, but I always fanaticized about going up those long front wooden steps and through the broken banging front screen door and into the broken glass filled home interior. I wondered what treasure I might find in the rubble. We were told that the house had been Old Man Garst’s birthplace. I further believed that if I went too close to that place, something bad would happen to me.

The most fascinating structure on the property was located across the brook from the main farmhouse and out in the middle of the field. It was the old Lackey house. The story was that the Lackey’s ran the Garst farm back in the 1850’s and they lived in the small wooden structure in the middle of the main pasture. Descendents of the Lackey’s still lived at the end of Garstland Drive, and that’s where I heard that part of the story.

I used to love exploring that structure. The main building had pretty much collapsed on itself with only two stone chimneys and piles of household debris left behind. If you looked carefully, you could find old broken plates and coffee cups along with chunks of broken blue glass. Attached to the main structure was a unique springhouse. It was an open concrete bunker surrounding a place where water bubbled to the surface and trickled down to the brook. We enjoyed hanging out here capturing crawl-dads. Of course, we knew that if you crushed a big crawl-dad on rocks you could find a pearl in their head. So we spent a lot of time searching for riches in this manner. That old house was the scene of my childhood’s darkest memory, however.

One day we were playing basketball at a vacant lot on the dead-end of the street when two boys, Billy and Pat, decided to go mess around in the old Lackey house. Sometime later, we all heard a ground-shaking boom, and we saw a cloud of dust rise. Next thing we knew, Billy was running through the pasture towards us yelling, “Pat’s dead! Pat’s Dead! PAT’S DEAD!” “The chimney fell on him! Oh my God!”

Immediately, we all leaped into action. My older brother directed me to go to the nearest house and call an ambulance. The rest went with him to the house and began digging through the rubble of chimney rocks. I made it up there just in time to see them uncover Pat’s bloody arm then his bloody legs. They kept digging furiously and finally uncovered his head, also a mass of blood. The great news in this whole tragedy was that Pat was still alive and conscious. He was moaning and incoherent. They got him uncovered just as the ambulance approached. Pat was loaded up and taken away. After months in the hospital, Pat was able to come home, but he was never the same. He had fractured and dented his skull, plus he had broken most of his limbs. We never saw much of Pat after that day.

That field also served our recreation needs in the winter time. In times of decent snow, we’d all gather in the field, on the other side of the hill from Old Man Garst’s house and sleigh ride all day and deep into the night. We’d burn a tire for warmth as we made run after run on our Flexible Flyers. I always wondered why Old Man Garst never came out to chase us away. Now that I’m older, I suspect that Old Man Garst probably wasn’t the ogre I imagined him to be. One sled run was called “Suicide Run.” It darted down the steepest part of the hill down towards the brook. You had to snake the sled at high speed through scrub growth and briars. Then you’d launch the sled over the lip of the cave and crash onto the pasture below. If you didn’t crash, you’d most likely end up in the cold brook.

The cave. This playground came with a variety of haunts from houses to its very own cave. It really wasn’t much of a cave. The opening in the hillside was about four feet, but I believe that the opening has since closed. I personally only dared go into it once with my friend. We had been told that when Old Man Garst was younger, he used to run shine back in the 30’s. The story was that the cave was the secret entrance to his underground laboratory. We were convinced that the cave led right under the abandoned Garst home on the west side of the property. We also were told that Old Man Garst’s old bootleg running truck was still parked down in the secret chamber of that cave.

So one day, my friend and I went out in search of the truck and the passage to the house. We took flashlights and left a rope trail. Just after we climbed into the dark opening and dropped down about four feet to a muddy and sharp rock filled cave floor, I had immediate doubts about the story. We crouched down and began mucking our way into the darkness. Almost immediately the passage shrank to the point that we found ourselves crawling through the mud and over the sharp rocks. Sharp rocks attacked my head. Sharp rocks and mud assaulted the softer parts of my body. My friend insisted that the chamber was bound to open up any time and we’d be able to stroll into the basement of the abandoned house. With fear overcoming poor judgment, I finally had had enough and turned around, forcing my brave friend to come with me. Even he, despite being the most reckless person I knew, had no desire to go this alone. We never found out if the bootlegging story was true or not, but we did spend many more happy days chasing rabbits in that field.

