Rock-a-Bye Baby, giraffes, and diesel trains are just some of the eclectic wonders that Pam encounters at Storybook Gardens.

Storybook Gardens saw its heyday in the 50s and 60s. Much of the place I visited this time has been kept the same, but much has changed. The 15-foot-tall recreations of various storybook characters and situations remain, but many are in a state of disrepair: Rock-a-Bye Baby’s baby has gone missing; Peter Cotton Tail’s watering can now belongs to Alice in Wonderland (the Disney version—can they do that?), and Jack Be Nimble was apparently not nimble enough and one of his feet has yet to be accounted for. Still, those are small things. What is important is that the feel of the park has not changed; it’s a place to feel safe and secure, to let the little ones run freely, to read fairytales with them, to let them climb on Cinderella’s coach and mingle with the mice the size of golden retrievers. It’s always been a special place to leave the outside world outside, much like the feeling you get when you pass through the arches at Disneyland and the sign reminds you that you’re leaving today behind and entering Tomorrowland and Fantasyland and all the other lands. As a matter of fact, Storybook Gardens opened right around the same time as Disneyland. There are some similarities; graceful gardens that wind through the park, waterways for resting and reflection. And a respect for childhood and simplicity.

We take the small diesel train ride around the perimeter of the park and the sweetness of its entirety is truly heartening. This is the park my parents took me to in 1966 or so and the Three Bears still reside in their little wooden house. The same three bears. I remember them and their rough fur the color of late autumn leaves. Marie takes my picture and I’m happy to be among this little family again, so much like the little papa, mama, and baby bear family I was once a part of.

What is quite different this visit, and also quite different from Disneyland (but not Disney’s Animal Kingdom), are the animals. Actually, the park has a new moniker: Timbavati Animal Park at Storybook Gardens. And I learn, from Matt who works at the park, that the new owner is all about the animals. He’s been on various TV shows handling animals. He knew the great “crocodile hunter” himself, Steve Irwin. And as we stroll through the park, past Old King Cole and his fiddlers three, we stop and visit a veritable globeful of animals. And, by golly, I’m seeing animals here that I haven’t even seen at some of the bigger zoos I’ve visited (I live near the world-class Brookfield Zoo and this little park gives them a run for their money as far as exotic creatures go). But what really sets them apart is that you can truly get up close and personal with ostriches, llamas, pot-belly pigs, even giraffes. Giraffes! We climb up a scaffold-like structure and are eye to eye with these gentle giants.

A college-aged couple is feeding the giraffes, whose tongues are carefully seeking out the very last kernels of kibble in the cups which the kids bought at the park’s gift shop for this sole purpose. And the girl giggles and remarks, “Just look at those horns. I never noticed that before. There’s three of them.” Here at Timbavati, a glorious array of monkeys roam and play, lemurs hang by their ringed tails, tails similar to raccoons’. And then there are the giraffes. All at this small, unassuming park, where a man with the vision to showcase these beautiful creatures took over an ailing Dells tourist attraction and kept true not only to his zoological mission, but to the original vintage appeal of the park.

I realize I love doing this work, taking this trip, touring and learning about these parks and the people with the wherewithal to keep them pumping. But I’m also continually blown away when these seemingly disparate occurrences keep sneaking up and finding me. I know to many it may seem that I’m trying to stretch the realities and squeeze these synchronicities so they fit into my journey. But I’m not squeezing or forcing a thing. Just the opposite: when I try to make something magic happen, the tour slows down and runs out of gas and nothing much meets up. But usually I’m with the flow since I’m so committed to the stories and the histories and the people who make this magic happen. And so I am here. So it’s no wonder a raccoon-tailed, monkey-faced, tri-horned giraffe trio show up, just to gently remind me that even with an overcast, frigid sky, even with Rock-a-Bye Baby gone bye-bye, all is as it should be and my journey is a wonder to behold and I’m only doing God’s work after all.

Continued in "The Cotton Candy Road Trip"!

Silver Dollar City, in the American heartland, offers up rootin, tootin' frontier characters; five-and-dime stores; and the semi-mythical chocolate Sky Bar.

The park opens at noon so we have scads of time to visit the entertainment mecca of these here parts, Branson, land of the Andy Williams Christmas Show, zip lines, Ripley’s Believe it or Not, the Hollywood Wax Museum, and the aforementioned Baldknobbers (which, after last night’s sleep, I’m wondering if I got the name wrong and it’s actually Tommyknockers). Branson seems to be Vegas without the gambling and hookers, the Dells with the addition of Jim Stafford (oh, how I had a crush on him for twelve minutes when I was ten!). I don’t mean to disparage, although it occurs to me that’s mostly what I have been doing here. It’s a different world entirely from what I’m used to. Who’da thunkit—only nine+ hours from Chicago there’s a place like Branson (where, I do believe, Who’da has his own showplace theatre, right next to Yakov Smornov’s).

Sufficiently freaked out still by our scary night’s stay, I seek out a book of local hauntings. A quick stop at a Quick Stop reveals that there’s an Old Town area of Branson and that I might find such a book there. So down, down, down the hill we go and where we stop…is across the street from a genuine 5 & 10 store! My mind races back to Stewart’s, the dime store I grew up with, now the southeastern quadrant of a Jewel grocery store parking lot. The store where I purchased about two hundred 45s with my own money, bought knock-off clothes for my Barbie, and yellow nail polish that made my mom wince. Ben and I are giddy—here’s a place of real trueness, not fakeness. Something without neon.

The interior of Dick’s Five & Dime hasn’t changed much since it opened fifty years ago. The checkout areas are narrow with wooden counters. The display cases are vintage. Sadly, a lot of the goods are newer and “Made in China” doodads and geegaws—at least when you first enter. But upon further inspection, I realize Dick’s is a treasure trove of the for-real and gen-you-whine! Classic toys like slide whistles (which Ben nabs for our old-time radio sound effects collection) and a variety of Slinkys warm my heart, as does a paper doll book that I snatch up for my collection of fond recollection: Betty Hutton, with costumes she wore in all her starring film roles. Of course, I’ll never cut it up, but I will plumb through it and admire the finery worn by my plucky musical comedy goddess.

I find a wall of “hard-to-find” and “older” items and I drag Ben over for the fun. If funds were grander right now, I’d be the proud owner of a corn de-silker. But they’re not, so back on the display peg it goes. I wander down an aisle dedicated to nothing but embroidery and knitting yarns and recall a smaller Pam finding such delight in handling the skeins found at Stewart’s 5 & 10, her five and dime of long ago, exploring the textures and colors. I once attempted to embroider a denim Barbie jacket with a rainbow on the back. My Uncle Wally, probably tipsy and definitely mostly blind, mistook the embroidery hoop it was in as an ashtray. I hated Uncle Wally for years afterward and have never attempted to customize Barbie clothes again.

Well, the clock’s a’tickin’ (I know—I’ve thrown about phrases and words that end with an apostrophe rather than a “g” a few times here; just an effort to flow along with the countrifiedness I’m guess’n), so Ben and I wrap our reverie at Dick’s, but not before checking out the impressive collection of vintage candy.

“Look,” I alert Ben. “A Sky Bar!”

“Make no mistake—I want me some of that Sky Bar. In my mouth!,” says Ben. And, indeed, we’ve both been countrified and it’s time to explore Silver Dollar City—yee haw!

Continued in "The Cotton Candy Road Trip"!