Rebekah Elizabeth Band: Hate and Trepidation in Ovilla

By James Alexander Dr. of Journalism

After our terrifying ordeal in Waxahachie, we were glad to be invited to perform at the Ovilla Heritage Day Festival. Ovilla is presumed to be more civilized than Waxahachie due to its closer proximity to Dallas. It is really made up of five smaller townships, including Red Oak, Glenn Heights, Oak Leaf, and Ovilla, all sharing the same zip code.

Red Oak received its first free-standing post office and is preparing for the arrival of that true mark of social distinction, a Wal-Mart. The main social event of last season was the much-anticipated Grand Opening of “The Wall” Chinese restaurant, an occasion so over-attended that the police were called in to direct traffic and one lane of the main drag was shut off especially for the patrons. The main spiritual and cultural hub of the city is the local Whataburger, which, incidentally, is the highest-ranking Whataburger in the nation.

Across the highway is the flourishing township of Glenn Heights, which is mainly recognized for being a speed trap. I speak from personal experience. They also have the rather unnerving practice of parking police cars in vacant lots with a dummy in the front seat. By dummy, I mean an actual dummy. I mean, like, a stuffed person, with a blank expression. I mean--- never mind.

Moving on to greener pastures, we come to Ovilla, which is conveniently divided into Ovilla proper and Mr. Sharaf’s estate.

Mr. Sharaf's Estate

Mr. Sharaf is Ovilla’s very own Horatio Alger. He started out sleeping on a mattress in an unfurnished apartment, and eventually worked his way up to the head of a prosperous oil shipping empire. For reasons unknown to anyone but himself, he decided to select Ovilla as the town in which to construct his new palace, a sprawling estate complete with pools, fountains, a Lamborghini, a house for the servants, hand-carved, stone fireplaces imported from his home land of Syria, copper rain gutters, inlaid mosaic sinks in all the bathrooms, four refrigerators, and an elevator. All of this was surrounded by an eight-foot security wall. He is, in every way, a living monument to the American Dream, so dear to the heart of us all.

The rest of Ovilla is somewhat anti-climatic. A colorful mix of mobile homes, housing divisions from the $400s, and a couple of suburban neighborhoods in which all the street names end in “wood”. It is, for the most part, a happy place; time passes by gently, news is rare, but is all the more appreciated when it does occur; the women are fair, the men are what you would expect, and all the children are about average.

We were scheduled to play a 20-minute set at Ovilla Heritage Day Festival, a yearly affair where the best and brightest of Ovilla gather to showcase their talents and hock their wares. We arrived early, so the Star went off to look for a new embroidered handbag and I wandered off through the aisles of booths that cluttered the cleat-printed sand of the community baseball fields. An endless parade of sights and smells filtered through the red dust. Funnel cakes. Corn on the cob. Fat-dripping, grease-laden turkey legs that hung like carnage from the red, white, and blue booths all around me. I began to feel the fear.

UMC

I stumbled to the other side of the fair. A large man loomed out of the mist towards me. “Would you like to buy a raffle ticket?” he croaked. “A 12-gauge Beretta shotgun with accessories, valued at $250. Tickets only $5 a pop.” “Who are you?” I snarled. “The NRA?” “No, UMC.” “United Military Contractors? HERE?!?” I gasped in horror. “No, United Methodist Church. We are adding a new wing onto our nursery.” I coiled back. “You let those kids play with those things?” I shouted. “You should be taken out and shot!” I disengaged his clinging hands and moved on.

I wandered from stall to stall, gingerly handling various items and artifacts. Handmade soaps. Candles. Jewelry. Beads. Anything to catch the eye of the jaded and angst-ridden yuppie spectators, looking for some art or expression to brighten their dull living spaces. What was this?? Squirming like festering vermin in a small wire cage before me was a dozen tiny creatures in various states of decay. “Would you like one?” a small voice chirped eagerly in my ear. I turned to see a young girl of about 11 looking beseechingly up at me. “How are they served?” I asked, my curiosity overcoming my revulsion. A blank stare met my query. “Come on,” I snapped. “Boiled? Fried? Pickled?” “These are animal companions!” she piped, dismayed. “So you are not associated with ‘The Wall’ restaurant in any way?” I glowered. Another blank stare. “These are Chi-Weenie-Poos,” she said, opening the cage. “Wanna pet one?” She held a particularly diseased-ridden animal within inches of my face. “See? Chi-Weenie-Poos.” “Stop saying that!” I shrieked, stumbling backwards in terror. “Get that thing away from me! Give it to the Methodists, they’ll know what to do with it!” At this point my composure broke down completely and I turned and ran. What was this world coming to? I thought. How can I navigate in this bizarre jungle where Chi-Weenie-Poos roam freely through the undergrowth and Methodists with 12-gauge Beretta shotguns lurk behind every tree??

Then I saw it. Surrounded by a blaze of holy light, the sun breaking through the canopy to illuminate the chrome and curves of the 1968 Mustang Shelby in pristine condition. I stopped in my tracks, transfixed, drinking in the beauty, the grace, the revelation of a classic American car. An emotion, too deep for words, passed like a rushing wind over my very soul. The terror that had been creeping over me for the past ten minutes fell away like broken chains, and I felt a true exultation that only those chosen few of us who have known the thrill of an empty moonlit highway, the windows down, wayfarer sunglasses, and the pedal to the metal--- TRANSCENDENT SPEED. I groped, hands outstretched, to this vision, this thing of beauty. I caressed the gentle curve of the arched hood, my fingers slipping sensuously over the voluptuous wax surface—“HEY, KID!” a voice blared, jerking me out of my trance. “Stay away from cars that aren’t yours!” Right, I said to myself. Don’t think, don’t touch. Obey authority, ignore individuality, do everything the pigs tell you to do. Give away your soul.

Bonding

It was about time to start the show. I found the Star bonding with a Chi-Weenie-Poo. I dragged her away and shoved her onstage. I don’t recall much about the show. It sticks in my mind that at some point a Whirling Dervish emerged from the crowd and spun across the stage. There were several children dressed up like bumblebees prancing in the aisles and a toothless old man in the 3^rd row who appeared to know the words to all our songs, as he sang along quite shamelessly, although I am sure he had never heard them before.

We finished the set and I stumbled, exhausted, out the back, collapsing onto a large and inviting bale of hay. As I lay there breathing in the fresh and familiar scent of summer grass, I began to realize that, really, this small-town pride, these simple country manners, this strong individualism, was, at the end of the day, very close to the bosom of the American Dream. A reminder of when life was simpler, neighbors were kinder, and love was stronger, and, in spite of the traumatic experiences of the day, I suddenly felt very much at home.

Random pictures from the parade: