Showing posts with label Gate City VA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gate City VA. Show all posts

Friday, August 1, 2025

Bad Poetry: Scab

For the Poets & Storytellers United, a  poem about scabs. A scab is a crust of dried body fluids over a wound, or a strike-breaking worker.

A strike was meant to be a blow
if only wounding profit.
If workers thought job paid too low
they simply would walk off it,
and this was felt as "bleeding" labor,
money, all away,
and bosses tried to hire a neighbor
to fill in that day.
And so this man was called a scab.
It wasn't meant to injure,
until the striking laborers' gab
added gall and ginger.
A skilled coal miner's pay was low; 
work, dangerous and hard.
How far below could wages go
on a day labor yard?
So scabs could easily be despised
as lowest of the low
though, when disasters traumatized,
to scabbing men would go.
Those times are gone to come no more
and who would call them back?
So Hollywood said "Mining lore
a scab's viewpoint doth lack."
And someone wrote an eighties movie
simply called The River
and said "Mel Gibson's young and groovy!
He'll make girls' hearts quiver,
and for the boys, bring Spacek in,
and show them having sex
(from shoulders up) with sweaty skin
in scabs' grim little shacks."
Mel Gibson played a noble-hearted
man who saved his farm
by scabbing; Sissy'd not be parted
from him, but risked harm
and left the kids behind to meet him
in his pine board shanty.
From that day on, reviewers treat them
as poison, not eye candy.
Gibson's his own producer now.
Spacek's career was charred.
Bygones are bygones, you'd avow,
but bitterness dies hard.

(The River (1984) is currently available to watch online--for a fee. 

In 1983 the producers looked for a real Tennessee town that looked weatherbeaten but not hopeless. The farm scenes that ended up in the movie were shot in Tennessee. For the town, people said "They wanted Clinchport; too bad they didn't come out before the flood." Gate City wanted to be used as the scene of the movie--though we don't actually have a river. The producers didn't think my town looked weatherbeaten enough but finally agreed that a short stretch of a back street could be made to look down-at-heel when wet. So you can see an unflattering view of part of my town, with some real local people in the crowd, in the scene where Mel Gibson goes to the bank after the flood. 

We never were a mining town. People I knew liked The River and Gibson and Spacek and the whole foofarah of having a film crew in town. Those who remember 1983 still do. 

People who belong to unions, e.g. the reviewers on Rotten Tomatoes, haaaated the movie and have never forgiven those who made it.

I'd never claim that it was a great movie, no suspense, no comedy, not even a car chase, strictly a reenactment of some long-gone scab's apologia, but what pretty scenery it has!)

Tuesday, April 11, 2023

Gate City Kitties Should Come Inside This Week

This post needs a photo. My old faithful cell phone will still snap blurry, barely recognizable photos but won't upload them. I'll just have to describe what I saw in words.

Killdeer. Everyone in Virginia knows what killdeer look like. For the rest of the world, they're a sort of inland plover whose calls supposedly sounded to hungry hunters like "Kill deer! Deer here!" Since they forage in grassy meadows in between the deep forests, their calls often did lead the hunters to accessible deer and water. The birds are about the size of long-legged pigeons. They look like this.


(Fair use, but Google traces this picture to Unsplash.) 

So they are very cute. Usually they don't spend much time in Gate City because we don't have a lot of grassy meadows. We have mown lawns and gardens, and we have uncultivated land that quickly shoots up into woods, and not much of the in-between land killdeer like. This is a very good way to maintain land if you want not to have to worry about ground-nesting birds. 

But one year I saw a couple of killdeer nesting on the Presbyterian church lawn, and one year they at least tried to nest in front of the Duffield market, and this year it seems they succeeded in nesting on the vacant lot where Daugherty's Chevrolet lot used to be. 

What could be more adorable than an adult killdeer? A baby killdeer, of course. The fluffy little chicks start scampering about on their own stiltlike legs while they're about the size of baby chickens, before real grown-up feathers grow in. 

Early this morning someone posted a photo of a downy baby killdeer at someone else's blog, and then I went into town and saw two of them scampering after their parents in the bank's drive-through lane. 

Two? No, three. One was with its mother, a yard or so further from pavement than the father and the two bolder babies. 

And what was calling my attention to the baby killdeer was the little daddybird, hunching his neck and trailing his wings in a chickenlike threat display, squawking "Peep-peep-peep-peep-peep-peep!" He could almost have been a half-grown bantam rooster. He clearly meant something like "Leave my babies alone or I'll...I'll...I'll reach across your foot and bite your leg and thus assume the position for you to kick me into the creek, I will! Nobody's going to mess with MY babies!"

Then, seeing that I'd spotted him as the source of the angry peeping, he hastily changed tactics, jumped back, skittered back toward Mama Killdeer, and began limping and trailing a wing, nonverbally saying, "Oh, I'm hurt! I'm helpless! Kill me and be done with it but leave my family alone!" 

Plovers are hysterical drama queens and also terrible, obvious liars, but you have to love their courage. They keep taking the chance that they'll always be able to fly away before a predator gets close enough to eat them. They are not always able to escape from a determined predator. 

It would have served the little fellow's purposes so much better to have been quiet and let me walk past, not seeing him, as most humans would. (Killdeer's peculiar markings help them recognize each other but also help them fade into the background of a meadow.) Who said he had any sense? He's a bird. He has only a bird brain. But he does have a kind of desperate, quixotic fortitude. If I'd been a predator, he was fully prepared to give his life for his family.

In another week his babies should be able to fly, and the family will probably move on. Meanwhile, all cats likely to prowl around the corner of Kane and Water Streets should spend a few days indoors. Male cats normally prowl about a mile in any direction from their home base. Females normally prowl for a quarter-mile or less, but if they're extra-large and/or have hungry kittens to feed, who knows what they can do. 

 Cats, as a species, need to be at the top of the food chain in neighborhoods where humans live. They need to be outdoors, and we need to have them outdoors. This does not mean that every old purr-by-the-fire cat wants or needs to be outdoors. Older cats who spend most of their time dozing aren't making much contribution to the ecology any more, and often prefer to be indoors. Cats who are ill or injured need to be indoors. Cats with FIV are more likely to live longer if you can persuade them to be content with indoor territory. But we need cats to keep nuisance species populations down, and we don't need to let other predators that are larger and less human-friendly move into the ecological niche cats occupy in Europe and North America.

(In Australia, of course, the ecology is different. In Australia the idea that all cats should spend their whole lives indoors actually makes sense. In the United States it's a stupid idea.)

But the ecology can stand for cats to be indoors when baby plovers are scampering about. 


Google traces this picture of a baby killdeer to the AllAboutBirds site maintained by Cornell University, which used to be a respectable school. 

Tuesday, April 4, 2023

Mark Warner on the Lower Energy Costs Act

This weekend, this web site received Congressman Griffith's E-Newsletter summarizing the Lower Energy Costs Act, US HR 1. The Newsletter went live on this web site; you should see a link to it on the right side of the page. 

This web site particularly called the Newsletter to the attention of our US Senators, who are not paid to sit around reading personal blogs every day. Since they're D and our House Representative is R, we can expect some debate about the final wording from them; that's how the system is supposed to work. This web site asked them to make sure the bill supports the economy of the Ninth District of Virginia by requiring APCo to invest in harvesting our sunshine before it sinks any more money in fossil or nuclear fuel. 

(For those who don't know: Virginia already has laws authorizing anyone who has the money to put as many solar collectors as we want over our roofs, sheds, pavements, and any southwest-facing slopes that are too steep to cultivate and too rocky to support fruit trees. Stores like Gate City's Thriftway Supermarket, which died partly because its oldfashioned flat roof held water and sprung leaks, could have new, watertight, sloping roof covers that drain water and collect sunshine if their owners chose to invest in such. I could have a new, watertight, sloping roof cover if I could afford one. And yes, the technology is already workable to allow us to sell our surplus sunshine back to APCo. One of my old schoolmates claims to be collecting monthly checks for that. I am not asking for taxes to be used to make all of us equal participants in this venture, though I would emphasize that solar collectors can be installed on roof covers, outbuildings, or shelters especially over stores and parking lots, so they would actually protect rather than weigh down roofs. I would like to see a requirement that APCo install solar collectors wherever anyone they've threatened to disconnect for non-payment will allow them to install one, before APCo sinks any more money into new plants. This web site supported letting APCo build a new plant, which didn't look bad or do obvious damage to its environment, back in 2011-2012. They built it and everybody was happy. Now they're saying it's old and inadequate. Well. Let them have more sources of energy. Enough to sell to PEPCo and Dominion! And after a few years when they can balance their payments to us against payments on the equipment they install, they should start sending us monthly checks, too. It is jolly high time the Ninth District's economy was boosted by something that is clean, Green, honest, and wholesome.)

