A Morning of Levels

Remembering 9/11

Sticks and Stones

I sipped coffee by the lake this morning just to process this day infamously and always to be known as 9/11. Sitting in the Blue Ridge sunshine, I remembered watching the events of that morning. It remains a day of horrors as the world changed and unfolded minute by minute. Despite the ugliness of the day, the heroes were the winners - the coworkers, the bystanders, the emergency response personnel, the nurses, the single parents, the teachers, the rich, the poor, the hurting, and the average Joes each brought their heart, their love and compassion to New York, rural America, and to cities all across the globe.

Gentle ripples reflected the new day's light at the exact time on my watch when history changed humanity twelve years earlier.

Remembering 9/11

I took several photographs commemorating that moment while sitting on the dock. Though the scenes through my viewfinder are certainly a world away from the urban waves of concrete, steel, and mass humanity, the images of calm clearly define that peace and remembrance always win.

What a lovely morning on so many levels. I anxiously look forward to what the rest of the day gifts me. Love and goodness and memories abound.

Valued Upbringing

New Supplies

The morning air was fresh as I sat on the porch chair overlooking the lake. I took a sip of coffee from either my second or third cup. A fresh pot was brewing. This is my studio for the week. Taking another sip, I noticed the package with three paintbrushes that had never left the package. Upon reading the store sticker, I remembered the day that I bought them. It was a rainy February afternoon in 2001. Earlier in the morning, I opened a brand new tube of paint. I’d purchased it in 1988. I dipped the tip of the new brush into the line of neutral gray before mixing it with cerulean blue and applying it to my painting.

Pouring a fresh cup of coffee, I thought about my morning discoveries. None of them really came as a surprise. I’ve always been respectful, protective, and frugal with my belongings. I’m sure that my Daddy had something to do with that. He was a tinkerer. Not for the hobby of it, but as a means to keep things working. We were a working-class family, which doesn’t mean we didn’t have nice things. We didn’t have an abundance of them. What we had, we took care of because disposable was not in our vocabulary. If I broke it or lost it, then I was simply without. I respect my upbringing.

Lakefront Studio

Locking myself away for this inspired retreat has been engaging. Days are backed up to days of my thoughts and creativity. Soul searching seems far too cliché, yet it defines the time away as good as anything that comes to mind. Though it took a few days for me to settle in, my temporary studio overlooking the lake has become quite an inspiring space.

Dipping the brush back into the mixed paint, I added another stroke. The figure in the painting is a life vibrant man preparing to pitch a horseshoe. He’s respectful, protective, and frugal with his game. I’d be willing to bet that points were added to his team’s score after his toss. Daddy always did.

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.

a daylight's fog

©2011 gary garbett.com