Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SATURDAY, January 16, 1993 TAG: 9301180184
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: A-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Mary Bishop
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
JUST BEYOND THE BUS WINDOW, AMERICA RESIDES
FROM ALBEMARLE COUNTY, home of Sissy Spacek and other movie stars, through the stubbled cornfields of Madison, Greene and Culpeper counties to the fox-hunt country of Fauquier County, people along U.S. 29 are gearing up for the president-elect to cruise by Sunday on his way to Washington. Every funny, funky, sweet and sad thing about rural America can be glimpsed from Bill Clinton's bus window . . . if he only looks.
Memo to: Bill Clinton
From: Mary Bishop, Roanoke Times & World-News
You may be snoozing, yakking, nuzzling an Egg McMuffin, scribbling on your inaugural speech or grooving to Kenny G on your Walkman as you ride your bus toward Washington.
In case you're looking out the window, we've prepared this tour guide on what and whom you might see:
See the little Airport Motel on the right in Albemarle County, just outside Charlottesville?
Assuming she gets over a nasty cold, manager Marie Thacker will be standing on the bank with her 24-year-old son, who is disabled by lifelong epilepsy. If you stopped, Marie would urge you to stop abortions, to keep gays from becoming church leaders and to block them from holding jobs where she fears they could contaminate her food with the AIDS virus. She likes you, but she didn't vote for you or for anyone.
Roadsides are clean, eh? That's thanks to Tony Clatterbuck, 28, with the Virginia Department of Transportation. He didn't vote for you, either. He voted for Perot. But he was out in shivering weather this week, doing his litter-picking best. "We want everything to look nice," he said.
Whoa, whoa. Eyes right, Bill. Madame Dara, an Albemarle County palm reader, is trying to spot you from her home/palm-reading parlor, a little house sparkling inside with glass and mirrors and white modern furniture.
It's been a big week for the madam. A new grandson was born, and now your presidency. She did vote for you, one of the few people we found along this Republican stretch who did. "A good man," she called you. But to predict your future, she'd have to touch your hand and catch your vibes. We couldn't get a picture of her the other morning because she hadn't put on her makeup or fixed her long black hair. "It takes hours," she explained, patting her olive cheek.
You've just crossed into Greene County. See that last trailer on the right at the Lakeside trailer park, the one with the deck? Vivian Pritchett, 58, should be inside, but it's doubtful she'll even peek out. "I'm not going to watch," she said firmly, as a friend rolled her gray hair onto blue and pink plastic curlers for a perm. Vivian is one of those disillusioned voters you hope will believe in you and big government again. "I don't vote for nobody," she told us. "They're going to do what they want anyway."
You're in Ruckersville now, home of a trendsetting Burger King/Exxon station/convenience store - some of that creative enterprise you keep talking about. But before you get to that, look over to the right, quick. There's the Corner Store, run by the Lamm family. See Ronnie Lamm, 55, who started the store, and his son Leonard? Did they get their flags up?
When Ronnie was a kid, U.S. 29 was just a two-laner. He saw Harry Truman go by in a limousine when that Democrat rode down to Monticello for the July Fourth naturalization ceremonies. It wasn't the big high-tech procession you'll have Sunday. Just a limo with police in front and behind. "Not much to it," Ronnie recalled.
The Lamms and their black hound Charlie will be waiting for you. See Charlie on his back, waiting for a belly rub? He limps, has a bone disease. Open your bus door, he might bound right in and sniff around for Socks, the First Cat. Charlie jumps in cars all the time and goes out for burgers with customers. They call him the "community dog."
On the right in Ruckersville: The Swap Shoppe. The gun store's open, even early Sunday morning. While guys shop for guns, wives buy rings in jewelry cases manager Bruce Reece cleverly placed beside the rifles and revolvers. Bruce voted for Bush, but he's going to hoist a flag for you anyway. He wonders what you'll do on gun control. He's been too upset over Gov. Doug Wilder's proposed one-a-month limit on gun buys to find out.