Below is Senator Mark Warner's reply. From its format we may infer that it was typed, probably by a student, from a template that was probably mailed out to a lot of people who've e-mailed him about this bill. 

"

Dear Ms. King,

          Thank you for contacting me regarding H.R. 1, the Lower Energy Cost Act.  I appreciate the benefit of your views on this important issue.

          On March 30, 2023, the House of Representatives passed the bill by a vote of 225 - 204. The bill must pass the Senate and be signed by the President before becoming law.

          You may be assured that I will keep your views in mind as this issue is considered. If you need additional information or if there’s another issue that’s important to you, please visit my website at: http://www.warner.senate.gov where you may send a message to me or sign-up for email updates to get the latest on my work in the Senate. You may also follow me at: http://www.facebook.com/MarkRWarner/ and https://twitter.com/MarkWarner.

Sincerely,MARK R. WARNERUnited States Senator

"

Monday, January 16, 2023

Voting Rural? Is That Even Possible?

(This started out as an e-mail reply to a Good Folks newsletter about the author's hopes for "slow activism in rural areas." For those who don't read the Good Folks newsletter, it often promotes the work of writers, artists, and musicians who happen to be "gay." As with any demographic, some of that work also happens to be good, which is the primary reason why people subscribe to the newsletter.)

Must supporting things that matter to rural people, to oneself as a rural person, always mean going Republican? I hope not. It would help if Democrats had more to say about the interests of rural people as distinct from those of rich Eurotrash who want to "preserve resources" by criminalizing rural life. 

Example: Appalachian Power wants to sink money in "a small nuclear reactor" in rural Wise County, Virginia. Wise County is worked-out coalfields, Not only could a nuclear reactor built there not possibly be safe, it would also contaminate drinking water from the Virginia-Kentucky border to New Orleans.

Typical R position: "Youall want jobs, don't you? A small nuclear reactor would create jobs, right?"

When I was young we would have expected the D party to be the ones saying, "Wait a minute. Appalachian Power should first invest in the community by putting solar collectors where people want them, letting those people pay for the collectors and thus keeping them paying APCo for a few more years, and give Wise County and other coalfields counties a chance to export something healthy for once. "

Now look at the Democrats in power. What do they know or care about this kind of thing? They're too busy spouting the line their European owners are feeding them. "Ban guns, ban all aspects of rural life, make Wise County unlivable, tell people we're giving the good land back to the bears as we herd the people into apartment towers in cities where they'll die faster, and get people like Schwab controlling the rural land in the U.S. just as they are in Europe, so they can turn North America back into the kind of mess Europe is." 

I want APCo to give older people like me and my neighbors the "job" of exporting our sunshine. I think of that as a "liberal" idea, and so you may be sure do some big influences in the Republican party. But today's Democrats are too busy screaming about gun bans and abortion being a "right" (for women over 50, yeah RIGHT!) to support anything that actually works for rural people. When they notice that we exist, they're screaming that our existence is racist. (I'm biracial myself, and duh, solar collectors would work for Black home owners too, and did you see anything about their not working for "gays" or Muslims or any other demographic group?...but the Loony Left has apparently decided that just being home owners is "racist." Stay in those housing projects in the slums where you belong, proles! Achievement, freedom, privacy, even good health are racist things for YOU losers even to WANT! Anyway why aren't all these people over 50 dead, as they would be in Europe?)

As a lifelong registered Independent I want what works for me and others like me, and don't care which party picks up those ideas...but it looks as if Terry Kilgore, the hardcore "conservative" Republican, is more likely to be more helpful to rural people here than Democrats like Tim Kaine. 

*****

It's important to note here that I don't hate Europeans. 