Many years later, I was at a teaching conference in Harrisonburg, and I struck up a conversation with one of the vendors. It turns out that the man was Samuel Garst, son of “Old Man Garst.” He helped put a more human face on his father for me. Later still, I stumbled across a Garst family website and a piece about “The Old Garst Fort” (the words Old and Garst just seem to naturally go together). In that piece they talk about one of the early Garst’s in the Roanoke/Botetourt area. His name was Frederick Garst, SR, and there were many tales about him. Here’s one that the article’s author, Betty Crawford Garst wrote up.

“The "tale" about how he came to be called ‘Indian Garst’ is also often written about. There are several different versions. This is one:

He was on a bluff above Mason’s Creek splitting a log, when he was surrounded by six Indians. They said they were going to kill him. He could speak the language, so he told them he would go with them if they would help him finish splitting the log. He asked them to get three on each side, put their fingers in the crack and pull. As they pulled, he knocked out a wedge closing the log on their fingers. He then killed them with his ax and went home.

It is unlikely it ever happened. When he came to the Roanoke Valley in the 1790's, there had been no reports of Indian sightings or raids in the valley since the Revolution. He was still in Pennsylvania in the 1780's. Records show that he was serving in the Pennsylvania Militia in 1781. His son Frederick, Jr. was born there is 1784. He is first found on Botetourt County tax lists in 1796. Nicholas and Abraham are on the tax lists in 1791 and Jacob is found on a tax list in 1793 for the first time.”


After reading that tale about the wedge log killing, it occurred to me that that story probably came from a group of kids sitting around talking on a boring rainy day, much the same way that the tales of Old Man Garst came from the friends of my youth. Will tomorrow’s kids have their own folklore?

The Weight Game

The Weight Game

I spent 5 summers working the games at Lakeside Amusement Park in Salem, Virginia. I started as a shy 18 year old in June of 1978 and worked my way to the top, Supervisor of Games, before I left in July of 1982. During that time, I received a life's worth of education.

My first assignment was the “Dime Pitch.” Basically my job was to stand inside the box shaped counter area and give change for a dollar. Contestants would try to land a dime on an illegally silicon-slicked plate to win gigantic stuffed animals. Every now and then, my boss would zip past and give a wink-wink. He'd pull me over to the side and quietly whisper into my ear (usually had a moist moustache), "Be sure to wipe the plates every hour." Dutifully, I'd spray the glass with my milky white cleaner. They loved my work; I never gave away a single big animal.

One day, the big boss switched me to “The Weight Game,” right next to the Spider, one of Lakeside's most popular and sickening rides. The Spider, while great for thrill seekers, required the operator to develop keen cleansing skills. A bucket filled with water to quickly clear accidents was always close by.

The big boss encouraged me to use the microphone which was connected to a small amplifier under one of the weight game’s prize shelves to bark at the people as they would stroll past. He modeled the method for me and then just turned me loose. Within a week, I was the loudest mouth in the park.

The microphone’s speaker was located in a large sycamore tree about ten feet away from the game, which allowed me to use some excellent ventriloquist –like bits to entice the passing hoards. Armed with a microphone and some nerve, I began to rake in big time money. I seem to remember busting close to $1,000 one “Conway Twitty” Saturday, a record sum on that game. “Twitty Days” at the park came once a summer, when the amazingly popular country star took Lakeside in an Elvis-like storm. On these days, the park would be filled with up to 20,000 visitors. People literally were piled into the park and fighting just for space to stand.

The Weight Game wasn't rigged at all; however, the game was set up in the park's favor. We charged 25 cents, 50 cents, or $1.00 to play. Each level had the potential for a particular prize award. My boss assured me my first day on the game that it didn't matter if I won or lost. The cheap prizes, officially known in the business as SLUM, cost less than a nickel a piece. Our best prizes at that game generally cost us about 25 cents. I was a proud guesser, however, and I wanted to be the best weight guesser in the country, so I worked on refining my technique. Hard work paid off. By the time I was moved to another “mouth game,” I was hitting around 80% of my guesses.

Over the two summers that I almost exclusively worked “The Weight Game,” two specific guesses remain etched in my mind.

