Words of Genuine

Heard Conversation

Today marks one week since I returned to days of habit after my ten-day retreat to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Southwest Virginia. Every time I return to that area, I locate a special sense of soul rejuvenation. This year was a bit different than previous years. Rather than hitting the road for a daily dose of off-the-beaten-path exploratory field trips, I anchored myself to the cabin by the lake for a week. Instead of my usual camera day trips, protecting time to focus on my graduate thesis took precedence this year. Soul sparking, however, was still thoroughly engaged.

Lakefront Fog

These Days

As I made my way through the week, I would occasionally slip away from my studies for a bit of fresh air, for both my lungs and my head. Never venturing too far away, my outstepping found me in an occasional thrift store, or junk store, or yard sale; the local grocery store; or a favorite country store to fill the gas tank and perhaps to pick up a package or two of their homemade chocolate, peanut butter, and oatmeal preacher cookies. The week delivered, of all things, a renewed belief in the power of conversation.

There wasn’t a day that passed that I didn’t find myself engaged with one of the locals. Each one offered a welcoming absence of business proposals, economic complaints, broken record political banter, or an abundance of select negative tones simply for the sake of completing a statement. Each individual was genuine and honest. We spoke face to face, looking at one another eye to eye, all without any distractions of a vibrating text message or the buzzing of a cell phone. There was also a genuine smile that nearly always followed the period at the end of every spoken sentence. Real is real.

Several of these faces I catch up with each year when I return to the rural area for my annual getaway. I look forward to seeing them and feel certain that the feeling is mutual. I met several new friends this year. Most were simply faces along my path, and more than likely, ones I’ll not run into again. Some, however, I will see again, and I look forward to that time. Whatever the case, our conversation and words of five minutes, thirty, or hours mattered.

The Unexpected Gift

As I prepared to return from my week and a half away, one of those friends stopped by the cabin to say goodbye the night before I was to head home. The two of us laughed and chatted for nearly an hour about things that mattered: life. Before he left, he took another sip from his coffee cup and mentioned that he had a little something for me. He handed me a small package. Tucked inside a black velvet sheath was a wood-barreled writing pen that he’d made for me. It was trimmed in antique brass and had a black ink cartridge. Using his wood lathe, he’d hand-turned the South American hardwood that week in his woodshop. He explained that the wood was given to him by his pastor. After nearly a week and a half of engaging conversations, words, and descriptive text from my week of study, I suddenly found myself with few words to reply with. Although it seemed so incomplete and not nearly enough, “thank you” delivered with an honest smile was as sincere as I could come up with. I meant both.

Living in a society where personal matters are broadcast to the world every second and then forgotten as old news a minute later, my recent revival experience of personal interaction, life, and words was a spirited gift of humanity.

Chicken or Egg? I Solved It.

Seems doubtful that this blog post could resolve the ageless question. Call it scientific or happenstance, but it was interesting that I witnessed both just minutes apart during my recent visit to Paint Bank. All I can really add to this longtime debate is what I actually saw. Seeing it with my own eyes made me a believer.

I’d only been in the tiny mountain town for about fifteen minutes before I was greeted with the wide smile and the southern drawl from the young lady behind the counter of the Paint Bank General Store. She was cleanly dressed all in white, helpful, and quick to answer my touristy questions. She also never missing a chance to flash her pretty smile. As we talked, I spotted my first glimpse of it, sitting on the counter an arms length away. It resembled a sacred stained glass work of art as the afternoon sunlight passed through it.

There it was, in a tiny town with a population count between 146 and 148, depending on which road sign you read. Inside of the general store that claimed to have “a little bit of everything”; and while listening to the beautiful twang of a long drawn out Southern dialect, I discovered the answer to all of those centuries long questions, faiths, and scientific theories. They were red and resting in the one-gallon glass jar at the end of the counter.

It wasn’t more than ten minutes later when I walked upon all of those lovely ladies in the coop out back. They were curious, talkative, and certainly kept a close eye on me. By that point however, I’d already made my discovery and regardless of how persistent and persuasive they attempted to be, I already knew the truth.

The pickled egg clearly came first.

Added Floyd to the List

We've all heard of CBGB's, the Sunset Strip, Gilley's, and Music Row in Nashville, each responsible for their own personal mark on the music world. Without discrediting any of those famous musical havens, I'd like to also add downtown Floyd, Virginia to the list.

If you have a Friday night free, this is the place to be. Casually parading along South Locust Street with real American small town folk of all ages, listening to real homegrown music in alleys, street corners, park benches, barbershops, and wherever else a tune can be shared. Floyd is as genuine as it gets.

When I arrived, I'd planned to spend about an hour or so, just for the experience. Nearly six hours later, I walked to my car with a bounce to my step and the sweet touch of southwest Virginia on my soul.

As I left the small mountain town with a population of 432 that evening, I was convinced of a few things that I wasn't aware of when I arrived hours before the sunlight faded. Real people. Real music. Real life. Damn right… Floyd is a musical Mecca.