Ah. There's a Virginia flag and an American one flapping from the poles at Country Gardens Antiques just north of Ruckersville in Madison County. No, owners Joan and Bill Edwards didn't vote for you, either, but they're courteous folks, as genteel as the English china in their hardwood cabinets.
Are five vultures still perched in that dead tree two miles south of the town of Madison? See the rusting, dilapidated barns on the far hills of Madison County? Agriculture ain't what it used to be, Bill.
One of your best homespun welcomes may be at Madison County High School. Government teacher Gary Hollins wants hundreds of students and local folks to link hands out by the school and put up signs for you. "Hopefully," he said, "it won't be too much like South of the Border," that gawdy tourist trap down in South Carolina.
Your brethren, the sax players in the school band, should be tuning up for you. See the flowers and the balloons? Local florists donated them. "We want to make it almost impossible for him not to slow down, at least," Gary said. If you stop, they'll give you handmade wooden stools from local furniture makers E.A. Clore & Sons.
(Not all at the school share Gary's glee. Some staffers - Republicans? Perot folks? - grumbled as they were leaving school the other day. They weren't thrilled about seeing you at all.)
Don't be so distracted by the Madison County High hoo-hah that you miss the other side of 29, across from the school. The Wonderful World of Miniature Horses put up a sign: "Mr. Clinton, Mr. Gore - Good luck, God bless." Nice, huh?
Are black families in rural Madison County standing out by the road to see you? Some of them were unwilling to open their doors and talk with a reporter and photographer the other day. We wanted to know what they thought of you.
Like folk art? Just north of Madison on the right, there's a big slice of watermelon on the roof of a big fruit stand. It's a wedge of rough-cut wood, jagged and porous, just the way a ripe melon splits on a hot summer day. Its seeds, pulp and rind are painted with care. Take a look.
If you stop at Brightwood in northern Madison County, Maurice Williams may be out in front of his little green house. He'll probably be warming up one of his work trucks, not looking for you.
No, you baby boomer, this isn't the Maurice Williams of Zodiacs fame. This Maurice does plumbing, welding, tree-trimming, firewood-cutting. And he does it on Sunday. As a Seventh-Day Adventist, his Sabbath is Saturday.
He'll warn you that, even though you're speeding toward a Baptist church on Sunday morning, it is not really the Sabbath. He'll give you two books about it. He is against abortion and he's against gays becoming ministers. "Don't worship the beast," he'll caution, meaning the Catholic church. You're not Catholic, but he didn't vote for you anyway.
You're rolling into Culpeper now. See the welcome sign for you and the Gores at the Holiday Inn? Oooh, this town does have some imagination: There's a Laundromat called The Soap Opera. The McDonald's downtown would be glad to see you, but they're sick of reporters.
Switch into a reverent mood. You're at Culpeper Baptist now for a morning service.
Minister Burt Browning finished his sermon for you (title: "Living Our Convictions"; Scripture: the book of Daniel) Thursday afternoon. He came strolling through his sanctuary. "I feel like I've given birth!" he crowed, spreading his arms wide like a Hollywood messiah.
Downstairs in the fellowship room, C&P Telephone put in more than 70 baby-blue phones for news media. Tom Brokaw might come.
Church workers, with bloodshot eyes and talking longingly of future days off, have been overrun with reporters, Secret Service people, phone installers and inaugural planners - as well as long-lost church members trying to get into the tickets-required service.
Your advance team has been holed up down in the small room usually reserved for the ladies of the Fidelis Sunday school class at Culpeper Baptist. Magic Markers sit in a long row on your people's planning table.
Aha! We spied a map. Secret details of your route to Washington? Locations of fast food, town by town?
Nah, seconds before an intense-looking man in wire-rimmed glasses and a "Move Over George" sweat shirt closed the door on us, we saw . . . the Babylonian Empire, left over from the Fidelis Class.