One day a withered old lady walked up to the game. She was skinny with tired, stringy gray hair. Her faced was wrinkled and pruned. She walked up to me and smiled a toothless grin and said, "Gufsess mi age." I knew I was in trouble. This lady easily looked 70 years old. She was so unkept and obviously had experienced eons of hard times. Even though I was a certified and professional huckster, I was kinder and gentler than most. So in the moment that she requested my entertainment services, I took pity on this poor, broken woman. Like a Grinch who found his heart, I decided to make her day and guess young...purposely losing. So I carefully looked her over and began to put her through my best guessing entertainment routine. She smiled a vacant, intellectually challenged grin.

"57 years old," I said firmly. I confidently knew that she might just break into joyous laughter.

What happened instead was immediate and painful! That sweet, smiling lady, who had obviously had a rough life, hauled off and smacked the tar out of me! HARD!

"I'm 37 years old!!! HERE's my driver's license!!!" She was screaming at me, enraged, and had to be dragged away by her family to keep from slugging me repeatedly. She never did pick out her prize. Baffled and bruised, I ducked away from here and hid behind the prize counter until she disappeared in Twittyness.

The other weight memory was also conceived through compassion. My scale was absolutely accurate. It was able to register any weight up to 310 pounds. Surprisingly, it wasn't rigged in any way.

One afternoon, a “Conway Twitty Day,” this absolutely HUGE lady stopped by the game. I instantly knew...anyone would know that this lady would tip the scale. In fact, I believe she would have almost tipped a 400 lb. or 500 lb. scale for that matter. But she seemed sweet enough.

"Guess Mi Wate," she chuckled. In fact, she couldn't stop giggling. She seemed to have a silly confidence that she was about to win it all!

I should have known. I should have been prepared for what was coming, but again I let compassion get in the way. I decided to make her feel better by under-guessing her weight. So I sized her up. Had her spin around a couple of times-usual routine. Then I looked at the scale. Looked at her. Looked at the scale...looked at her, all designed for intense dramatic effect to please the huge crowd that had coalesced around my game.

"265 lbs," I said firmly.

The result was instantaneous, and the magnitude of the response was intense. The large lady suddenly began shrieking, screaming joyously. She immediately grabbed my skinny little body and began shaking me around in her flabby arms like a rag doll. Then she began planting wet, toothless, slobbery kisses all over my face. "You're so sweet!!! She yelled over and over for The Conway Twitty Day crowd to hear. Victoriously, she leaped onto the scale, and the needle went bezerk and immediately spun all the way round to solidly rested on 310 lbs, being blocked from going any further. The large lady leaped off with savvy NFL lineman-like quickness and locked me in another bear hug, practically smothering life from my puny lungs. Then after selecting a blue rabbit’s foot or something equally slum-like, she leaped away blowing kisses at me the whole way. I remember staggering back to my scale feeling a bit violated, but strangely content.

Gun Mime

Gun Mime

I lived in rural central Virginia, Greene County to be exact, back when this happened. My son was about 3 years old and frequently rode shotgun in his car seat, so to speak, when I went out and about ("a-oot" and "eh-boot") on my daily errands.

That particular day, I was visiting a service junk yard on Route 29 just south of Ruckersville so that I could get my car inspected. My son was enjoying the time wandering around the car junks while the stringy-haired, toothless, addict-built, and soiled mechanic inspected my Isuzu Trooper.

With mission accomplished and the Trooper ready to roll, I approached the Route 29 intersection. I stopped, of course, and checked for on-coming traffic. It's a tough place to pull out of because there is a hill to your left that obstructs your view in that direction. So when I pulled into the clear right lane in my amazingly under-powered Trooper, a Ford F-150 pick-up came zooming over the hill behind me. He was flying faster than I thought it possible for such a vehicle to go. In a moment he was on my bumper and had to swerve around me.

When I saw this drama play out in my rear-view mirror and then pass by me, I was frightened for my son and me. I also felt horrible that I had impeded this guy's speeding. So I apologized to the air as he zipped past me.

Within a mile, I approached the Rt 33/Rt 29 stoplight in Ruckersville. I was glad to see the Ford stopped at the light in the right lane. I thought I might just give the country wave gesture and mouth an apology to the guy in the truck. So I pulled alongside the truck. We were the only two vehicles stopped at that moment (a rare event today).

