It is a small wooden hut, with walls tired by wind and rain. Its sheet metal roof burns in summer and trembles in winter. Inside, the essentials: a cast iron stove which sits in the center of the common room, a few beds where to hug each other, and a raw wooden table where a thousand meals and stories were exchanged. A crude setting, where the scent of corn bread and that of simmered beans still float, and, to the light of oil lamps, the hope of better days … “It’s funny, my grandmother had made me the same above bed!” »» A tourist in shorts, caps and sneakers points through the window the coverage in patchwork. Moved, the quinqua turns to his wife: “Look, it’s more true than life!” »»
We are in Dollywood, the Dolly Parton amusement park. The hut in question, this Sunday at the end of July, is the exact replica of the childhood house of the country star, planted between two terrifying roller coaster. If America has produced its share of pop mausoleums, starting with Graceland, the last home of Elvis Presley become museum, that of Dolly Parton is a playground constelled with hot dogs and t-shirts in its effigy.
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