Towards the end of the Green River Mill Era, a traveling carnival show came to the baseball field in Tuxedo. It was the Johnny T. Tinsley Amusement Carnival. For me and my siblings it was our first time ever to see the neon lights and hear the electrifying and hypnotic music blasting away on the midway. Our little eyes became wide as we saw Ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds and an assortment of rides and equipment we’d never ever seen suddenly appear. My dad told us kids this carnival was run by a band of gypsies and it was only a money racket. We were awestruck by the novelty of the carnival but at the same time terrified of the people who ran the carnival.

It was late in the evening, I had been watching the neon lights and listening to the music coming from the gala affair when I realized that it was past time for me to go to the barn and milk old Bessie and feed the calf. I grabbed my milk pail and headed out to the barn at almost dusk. The barn was in close proximity to the carnival with a foot path that went to the ball field from the barn. I couldn’t see what was going on but the sounds of the carnival were easily heard. It was this particular evening that I had an experience that scared me within an inch of my life.

Since it was late, I decided to milk in the stall rather than take the cow out in the hallway as was my custom. I fixed the feed, grabbed my milking stool and set about my chore. I was really hurrying because it was late and I was afraid some gypsy would take hold of me and cart me off and I would forever be lost to the traveling carnival. I had read Toby Tyler and was afraid of a similar fate might become my lot.

About that time, I looked up, and staring at me over the top of the cow stall was a figure that is forever impressed in my mind. An elderly man dressed in black, coat and hat whose face was weather beaten and the color of chalk with no expression, was watching me milk. No doubt old Bessie sensed my fear as my milking hands went into cyber motion and there is no doubt in my mind that my hair was standing on end.

Then, I realized it was Mr. Millard Ward, an old man that lived in Zirconia. He never said a word. After watching me for a few minutes he went on his way. I don’t know if he ever knew how much he scared me that evening, but I felt very much relieved when I finished the milking, fed the calf and headed back to the house.

Mr. Ward was a familiar figure in our community. He had a reputation as being a sharp shooter with a slingshot. It was commonly reported how he would visit the local garages and gather up used or worn out ball bearings that would have been discarded. He would use these as ammunition in his slingshot and to kill squirrels.

The carnival, as it turned out, was a lot of fun. We were able to go just one evening as money for entertainment was scarce and we enjoyed the rides and listening to the hawkers that tried to get us to play their games for “one thin dime, one-tenth of a dollar”, our first candied apples and the sites, sounds and games along the midway.