So causally, as people do in the country, I turned my head and looked across my Trooper's cab and past my son who was once again riding shotgun with me up front. Just over my son's blonde hair, my eyes made contact with the driver of the Ford, and I was about to give the friendly gesture and apology when he glared at me, then reached down. A moment later, he had a pistol aimed squarely at my son and, I suppose, me, too. He held the pistol stock still, glaring. With a molasses mouth, slowly so I could read his lips, he mouthed, "Y-o-u'-r-e d-e-a-d." Then, convincingly, he mimed blowing us away. I instinctively leaned over to cover my son.

At that moment, the light changed, and the gun mime zoomed away. My anemic Trooper was no match for his strong push off the starting line, and quite frankly, I was really too shook-up to follow. I sat there at that light for a few seconds trying to gather my thoughts. I was torn between thanking God for sparing us and cursing that guy, wishing he'd meet a painful death.

We went home. My son was oblivious to the experience while I lost a little of my youthful blind faith in humanity. The thing that I've noticed about that blind faith in humanity these many years later is that once you loose a bit of it, you never get it back. I've come to believe that the secret to avoiding bitterness in life is to somehow navigate the mime field while guns are pointed at you by wearing a shield of invulnerable invisibility.

Dead Meat

Dead Meat

My first year of teaching in 1982 was a real eye-opener. Greene County was extremely rural back then before it blossomed into a fast growing bedroom community for Charlottesville. Rural counties are frequently measured locally by their access to grocery stores. In Greene back then before the Food Lion arrived, you had to shop at the Stanardsville IGA, Lawson’s Grocery, McMullen’s Store, Peyton’s Grocery, Spotswood Trail Emporium, Dyke General Store, or drive almost an hour to Charlottesville. Personally, I enjoyed visiting the W.A. Hood General Store in Hood, VA...but that’s a story for another day. Greene was just growing into the 20^th Century in many respects back then.

In my first year, I had the pleasure of teaching a bright girl named Lisa. I know where the expression “dirt poor” comes from, because Lisa came from a dirt poor background. Lisa was a lanky girl with potentially beautiful long brown hair. She always came to school with a quiet smile, as if school was a place for her to escape from her nightmare. Her family was so poor that what most today consider basic needs weren’t possibilities for her. She would come to school without a weekly bath in dirty, ragged clothes. I felt so sorry for her.

Quite a few of the native residents in Greene were poorly educated. Oleta, Lisa’s mother, was one of them. Oleta was a baby factory who scratched together a meager economic existence with her second husband, Harold. He worked in a local milking parlor (barn) while she stayed home watching her approximately 10 kids. According to the school’s guidance counselor, they lived in a one room shack with a dirt floor. Farm animals roamed freely inside and out.

Life for Lisa was brutal and oppressive, which I suspect led to her shyness. She had more chores than any suburban child could possibly imagine, from feeding chickens to helping slaughter the pigs. Television and even electricity were luxuries only experienced at school. Lisa was expected to take care of her brothers and sisters, too. There was at least one set of twins in the family, and the younger children, those who were fathered by Harold, were less compliant. Lisa, one of three children from the first marriage, wasn’t treated respectfully and lovingly by Harold. She led a tormented life. Despite it all, she always had a kind word and a warm smile for me.

I have to credit Oleta for coming to meet me at the first parent teacher conference, however. I had never met her, and when she walked into my classroom, I honestly thought that she was someone’s grandmother. She was a skinny lady who wore a long dirty dress and granny boots. Her gray hair was tied in a bun on her head, and she greeted me with a toothless smile. I used to guess ages at an amusement park, so I knew something about how age wears on a face. Oleta looked about 70, but she was only 35 according to the school records. Also according to the records, she had made it successfully through the second grade while her husband had made the through the third. I remember her telling me that I had full authority to get the switch after her girl if she didn’t mind me. Of course, Lisa was the nicest of all the girls in my class. No switch from me would ever be necessary.

A year or so later, my wife taught Melissa, the next oldest girl in the family. Melissa had the same shy, reclusive mannerisms as Lisa. I’ll never forget the day when Melissa came into her classroom with a black eye. She said a horse stepped on her head. The Department of Social Services had another opinion.

