Hooray for Dollywood
In order to preempt what would surely become FAQs, there are two things I will make clear at the outset of this post:
- There really is a place called Dollywood.
- I really did go there. Jealous yet?
You may share your boob jokes in the comments.
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There is a special little part of the Great Smoky Mountains where the peanuts are boiled, the t-shirts are air-brushed, and the museums are upside-down. There is so much to see and do in this little pocket of heaven, but the ultimate little piece of kitschy goodness had eluded me until now. Dollywood is a theme park dedicated to thrill rides, folksy crafts, music, and the glorification of God for putting Dolly Parton on this earth. Kettle corn, too.
We had the good fortune of visiting during the ‘Festival of Nations.’ Given the homogeneity of the park guests, it was nice to see a little diversity. Check out this charming young Italian lad:
In addition to the regular park performers such as the Kingdom Heirs (presumptuous much?), the Festival of Nations involves performances from groups from all around the world. We sat down for an acappela show. After a promising first number, one of the young African men on stage started talking about how his life was changed when Christian missionaries came to his little village and shared the love of Jesus with them. We left to go find something that would calm our twisting stomachs, such as a roller coaster. Luckily there were lots of those.
Many of the rides have ‘example cars’ outside the entrance, which larger guests are encouraged to try out for size.
The guided tour of Dolly Parton’s tour bus was led by her number one fan, a local lady who could not say enough wonderful things about the star. As we left the bus she called out that we should be sure to find lunch in one of the park’s many restaurants. “Everything’s been baptized in grease and is absolutely scrumptious!”
I do have one bone to pick with Dolly. The museum in the park – the one covering Dolly’s life journey from poor country girl to international singing superstar? It’s called Chasing Rainbows. Dammit, that’s what I was going to call my museum. She stole my name. Now where will I put my collection of amply-bosomed sequined dresses?
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What will the museum that showcases your life story be called?
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