I hate the fantasy of "global governance" that makes it possible for people to take political sides in countries where they don't live. There is a Muslim version of that fantasy, but currently the people who subscribe to it and are meddling in U.S. government are Europeans. They're also bigots, and they get their notions about what's "racist" and "anti-Semitic" straight out of their mirrors. They're also sexists and Socialists. The craziest part of their bigotry is that their tribal hate, which is also strong, shifts overnight. Basically they still seem to think of themselves as tiny feuding tribes, not even Hungarians-as-opposed-to-Italians-in-Europe as Huns-as-opposed-to-Magyars-in-Hungary, and they'll be ready to go to war with any other tribe in minutes. I think those Saturday morning cartoons probably got it right. It may be true that "everybody wants to rule the world" in moments of moral weakness, but all people who seriously try to rule the world are villains, and detestable.

Ordinary sane Europeans who come here as visitors, your typical exchange student, exchange teacher, diplomat, tourist, etc., I've almost always liked. Their history is instructive, and their cultural traditions of art, literature, architecture, and so on, such as have survived their wars, are impressive. As individual people they usually seem pleasant to know and interesting to talk to. The world needs no more bigotry and no more war. 

The more advanced civilizations on this continent do, however, need to remain aware of and consistently beat back any further incursions of the toxic European ideas our ancestors left behind. There ought to be a specific name for those ideas, more specific than "tyranny" or "totalitarianism" or "bigotry" or "warmongering" or "elitism," although those words usually apply to the specific bad ideas as they appear, and ideally more separable from any idea of people than "European," although I think it is helpful to note where the toxic ideas are coming from. It would be helpful if the people promulgating these bad ideas all belonged to one party, whose name would then be the proper name for the bad ideas. 

Until a better name suggests itself, this web site is stuck with "European" as the name for the most toxic ideas floating around these days. When talking about people, books, music, etc., which we usually do in a favorable way, usually it's possible to identify them with specific countries that happen to be in Europe. And we will be talking favorably about British, Swedish, Greek, German, Ukrainian, etc., etc., people and their work, because, loathsome as these European political ideas are, we have nothing against the plain people of Europe. 

Tuesday, September 7, 2021

Status Update: McDonald's Is Open

Not that I care or dare to eat there every day, but McDonald's have reopened their dining areas in Virginia, at last. It was jolly high time; nonprofit public-access computer centers have not. 

I am sitting in McDonald's. I just saw a little Ruby-Throated Hummingbird (a female, no conspicuous red spot on the throat) flitting around the colorful sign in the window. 

Just to annoy those who don't like my flights of animal whimsy, let's postulate that she was buzzing around the store because she'd heard a fellow customer singing the praises of their French Vanilla Iced Coffee...No. Probably not. Probably somebody had spilled something with real sugar in it on the ground, where the hummingbird couldn't drink it, and the bird was hoping that the colorful sign was the source of that lovely sugary smell. Sorry, bird.

I'd like to mention the French Vanilla Iced Coffee because I never heard of such a confection. I like one cup of hot black coffee in the morning. After that, I like to rinse out the cup with water. After that, depending on which is a better bargain, I can drink more coffee, or maybe tea, or maybe soda pop. At my fa-a-a-avorite cafe, where I don't plan to hang out again until they've had a chance to recover from last year, I liked to alternate between black coffee, sweet coffee, and sometimes decaf coffee. At McDonald's my afternoon cold drink of choice is Coca-Cola. If I had to keep buying drinks to use the Internet at some other places I might start with Mountain Dew or Mello Yello and then move on to something without caffeine in it, because the most popular kinds of soda pop in my part of the world contain very high levels of caffeine and were not meant to be sipped all day.

But this gentleman wanted everyone to know that such a thing as French Vanilla Iced Coffee exists. He says it's sweet, but not too sweet, yet also sugar-free. It's cold enough to drink on a hot summer afternoon, and, he says, he finds the flavor and caffeine content satisfying enough to feel like lunch. 

McDonald's still does hamburgers, fries, and soda pop (and you can still get at least the cheap version of each of those for 99 cents), but in recent years they've been trying to attract adults with all kinds of trendier, hypothetically healthier food and drinks. 