Another child I taught that year grew on me like a fungus. In fact he sort of looked like a fungus. His name was Davis Taylor. I was warned about Davis before I started teaching my first lesson. I was told that he came from a fractured “Holler” family. His brother, Ricky, was serving 20 + for armed robbery. Davis was a mountain kid with a large chip on his shoulder, but I suspect he was the most intelligent child in that class. A casual observer would never know it, however, because Davis hid that side very successfully. He always, no matter the weather, came to school wearing an olive green parka with an Eskimo-style hood. He lived in this garment, hiding from my class. He had long, greasy brown hair that covered his smudged Clark Kent glasses. Davis was a very large child, easily the biggest boy in the whole fourth grade. When he spoke, he used a drawl that sounded to me at the time like he had marbles in his mouth. When he spoke (rarely) he was usually making some kind of pretty funny joke or picking on some kid. Davis relished his role as a school bully.

Davis was a tough nut. He let me know right away that since I wasn’t from his home of Kinderhook up Middle River, I couldn’t possibly relate to his life. Eventually, I think, he grew to like me. I enjoyed trading barbs with him and eventually loosened him up with comedy.

One day, I observed Davis working furiously on a piece of writing. You must understand that Davis never worked furiously on anything academic, so I was naturally curious. So I rolled to the back of the classroom where he was hunkered down in his parka with his chubby fingers flying furiously.

“So Davis, whatcha working on, man?”

“Nuh-ting.”

“Ah come on man, let me see whatcha got there...”

Then a wry grin came across his puffy face. He flicked the greasy hair out of his eyes, looked up, and unveiled his piece of notebook paper to me. It was a list...an amazing neat list with two well-defined categories: “Pick-Ons” and “Dead Meat.” There were children’s names in each category. So I asked the next question...

“Davis what is this?”

To understand his reply you have to imagine his dialect. I will attempt to recreate his speech phonetically to the best of my ability.

“Dis here bunch is the kids I’m gonna jest pickown. Den this here bunch is the ones thats dead meat! I’m gonna git dem good. Dey woent no what hitem.”

I knew Davis well enough to know that those unfortunate children on the “Dead Meat” list were in for rough treatment, and since I wasn’t always sure what kind of weaponry Davis was toting in his parka, I thought it best if I allowed the principal handle Davis’s “Dead Meat” list from there.

There were so many more kids like Lisa, Melissa, and Davis. For many, their lives were tragic dramas. There was Johnny, who earned his driver’s license in the sixth grade. I’ve got to hand it to him for staying in school despite failing so many grades. Timmy, whose father claimed he was a “revenue agent” and whose older brother was executed for a brutal murder, is serving time for robbery and attempted murder. I never found out what happened to Junior, who once broke both of his hands so that he could get casts where just the middle fingers of both hands were splinted. I’ll never forget when Junior lifted both of his casts up to my face and politely told me that he wouldn’t be able to do any class work for some time. Such a sweet child.

Together, these children along, with many, many others form my collective memory of teaching in that rural area.

Beating the Carnival Losers

Beating the Carnival Losers

Summer is almost upon the northern hemisphere, and summertime means carnival time. All across America; skinny, young, grainy-haired tooth cavities are strutting around amusement parks with chaw in their mouths and their girls in tow while seeking stuffed animal prizes and bragging rights in their tobacco spitting realm. What these men don’t fully comprehend is that the typical carnival barker loves these guys. They represent what con men might call “Easy Marks.”

Despite the dangers and pitfalls, it is possible to beat the carnival barker at some of his games. If a person is armed with knowledge of what “games” to avoid and special tips for winning winnable games, a person can beat the barker at his own game.

Winning Winnable Games

In order to win winnable games, a player must understand what the barker is attempting to do to you. His mission is to prod you to open your wallet to play his game one time. Then once he has the hook into you, he will begin a psychological breakdown of your financial defenses. His main technique is to access your inherent pride. A potential contestant must mask his feelings and approach winnable games with a gunslinger’s calm before the big shoot-out. All attempts to access his psyche must be calmly blunted and jovially rebuffed. Barkers don’t trust contestant jocularity.

The other key to winning winnable games is to remember to control velocity. Most games require the contestant to toss or project something toward something to affect some action. The secret is to slow down. Barkers count on studs to waddle up to the counter, whip out their chained billfold, and fire away with a testosterone rush. Winners take lessons from “The Tortoise and the Hare”- slow and steady wins the day.

