Ghosts of My History
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The
seasons are changing here in Carolina on this first crisp Carolina morning. Our
days are clear with brilliant blue skies and the faintest glint of changing
colors shimmering in the trees. A strong cup of coffee and my thoughts meander
back to the past. It’s been longer than a girl likes to think yet the memories
ring clear as a church bell pinging clear across a mountain valley. On such autumn weekends my cohorts and I
would have been up long before the sunrise, loading our horses in the trailer
to head up towards the Brushy Mountains. It was a wonderful time of year; the
heat of the summer was long gone with our trusty mounts frisky and ready to hit
the trail. These were the days when NASCAR was a big part of our lives… a time
when no one was sure who would win the Championship. Yep it was the Winston Cup
back in those days. I recall I had a
jacket that proudly stated, “Charlotte Motor Speedway” and I loved it. It was
an easy drive to Wilkes County, not the carnage that it is today. We always
thought while talking amongst ourselves on those trips that when we were older
and more established would go to every single race. I mean why not since so many were close to
home? We’d play country music on the radio with both tanks of the dually topped
off, ready to ride and enjoy the weather, all the while disagreeing about who
would win that Sunday afternoon’s race. Ghosts of one’s history I suppose but
wonderful times full of the hopes of youth.
Just to be clear I would be remiss if I failed
to state that back in those days the NASCAR races we loved were all located in
easy driving distance from our homes in Charlotte. Places such as Martinsville,
North Wilkesboro, Charlotte, and Rockingham.
Stock Car racing in the estimation of a truckload of girls headed to the
Brushy Mountains with their trailer of horses was very real, touchable and
exciting. The best times were when we would ride all Saturday afternoon.
Coursing mountain trails we’d stop along the way to talk with others like
ourselves, camping overnight before heading to race on Sunday. We stayed in a
little mountain town called Love Valley that was called the Cowboy Capital of
the World. It was located just up the road from North Wilkesboro Speedway which
was a dandy of a race located close to the home of the revered Junior Johnson.
Racing got its start back in those hills with the running of Buck, White Liquor
or “Moonshine” as the more elite of the racing crowd called it. One could feel
the history back off those beaten paths and many of the old timers out on the
trails had run shine or been a good customer of those fast driving boys who
dodged the revenuers. There was nothing better than to run across one of those
fellas up on the ridge trail. They’d whip out the Mason jar and everyone would
have a swig while a story was told of “Back in the day.” Now I can say, to be
honest, this girl never thought she’d now be the one longing for “back in the
day.” But History, and ghosts…
Buck
or moonshine is as much a part of the Carolinas as stock car racing. The old
track at North Wilkesboro resonates with the history of late nights running
winding mountain roads flat out and devil-may-care. Who knew on those grand glorious afternoons
as we rode sidesaddle, one leg kicked over the horn from camper to camper
sampling delicious cuts of long cooked barbeque, embroiling ourselves in the
battles of best sauce, best buck and best driver, the wheels of time would spin
so fast? Who had the slightest inkling the North Wilkesboro Speedway would
swiftly be cast into the fire pits of history? I remember one day a fella on a big
paint stud saying he’d heard someone from one the television crews bemoaning
the placement of the winning car on top of the concession stand. We tipped
ourselves a long sip from the Mason jar of White Lightning while shaking our
heads in disbelief. Visions of some slick city boy in khakis looking down his
nose at us while working to pay his rent in a small apartment in the city came
to mind. Come Monday we’d have cut our horses loose on rolling pastures while
he waited on a train somewhere in a crowded city. We all shook our heads and
gave silent thanks for our lifestyle. Yet even as we did, somewhere in the
towers men were counting their coin and calculating. Somewhere in the towers
money and fame were gripping souls. Change to our beloved sport was brewing
like clear Country moonshine running in the stills back in the hollers of these
sweet Carolina mountains.
History,
while unkind, brings the memories of sliding into soft blue jeans, making sure
the horses were fed and rolling Sunday at daybreak for the saga of Junior, the
legend of Dale, wonder of Awesome Bill from Dawsonville and of course all
things Richard Petty. True ghosts now of history… our track and many of our
heroes. Wood smoke scented air in the fall and new mown grass freshness
billowing on the breezes in the spring, such were the memories of this historic
track. Those were days of sunshine and freedom. Those were the finest of days.
Stories of Flossie (Junior’s wife) cooking up a big spread to feed the folks at
his farm brought a smile to my face. Pretty sure the same thing was done before
my time for the guys after a long night of running shine. One can be quite
certain this salient fact was never mentioned in media’s tales of the charming
event. Delicate sensibilities might take offense. Not to us though; it made
sound reasoning as one would be hungry after a night of backroads and wild
rides. Those magical afternoons, as we sang along to country music in the
parking lots, bowed our heads for the invocation and stood for our national
anthem in the grandstands we had nary a clue that change was blowing down the
pass just like winter does in our beloved mountains. Races at Indy, new tracks
in Texas were announced. Our beloved local tracks, Rockingham, north Wilkesboro
were cast aside. Powerful men in granite
towers assaulted our history, changing it for gain and forgetting the nature of
the people who made their wealth. Ghosts
of history became our tracks and by their incoherent meddling may become our
sport.
I
cannot help but smile to myself this gray October dawn at the current news of
an official Moonshine of NASCAR. Could they possibly be finally listening to
those who made them rich? If anyone had a brain their heads they’d buy the old
North Wilkesboro Speedway and celebrate the history. Possibly even Sugarland
Moonshine, the now OFFICIAL Moonshine of NASCAR, might feel the pulse and step
in? As I sip my cooling cup of coffee this October morning, I consider heading
for the mountain town. A town still standing, fending off developers by fierce
will alone. I could saddle a horse, ride
what trails are left, all the while feeling the echoes of a vibrant history run
through my veins. Just a lady riding a back-woods path on a steed of
indeterminate breeding in a land rich with the heart, soul and vibrant history
of those who came before. History that says that we really don’t care about the
mansion or the TV show, but we were truly impressed when Dale Earnhardt stayed
home from a race to clear his fence line after Hurricane Hugo. History that
says we had dreams of youth to be established and now that we are, NASCAR,
where are you? History that says the Ghosts of NASCAR have not faded from
history and their once dimmed voices are being heard. History that hopes beyond
hope that NASCAR is listening. Time, which waits for no one, will tell.