Welcome to Willardton: Where Champions Live

Rayne. Now, that’s a good name: artsy but smart, spiritual but not religious. Dramatic winter storm, hot cocoa round the fireplace, champagne, attain, unchain.

I come up the final block toward the fairgrounds and head for the staff trailer. “Fairgrounds” sounds like a country bling thing. Flair, share, care. Don’t be fooled. It’s an amusement park, but such a dinky rundown one that if they didn’t make it sound like a limited time offer out of rural England, no one would come. It’s all in the name, as usual.

Too bad my name ain’t Rayne.

Can’t blame Mom and Pop, because I don’t look like one. Raynes are slender and exotic and look good in forest green. I’m a square, dirty-blonde box hedge with swampy eyes, and if I was called Rayne I’d be the miserable Holland flood-by-degrees type. Pain. No gain. Here she comes again, gotta run catch a train.

So fine, not Rayne, but Clora? What even is Clora? Migraine coming on, I see an aura? Aunt Betsy’s horrid jersey of scratchy grey angora?