Armed with the two secrets to bust games, let’s take a look at several winnable games.

The Cat Rack (AKA Clown Toss) is an excellent game for the knowledgeable contestant to win. Basically, the targets, cats or clowns, are situated on three horizontal and parallel racks about fifteen feet from the front counter. Game players usually pay $2 for three balls. To win the top shelf stuffed animal, the player must knock down three cats or clowns. These creatures are made of cloth material surrounding a hinged paddle. The head of the cat or clown is usually adorned with wild, fuzzy hair that fills the space between the creatures. Many people think the game is rigged, but it isn’t. If struck solidly by a ball, the cat or clown will tumble effortlessly backwards; however, most wild, high velocity tosses end up blasting through the mane of the cat or the hair of the clown. Remember calm and velocity are the keys to winning. A player should order the balls, calmly step to the counter and strike a frozen dart tossing pose. Right-handed people should place their left foot slightly forward and cock their right arm high above their right shoulder as if about to toss a dart. After taking a deep breath and slowly letting the air escape, the winning contestant then releases the ball like a well-aimed dart at the center of a cat or clown on the middle of the middle row. Assuming a solid strike, the cat or clown will fall. Repeat this procedure for each of the three tosses. Keep one thing in mind, however. The carnival wins either way. Stuffed animals offered on the top shelf generally cost less than the cost of the game. So even in losing, the carnival has tipped the game in their favor.

Break-A-Plate is a game that has mostly fallen out of the carnival scene in these modern times. It is another throwing game where contestants purchased the right to throw three solid baseballs from behind a counter toward huge racks of unglazed plates. The object is to break or crack any three plates (one plate per ball only). Again this is a psychological game usually successfully played by the carnival. Their idea is to attract aggressive 21 year old studs walking past the booth hand-in-hand with their 15 year old girlfriends. The sound of crashing and smashing plates instantly draws them in and magically opens their wallet. The girl’s eyes, raking the line of attractive and brilliant stuffed animals, prompt her to prod her man. The testosterone-laced man then plunks down the cash, leaving his wallet open for more abuse, picks up the balls, and fires them in rapid succession at the plates. He generally will hit one or two plates, shattering them in glorious destruction, but the odds are heavily against him nailing all three.

The way to win at Break-A-Plate is to take the same approach as with the cat Rack/Clown Toss game. Position yourself in a dart throwing pose. Usually a savvy operator will interject at this point that you really have to hum that ball up there. Ignore him. Take your cleansing breath and the surgically fling the ball toward your target. You will need somewhat more velocity than you used with the cats, but you do not want to go into a full wind-up. Throw from the top of the normal throwing motion. Continue your surgical strikes until you’ve cracked three plates. Enjoy your plush prize. Again beware that the park wins when you play. The wholesale cost of the animals is about as much as the game fee.

On a side note, Break-A-Plate isn’t as popular these days because it requires intense reclamation about every two weeks because broken plates will pile up. That means shoveling broken plates into a truck by under-paid and uninspired game attendants. Also, it really isn’t convenient to travel this game from town to town at today’s modern carnivals.

My personal favorite game to win is the Radar Gun game. Carnivals, always looking for a clever edge, began using JUGS guns, those devices used to measure the speed of a baseball pitch, to attract the testosterone-amped males towing fifteen year-old girlfriends. The object of the game is to throw an ordinary baseball at a tarp with a large bull’s-eye painted on it. After each of the first two throws, the pitch speed is flashed on a digital display for all to see (known in the business as flashing the game…same as plates smashing into bits, and cats falling over). Before the final throw, the contestant must guess the speed of that toss. If he nails it, he wins. Usually, a generous and friendly carnival game attendant will encourage a person to play by offering a free toss. Typical testosterone male responds by flinging the ball against the tarp with all the tobacco juice spitting effort he can muster to prove he can post a 100mph fastball. Rarely does a non-professional person get the ball over 70 mph. Personally, I usually only managed about 60 mph when hurling my best.

