This is an excerpt from a larger essay on two towns, South Royalton, Vermont and Mt Olive, North Carolina. The following recaps an extraordinary New Year’s Eve spent in Mt Olive two years ago.
Mt. Olive, North Carolina
December 31, 2006
Barbara Jean and Mr. Kay live across the street. Kay is from South Dakota but he pretends to be a Southerner. He has lived in North Carolina for decades. BJ, on the other hand, is a gen-u-eyen Southerner, as they say ‘round these parts. She grew up in rural North Carolina, where her five brothers and sisters shared an outhouse when they were young. She has great pride in her heritage and her family, the Lee’s from Johnston County. And she has done right well for herself, as they also say in these parts. They have a wide circle of friends, some from BJ’s childhood whom we have met.
BJ’s sister, Helen, is another of the four stunning Lee sisters. Before she married, Helen worked in Mt. Olive, NC. Her roommate was Billie Faye. They lived in downtown Mt. Olive and walked to work, Helen to her bank job and Faye to her office job with an electrical supply company.
So, it was through Helen’s friendship with Billie Faye that we met she and her husband, Rex. And that is how we came to be in Mt. Olive, North Carolina for New Year’s Eve, 2006. And that is how we became lucky enough to witness The Great Pickle Drop.
Mt. Olive is about fifty miles northwest of Wilmington. One has to take the interminably boring I-40 to get there. I-40 begins its westward trek in Wilmington and continues to Barstow, California, 2,554 miles. The early Interstate system passed over Southeastern North Carolina and that oversight had severe economic consequences. The main north/south artery, I-95 is one hundred miles to the west. The trains stopped running in the 80’s so until I-40 was built it was a struggle to get to the coast. The only way to get to Wilmington from the west was Rte 421. With the advent of I-40 the Wilmington boom, which continues today, began. But I-40 doesn’t come close enough to Mt. Olive to make an enormous difference.
We finally exited and as we headed into town we passed the campus of Mt. Olive College. I knew this because there was large stone sign on the campus which read: Mt. Ol ive C ll ge. Fortunately, the sign, with its missing letters, does not fairly represent the college which gets otherwise high marks.
We drove directly to Rex and Billie Faye’s house, about three miles out of town. Like Peter’s Vermont place a dirt road accesses Rex’s. A green sign proclaims that this is “Hatch’s Hill Lane”. No one is sure where the “Hill” came from since the land is flat. On either side of the lane are cornfields, which at this time of year are cut down. Also, like Vermont there is a barn; in this case a tobacco-drying barn. These have high peaks so the green tobacco leaves can be hoisted up the rafters to dry. 
Unlike the Vermont barn, which is post and beam construction and made of green lumber, the Hatch’s barn looks like the Scarecrow’s patched suit in the Wizard of Oz. The exterior of the barn has sheets of tin tacked on. Underneath the tin is tarpaper. Tobacco gives off huge quantities of water; a large barn emits several hundred gallons during drying. So, usual insulation materials weren’t used, hence the tar paper/tin option. The vapor vents out the roof through those high peaks. Because farmers are now paid serious Federal dollars not to grow tobacco the barn hasn’t been used for decades but it is still handsome in a rough kind of way.
As we drove up to the house three labs, a black and two yellows met us. All were wet from a recent rain and smelled that wet lab smell but I ruffled their ears and said cooing things to them. These are outdoor dogs and after assurances that we were OK they quickly resumed their positions under the carport.
Rex came bounding out of the house and down the steps with a rocks-glass filled with what looked like scotch. He wore a goofy smile and sure looked like he had been hitting the bottle. It wasn’t yet three in the afternoon. He greeted everyone loudly and with expansive gestures. Evidently, Rex had been playing this trick on Kay for years. Rex loves walking around at noon with a glass filled with ice tea, pretending it is scotch. Kay falls for it every time. By now Kay was convinced Rex was a serious alcoholic. I glanced over to Kay as we approached the house; seeing Rex’s glass Kay shook is head sadly. When we all got into the house Rex secretly tossed the ice tea into the sink and chuckled quietly to himself, out of Kay’s hearing.
We all congregated in the small kitchen and had some of Billie Faye’s wonderful vegetable soup. She makes in a slow cooker, like a Rival Stock Pot. The house was still decorated for Christmas. Every inch of available space was devoted to at least one of every chatchke sold by the Christmas Tree Shoppe. Snowmen, angels, wreaths crèches, strings of lights, battery-driven camels, ornamentals balls hung on picture frames, etc, etc.
While finishing our soup we caught up on our families and gossip but then we had to make plans for our New Year’s Eve in Mt. Olive. To prepare, Rex brought out a bottle of scotch and vodka. No more ice tea.
We were able to put a reasonable dent in both bottles. I kept trying to perfect a martini without vermouth and, through experimentation, was able to do a reasonably good job with (Mt. Olive) olives. At about six-thirty we got into two cars and left for town. Our non-drinking friend, Mr. Kay, is our designated driver. Bless him.
Approaching town we were directed to a parking lot that turned out to be on the property of Mt. Olive Pickle Company. We got out of the cars and I looked around. It was dark by then, of course, and the temporary bright lights set up by the company together with the martinis made things disorienting. The lights created long shadows and this made it difficult to see one’s way. Nevertheless, I went on while the rest of the party trailed. Several white clapboard buildings were next to the parking lot and as I came around the corner I saw a pretty big crowd. They were all faced in the same direction, looking up. I followed their gaze and spied what sure looked like a large plastic pickle on top of a flagpole. Now, stay with me here. The pickle had a bright light shining directly on it and there seemed to be a light bulb inside of it, so it really stood out. The bottom of the flagpole ended in a huge barrel, obviously a brining barrel. Behind the flagpole was a small bandstand of sorts where a couple of guys were talking into a microphone.
“Folks, it won’t be much more that twenty-three minutes until the pickle drops.” The speaker turned out to be Bill Bryan, the president of Mt. Olive Pickle.
I turned when music started behind me. Under a small tent were The Harmony Boys, a four-piece band. They were playing the “Pickle Polka.” I kid you not. The band helped to make the place lively.
“Nineteen minutes, folks.”
I left the tent and went to what appeared to be the evening’s only concession. The pickle company was giving away hot chocolate and pickles. I don’t have any idea if this combination is a local treasure but being a cooperative kind of guy I grabbed both and thanked them. The evening was a bit cool so the hot chocolate was welcome and I was interested in discovering if pickles were somehow “married” to chocolate. Gotta tell you, it ain’t bad. The pickles were whole, big briny, garlic sours. And they were delicious.
After finishing my snack I spied a line waiting to enter a small house, right across from the “pickle pole”. I got in line, without a clue as to what awaited me. When I finally got in I discovered the place was devoted to the pickle company, both memorabilia as well as pickle products. And people were buying. Hats, t-shirts, umbrellas, pens, key chains, boxed pickles, etc. All with Mt. Olive stamped prominently. I bought six good quality baseball hats for only $6 bucks each. I couldn’t believe it. I rushed out to hand out my presents. Rex and Kay were especially pleased. The girls less so. I loved mine. Bright orange with “Mt. Olive” embroidered on it together with a little pickle. Very handsome.
“Six minutes until the Great Pickle Drop.”
I was still in a state of disbelief and needed some explanation as to what I was witnessing. Faye helped me out. It turns out that 7pm is equal to midnight GMT. So, when London celebrates New Year’s Eve, Mt. Olive Pickle drops the pickle. “That way,” said Faye, “we get to celebrate and be in bed by nine.” I loved it.
“Two minutes!” The tension was palpable.
We moved closer to the bandstand and found ourselves standing under the street sign, Cucumber & Vine. Oh, come on!
Bill Bryan now started the countdown, “ten, nine, eight”. A chorus swelled from the crowd as the pickle began its descent from atop the flagpole. The crowd, eyes upward, was now screaming, “seven, six, five.” Kids were jumping up and down and yelling, trying to outdo each other, “four, three, two”. The pickle was now at the edge of the barrel. Bill Bryan’s amplified voice urged us all on. “One!” The crowd roared and the pickle disappeared into the barrel at exactly 7pm. Click on this site for a film from an earlier Great Pickle Drop, you may have to wait a minute. Download Video
See? You thought I was making this up!
