By MONTE DUTTON

I think of an old Statler Brothers song this Sunday morning.

Whatever happened to Randolph Scott has happened to the best of me …

From the moment I heard the news that Bruton Smith was taking one North Wilkesboro Speedway race to Texas, and Bob Bahre the other to New Hampshire, it occurred to me that I would miss the place more than the races.

And I missed the races.

The Winston Open Select Nextel Sprint to Xfinity – or whatever the all-star race that’s not at the L.A. Coliseum in now called – is at North Wilkesboro.

Darlington, Martinsville and Bristol claim vestiges of the past, but races at North Wilkesboro required a trip down Thunder Road and back in time.

Media parking was right next to the entrance, but the only way to get there was driving right down the row of souvenir trailers on both sides. As I gently nudged my way through “oh, the humanity,” it would not have surprised me had a herd of Hereford heifers wandered through.

Back in the farming days, Daddy had a Hereford heifer herd for a while, but then he bought that Charolais bull, and, well, all hell broke loose.

Dinner, or whatever a meal in the middle of a stock car race is, was on the grounds in the same sense that churches hold it. The caterers were matronly. They brought with them tidings of great fried chicken, casseroles and apple pie.

I wrote about the last eight races there. I remember little about them. I know Ernie Irvan came back from injury one year, and Jeff Gordon won the last race. I went up there several days before that last race, in 1996, just to talk with people about what the track meant to them, and I was astonished to learn that most of them hanging around the track were from out of town, making their last pilgrimages early. They were from places like Horseheads, N.Y., and Sellersburg, Ind. They told stories about having a death in the family, calling the ticket office long distance, and talking personally to Enoch Staley, who sent them a refund with tickets to the following race. That’s why they kept coming back every year.

These were days when people who smoked smoked Winstons, and fans bought the beer that sponsored their favorite drivers, then they filled up with Pure Firebird on the way home. Fans were grateful to the sponsors who helped give them a sport they dearly loved, and, in many cases, knew what business the sponsors were in. There were fewer YakiSax Carbide Liquefiers 225s in those days. If Enoch Staley wanted to honor his later brother Gwyn, killed racing stock cars, by God, he did it.

There aren’t enough men named Enoch anymore.

The press lodgings – they’d clear out some rooms for the ink-stained wretches in those days – were at the Williams Motel, the friendliest and shabbiest facility where ever I was lodged. I didn’t care if the bed creaked. All I did was sleep there. I just looked it up, and it’s still there, undoubtedly a lot nicer because everything else that’s still around is.

It was not unusual, upon checking in, to find Eric Williams sitting on the couch, strumming his guitar. Obviously, I expected Barney Fife to drop by and tell Andy he was going to issue a 582-3-BF to Rafe for keeping a still down on Cowlick Crick.

Now, now, settle down, Barn.

Most of the boys would trudge up and stagger back down the hill to The Captain’s Table. I have never understood the inexplicably large number of seafood joints in the mountains and pancake houses at the beach.

The grub was tasty, though, best I remember.

When I left the second North Wilkesboro race I covered, a lady in the press box presented me a small basket of apples as a gift. After the third race, the same sweet lady dropped by on press row – it was much like press boxes in old Spencer Tracy movies, only no one wore fedoras – and whispered, “Be sho’ to go by da press box on the way out. Mistuh Schoolfield got a little sumpin fuh ya.”

Hank Schoolfield, the late publicist, asked, “What’s ya pleazhuh, Dutton? We got cherry, and we got apricot.”

I was but a lad, relatively speaking, and I thought naively I was about to receive a basket of either cherries or apricots. I requested the latter.

Schoolfield took a brown trash bag and wrapped it around a Mason jar of liquor, which had an apricot floating in it. He handed it to me and said, “None of the boys is gon’ say nuthin’, but you don’t wanna flaunt it, if you know what I mean.”

I was carefully observing the speed limit all the way home. I kept that jar for a year and wound up taking it to a bachelor party, where everybody but me was scared to drink it.

It was good.

I watched a little of the truck race on Saturday. The memories flooded back as Kyle Larson raced away.

NASCAR is quite different. That last time I was at a race, almost no one was there who was anything like everyone back then.

In order to fix a mistake, one has to admit a mistake was made. It’s been 27 years, and that’s long enough for the Gods of Daytona to claim racing at North Wilkesboro again is their brand-new innovation.

Sigh. Whatever it takes, I reckon.

In addition to my novels, I’ve written or contributed to a few NASCAR books, two of which are novels. Check them out here.