To win, remember the object of the game and the secrets I’ve unveiled. Cleansing breath. Dart pose. Launch the ball toward the target; be sure to apply just enough force to feel confident it will impact the target. Note the speed on the display. Then repeat the process. Try to maintain the exact same velocity or perhaps even provide just a fraction more. Again note the speed. If you’re careful, the ball speed will either be exactly the same or a mile per hour faster. Before the final toss, the huckster’s true self will bubble forth, and he will try to subtly interrupt your stream of consciousness. Ignore him. Maintain your pose. Make your speed prediction calmly. Even if your first two pitches were the same or if you’ve trended upward (a game I like to play), make your guess 1 mph greater that the speed of your last pitch. Last pitches, despite all calming influences you exert, tend to launch with a bit more excitement, because so much is on the line. With good technique and just a little luck, you’ll be sporting a shiny new major league baseball cheap plastic batting helmet and the enduring affection of a beautiful fifteen year old babe all for tossing a 22 mph “fast ball.”

To win at the Horse Racing Squirt Gun game requires a bit of stalking. Another variation of this game is the “Squirt Water in the Creepy Clown’s Mouth to Inflate a Balloon Attached to His Eerie Head” game (SWCCMIBAHEH). As an attendant and as a contestant, I hate these race games. They’re loud (flash again), wet, and annoying. However, with proper planning and technique, they are very winnable. Usually, the prizes aren’t very great, slum mostly. “Slum” is the carnival term for very cheap prizes that cost virtually nothing to give away. Basically, the game runs when the minimum number of contestants (usually 3 or 4) enter the race. Then the attendant starts the game and people aim their powered squirt guns at a target. The better they aim, the faster their horse runs (or balloon inflates). The winner is the first to have his horse cross the finish line (or balloon pop)

To win, a little advanced scouting is required. Watch the game closely through several game cycles to see which guns tend to win the most. Look for a player with a pile of slum treasure who is parked at certain spot. Watch closely and learn. Know where to aim. Know how the guns react when the game is turned on. Only enter the race if the best gun is available and if the contest has few people. Sometimes attendants will give better prizes if there are more players. That being a given, securing the best gun is even more important. Just prior to race time, take your cleansing breath. Find a relaxed and sturdy firing position. Channel winning thoughts through your brain. Be ready to jump on the start and blast away. With proper training, you can train your reaction time to be quicker than the other contestants. That initial jump is the key to winning, assuming you have the best gun and the best aim.

Hard to Win Games

Carnivals tend to have a reputation as being crooked, and they come by that reputation honestly. Many of the games out there are rigged in such a way that it is impossible or nearly impossible to win. You can usually, but not always, spot these games by looking at the quality of prize being offered. If they are offering a giant panda ($150 wholesale) for a prize, you be assured that it will be virtually impossible to win.

Basket Game

This is a game where the player tosses a hard plastic “softball” into a rigid, tightly strung, straw laundry basket that is tilted toward the player at exactly a 23 degree angle. The object of the game is to get two or three (depending on the prize) of the balls to come to rest inside the basket. If three are placed in the basket, a giant stuffed animal is the prize. These are rarely given away.

The game is rigged against the contestant in several ways. First of all the precise angle of the basket tends to cause tossed balls to rim out of the basket. Secondly, the rigidity of the basket acts as a rebound mechanism, spitting balls tossed with velocity right out. Third, the hard plastic softball reacts in concert with the rigid straw basket. The distance from the basket to the contestant is important because the contestant will not be able to toss the ball with low enough velocity to get it to stick inside. Finally, if a contestant is lucky enough to get the ball to stick in the basket, the attendant will quickly clear the ball from the basket.

This game can be won in only two ways, pure luck or improper game design.

Quarter Pitch

Back in the day, this game was called Dime Pitch, but times change. However, the basics of the game haven’t. It’s a really simple and addicting game. Take your spare change and toss it onto a display of stacked glassware. The object is to get your quarter to come to rest on a plate. If you do, then you win your choice of glassware or even more valuable prizes. This is one game where the operators are confident you’ll lose, because they’ve made it virtually impossible to win. Here’s how they do it. Several times an hour when no one is around the game, operators discretely spray the plate surfaces with a milky silicone solution. Then they wipe the plates to a glossy shine. Any quarter that even remotely thinks of coming to rest on a plate will simply slide off. Of course, rigging a game in this manner is immoral and against the law.