The Harmony Boys began their version of Auld Lang Syne. We all sang along. The next day the Mt. Olive Tribune reported there were 1500 in attendance to watch the Pickle Drop. Probably an exaggeration but who cares?
As the excitement waned and the crowd started to disperse I wandered over to visit with Mr. Bryan. He was detaching the plastic pickle from the rope and making a present of it to a young girl. I introduced myself and asked about his company. He corrected me right away by telling me it wasn’t “his” company but is shareholder owned. I learned later that there are several pickle millionaires in town and shares are not easily available. Bryan told me that the company had long ago outgrown the local farmer’s ability to supply cucumbers. Major suppliers are now Mexico and India. The Indian cucumbers arrive in Norfolk in fifty-five gallon barrels and are trucked or trained to Mt. Olive. When I asked just how big the company was he rocked me back on my heels by telling me it had 20% of the “shelf stable category.” For the layman this would be non-refrigerated. I was obviously impressed and I asked Bryan if I could call him for more information. He gave me his card and urged me to give him a call.
Our group headed to “downtown” Mt. Olive for dinner. Center Street was once a thriving place. An active railroad track cuts the street in half, with lots of buildings and shops on both sides. The rail track still brings cucumbers in and pickles out. The street goes on for at least six blocks. Most of the buildings are either closed-up or in disrepair. The halogen streetlights gave the old and often dilapidated buildings a ghost-like quality.
We pulled up in front of Murphy’s restaurant. This is a handsome brick two-story building that once housed a food brokerage business. In the late 40’s and early 50’s farmers would bring in their produce by wagon and line up on Center Street. A food broker would survey the produce and make on-the-spot offers.
Murphy’s was recently opened and is the only dinner restaurant in the downtown area. Inside it is an attractive and cozy place with an open kitchen. Billie Faye, who knows everyone in town walked over to a banquette where a lone diner was eating. Hugh is a recent widower who was finishing up his steak. Faye introduced everyone in our party and went off to show BJ and Pam the upstairs of the restaurant. Pam later recounted to me that everyone up there knew Faye. And Faye introduced Pam and BJ to everyone by name. Pam was speechless with Faye’s ability to make everyone feel special.
I lingered with Hugh and finally sat down at his table. I ordered a beer. Hugh told me he had been married for forty-five years and he and his wife lived in Mt. Olive for all that time. He is in real estate and had this problem of buying too many of his listings. At the time he owned over forty houses. I asked him about the economics. He said he got anywhere from $145 to $400. “A week?” I asked. “No, no, a month”, replied Hugh. I opined that with that information I now knew that Pam and I could, if I lost it all in the market, find a place to live. I vowed to take a look at some of these houses at a different time. What kind of place rents of $145 a month, I wondered? I said good night and Happy New Years to Hugh and wandered over to join my friends.
Our table was directly in front of the open kitchen and the warmth from the ovens felt good. Most of us ordered beer and then looked at the menu. I played it safe with a steak and fries and was pleasantly surprised by their quality. As the restaurant filled everyone came over to say hello to Faye and Rex. We were introduced to them all. “Everyone likes a small town,” Billie Faye would later tell me. We all felt like that this was a good night. It was unpretentious moment, happy, and warm.
As we left the restaurant I encouraged Rex and Faye to tell me more of the town. I was struck by its size, so many buildings, and the fact that we were the only people on the street for as far as one could see. What happened here? They started to explain but the answers didn’t provide a clear picture. I began to feel that Mt. Olive could be the template for thousands of communities that America’s wealth had skipped. It was once so prosperous; across the street was an abandoned Belk’s department store, next door the movie theater was boarded up; Rex went there as a boy and saw double features for fifteen cents; Rexall Drug was now a coffee shop. Yet, here and there, was a business hanging on. A furniture store, a second-hand shop, etc.
We said goodbye to Rex and Faye. On the ride home I kept thinking about the evening. My interest was piqued as to why this town failed and I wondered if it was ever to revive.
Addendum: I revisted Mt Olive, twice, and wrote about it. Should you have an interest just let me know at rick@ricksommer.net.
