There's something so compelling about a place in the mountains where people bring their own 2'x2' wooden board to dance in the fields.
Taking a step back: I began my week on the PA farm, playing banjo on the porch with my dog and my mom, the pasture lit up with fireflies glowing. We made and canned strawberry jam from berries picked out of mom's little garden. My first foray into the canning world!
I headed south to Arlington to visit my lovely great aunt. We enjoyed the creepy thrill of minor keys of Bach played on the huge pipe organ at the National Cathedral, then explored the Bishop's Gardens behind the gothic structure. Unusual sage, poodle-like cedar trees, and eye-popping orange flowers adorned the stone-enclosed back gardens. Arlene was her usual hilarious self, being a younger, hipper version of my klutzy, accident-prone and generally unaware-of-her-surroundings sister, my beloved grandma. It was a comedy of errors moment on the elevator with the floor buttons which resulted in her closing the elevator door on an elderly gentleman who uttered some very foul language. She blamed it on the elevator. I also attended her friend's 80th birthday party, and it was about how you'd expect an 80th birthday party to be. Neither one of us could figure out that DVD player, either. But there was lots of laughter, love and in-depth discussions, which is what I love the most about "Matilda."
Finally found my way back onto I-81, heading south deeper into the hills of rural Appalachia, until I reached my destination: Trillium Cabin on Greasy Creek, no town name, closest to Dugspur and not too far away from Floyd, VA. Second home to Richard, Queenie and Wiley, a North Carolina man and his two dogs. Banjo on the porch overlooking the mountains, the sound of the creek coming up the hill lured the cabin guests into chilly waters running over smooth rocks glittering with pyrite. After a few discussions about geology and aquatic entomology, we settled into the flow of the creek. Only after a lengthy intense yoga session have I felt so at peace. Sitting on the porch afterwards, my mind was completely clear of any particular thought. I was fully in the moment.
Friday night we headed into Floyd, a tiny version of how I imagine Asheville was about 30 years ago. The Floyd General Store hosts a Friday night jam, every week for the past 60 or so years. The store was full of spectators and dancers of all ages, and the bands spilled out onto the sidewalk. People clustered around to listen and dance to each jam, mostly old-time, some bluegrass. Lots of fiddles, banjos, an autoharp, a base, guitars, a washboard (!!!), and mandolins. We danced squares and clogged on the open floor, listening to the band whipping us into a frenzy. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Out under the stars, the bands played on the street well past the jam's hours.
Saturday we headed to Elk Creek, VA, by way of Galax. The Grayson County Old-Time Fiddle Festival is located on a big field at the top of a mountain, with a 360-degree view of the surrounding hills. Campers pull up chairs and jam outside their living arrangements. Each jam consisted of very friendly folks who were quite willing to invite us to play with them, even though they never met us before. There was even a guy playing a homemade washtub base! Amazing musicians entered the competitions for flat-picking guitar, old-time banjo, bluegrass banjo, fiddle, and clogging. The sunset was a spectacular shade of melon pink, and the thin clouds stretched in long lines to the horizon. Stars speckled the sky and we settled into our hooded jackets to ward off the chilly mountain air. A girl about 14 years old played Foggy Mountain Breakdown so fast and clean that the guitarist could hardly keep up with her. Little children showed off their budding talents as cloggers, and the crowd clapped and cheered for each dancer and musician. Dancers brought their own dancing boards to clog on, and I spent hours soaking up the music and the scenery.
I sometimes wonder if I ought to be living in southern Appalachia rather than in New England. They both appeal to different parts of me, and I'm not sure I'd be fully happy with one or the other. But I've always said, of all the places I've traveled, only the Blue Ridge Mountains seemed like I could settle there happily.
Taking a step back: I began my week on the PA farm, playing banjo on the porch with my dog and my mom, the pasture lit up with fireflies glowing. We made and canned strawberry jam from berries picked out of mom's little garden. My first foray into the canning world!
I headed south to Arlington to visit my lovely great aunt. We enjoyed the creepy thrill of minor keys of Bach played on the huge pipe organ at the National Cathedral, then explored the Bishop's Gardens behind the gothic structure. Unusual sage, poodle-like cedar trees, and eye-popping orange flowers adorned the stone-enclosed back gardens. Arlene was her usual hilarious self, being a younger, hipper version of my klutzy, accident-prone and generally unaware-of-her-surroundings sister, my beloved grandma. It was a comedy of errors moment on the elevator with the floor buttons which resulted in her closing the elevator door on an elderly gentleman who uttered some very foul language. She blamed it on the elevator. I also attended her friend's 80th birthday party, and it was about how you'd expect an 80th birthday party to be. Neither one of us could figure out that DVD player, either. But there was lots of laughter, love and in-depth discussions, which is what I love the most about "Matilda."
Finally found my way back onto I-81, heading south deeper into the hills of rural Appalachia, until I reached my destination: Trillium Cabin on Greasy Creek, no town name, closest to Dugspur and not too far away from Floyd, VA. Second home to Richard, Queenie and Wiley, a North Carolina man and his two dogs. Banjo on the porch overlooking the mountains, the sound of the creek coming up the hill lured the cabin guests into chilly waters running over smooth rocks glittering with pyrite. After a few discussions about geology and aquatic entomology, we settled into the flow of the creek. Only after a lengthy intense yoga session have I felt so at peace. Sitting on the porch afterwards, my mind was completely clear of any particular thought. I was fully in the moment.
Friday night we headed into Floyd, a tiny version of how I imagine Asheville was about 30 years ago. The Floyd General Store hosts a Friday night jam, every week for the past 60 or so years. The store was full of spectators and dancers of all ages, and the bands spilled out onto the sidewalk. People clustered around to listen and dance to each jam, mostly old-time, some bluegrass. Lots of fiddles, banjos, an autoharp, a base, guitars, a washboard (!!!), and mandolins. We danced squares and clogged on the open floor, listening to the band whipping us into a frenzy. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Out under the stars, the bands played on the street well past the jam's hours.
Saturday we headed to Elk Creek, VA, by way of Galax. The Grayson County Old-Time Fiddle Festival is located on a big field at the top of a mountain, with a 360-degree view of the surrounding hills. Campers pull up chairs and jam outside their living arrangements. Each jam consisted of very friendly folks who were quite willing to invite us to play with them, even though they never met us before. There was even a guy playing a homemade washtub base! Amazing musicians entered the competitions for flat-picking guitar, old-time banjo, bluegrass banjo, fiddle, and clogging. The sunset was a spectacular shade of melon pink, and the thin clouds stretched in long lines to the horizon. Stars speckled the sky and we settled into our hooded jackets to ward off the chilly mountain air. A girl about 14 years old played Foggy Mountain Breakdown so fast and clean that the guitarist could hardly keep up with her. Little children showed off their budding talents as cloggers, and the crowd clapped and cheered for each dancer and musician. Dancers brought their own dancing boards to clog on, and I spent hours soaking up the music and the scenery.
I sometimes wonder if I ought to be living in southern Appalachia rather than in New England. They both appeal to different parts of me, and I'm not sure I'd be fully happy with one or the other. But I've always said, of all the places I've traveled, only the Blue Ridge Mountains seemed like I could settle there happily.