The game can be won, but only by luck, lack of silicone on a humid day, or by perfectly executing an extremely difficult maneuver. I wouldn’t recommend this unless you just have some change to blow, because it is not guaranteed to work. Simply lob the quarter so high that it comes into contact with the ceiling of the booth. With luck, it will fall straight down and onto a plate without any spin. Some operators anticipate this maneuver by posting “No Rebound” signs. I like to respond to their calling attention to that sign by saying, “Slicking plates is against the law and would cause all of the games in the park to be shut down if reported to the authorities.” If you still can’t try the ceiling toss, you can try to toss the coin as high as possible without contact, but the more arc on the toss, the less of a chance it will have of sticking to a slippery plate.

Basketball Game

I can win the Basketball Game, because I have special knowledge and skills, but the average player is shut out of winning by several gimmicks. The game is simple. Make three out of three shots and win valuable prizes. However, the operators make this extremely difficult to almost impossible by using a non-standard rim. This special rim is a small non-regulation size only slightly greater than the diameter of the ball. Also, the rim is built of a double reinforced heavy-duty metal that has absolutely no flexibility. A normal rim is situated ten feet high. This rim is placed at twelve feet. The ball, however, is perfectly regulation sized and normal. The only way to win is to be a really good free throw shooter and to have a very high, soft arc on the shot. Shaq would have no shot.

Machine Gun

This game is falling from favor at traveling carnivals due to safety concerns. Since it uses high powered BB guns, all it takes is one whacko to spray a crowd with a hail of lead. However, it still can be found at grimier carnivals.

The object of the game is to take a machine gun loaded with 100 lead pellets and blast a red star off of a paper target fifteen feet away. In theory, the game should be winnable, but there are several things the operators do to rig the game against the player. First there is a little sign always posted that says “All red must be removed from target.” When testosterone male comes to the game and blasts away at the target, blowing the star away, the operator will then carefully inspect the target on both sides for even the smallest micro fiber left behind. The red fibers tend to get bent behind the target by the round shot. One fiber left behind means a loss. To thwart the more careful marksman, the sights on the gun a adjusted so that they are slightly off. This, of course, is against the law, but it’s common practice. The only way to win this game is to surgically fire one shot at a time with these semi-automatic BB guns. The premise is to carve a ring around the star, so that the whole thing falls out in one piece. With crooked sights, this is difficult to accomplish.

Bust the Bottles

Another ball tossing game, Milk Bottles is virtually impossible to win. The operators stack the odds heavily against the player two ways. First, the ball is softball sized but very lightweight. It’s a hard plastic core wrapped in a vinyl skin and designed to look like a softball. About fifteen feet away is a platform with three “milk bottles.” Of course, they were never milk bottles. Instead, they are made from metal and injected with lead on the bottom to make them very bottom heavy. Zipping the hard plastic softball at the lead bottomed bottles has virtually no impact on them. A player, who manages to know one off the platform, will simply not be able to know the other two off.

I’ve never found a way to win this game other than the occasional lucky toss.

Balloon Dart Game

It looks innocent enough. Anyone can toss darts at balloons, but it’s made extremely difficult by carnival. The rigging comes in two ways. First the darts used to toss at the balloons are ground down on an abrasive surface before they are put into service. A dull dart will most likely deflect off a balloon. Secondly, the balloons are affixed to the soft board by being pinned below the balloon’s knot. Thus, the balloons flop around on the board. When a dart strikes a balloon, which happens on virtually every toss, the dart begins to slide off. The generous flopping balloon reacts in an equal and opposite manner and slides to the side. The only way to win this game is to go against my whole system of winning. Throw the dart as hard as you can. You might pop a balloon or two.

Games that you Lose if you Win

Weight Game

It’s not rigged. It’s not hard to win. You just get slum for a prize.

Birthday Game

This is an exciting gambling game, and it’s not rigged. It operates on a probability model. With fourteen to sixteen places to place money on the board, chances are that a person won’t win. If the board is filled, someone will win a nice plush toy, but that also means that the operator collects between $3.50 and $4.00 per round. Since plush toys cost around $1.50 to $2.00, the operator wins. Crowded Birthday Games are like shark feeding frenzies, and are easily the greatest game excitement in a park.

Duck Pond

This is the game to play if you’ve lost everything else. Designed to create game addicts out of kids, Duck Ponds offer winners every time (slum) and an occasional plush toy awards. Duck Pond is good for your male pride.