Hummingbirds literally live on sweet drinks--specifically the nectar of tube-shaped flowers, and different species feed primarily on flowers that are the right size for their bills. So there's a reason why this one might be attracted to McDonald's. However, they need real natural sucrose: preferably from flowers, or failing that from natural sugar. They can't live on the sugar-free sweet drinks some humans prefer. They can't live on the ice cream and milkshakes people have been ordering, either. They might be able to drink sugary Coke or Sprite or Hi-C, but it wouldn't be good food for them...so I hope this hummingbird has found some real flowers to feed on by now. 

Here's an update some local folks may not have heard. Most of us have had the coronavirus by now, or the vaccine, or both--not necessarily in that order. On hearing that a mutant strain of virus may still be able to affect people who've had the vaccine, I expect a lot of people in Gate City to react the same way I did. "Dang-bang-blast it all, we had that, last year. I'm NOT going to bother about it a-GA-in!" For most of us there was no need to "bother" worrying, or panicking, or probably even having the vaccine unless it was to protect other people, at any time in the whole COVID saga. If we weren't already reacting to something else we didn't know we had it. Some of us still don't know whether we had it or not; we had a cough, or felt tired, or had vivid memories of mononucleosis, when everyone else was having COVID, But It Was Nothing To Miss A Day's Pay Over, Really... 

Meh. Mehhh. I've not thrown out any of my masks, and I'm still a huge fan of social distancing, especially from older people and those known to be at special risk. But seriously, we are still talking about a chest cold. Head colds, flu, strep, and other stupid little infections no normal adult even notices having, are still more dangerous to the fragile than any strain of coronavirus ever was. For many of us not only glyphosate reactions, but also "breaking in" new shoes or sipping too-hot coffee, are a lot more painful than coronavirus. The only cause for special concern about coronavirus was to try to prevent whole towns from all going down with it at once, and since natural immunity formed by having the virus is more effective than vaccines, I think few if any of us have any reason to worry. 

I'm tempted to speculate that anybody who notices any form of coronavirus symptoms, now, is probably having a glyphosate reaction. Of course that's wrong. Some of these people have AIDS or lupus or cancer--which is why asking which individuals have COVID or what else was going on with them is not nice. If they want us to know, they'll tell us. (The tendency of older people to share Too Much Information about their health is widely documented. Some of us are just making heroic efforts not to be boring about it. Given any encouragement, quite a few baby-boomers for whom it's still "news" that we're not bursting with crazy teenage energy any more will discuss ailments all day long.)

I merely maintain that there was no valid reason for any businesses to shut down altogether, or anyone to lose their job, last year and there's even less of one now. We've all at least had a chance to learn something from the coronavirus. We all should know, about places like McDonald's: If you're not ill and haven't been ill, consider yourself an immune carrier--if not of coronavirus, of a couple dozen things that are probably more dangerous to the fragile. Go ahead and sit at the same table with people you know to be immune carriers of the same kinds of virus, bacteria, and fungi. Do not go into the restroom, even though it still has two toilets, while anyone you don't know well is in there. (Stop, look, listen.) Do not sit down at a table adjacent to one where people you don't know well are sitting. If the place gets crowded (which I've not seen happen, because by now people know the drill), that's what those picnic tables out on the grassy lawn are for. 

Actually, for most of the day, a lot more people could come inside McDonald's without violating the official rules for social distance. We have learned the drill. More people could come inside the other restaurants, too. It's no longer true, as it once was, that any of our local restaurants is likely to get crowded enough that writers who come in mostly to use the Internet would feel ethically obligated to go out for a walk and make sure all of the eat-and-run crowd could find tables at a good healthy distance from one another. However, many people still prefer to take food out of restaurants, to their cars or to their jobs, and that's fine with the restaurant owners and nice for those of us who can only reliably connect to the Internet from a public place in town. 

One way or another, everybody (except those who are seriously allergic to sugar-free sweet stuff, or caffeine, or maybe vanilla) should have a chance to try French Vanilla Iced Coffee for themselves. 

Wednesday, February 12, 2020

Book Review: Hiding Ezra and Wayland

Sad news, Gentle Readers. Goodreads is now hiding real individual book reviews just like Amazon. Amazon can get away with a little discrimination, because it's huge and commercial. Goodreads is neither.

Underwhelmed, to say the least, by typing in mini-reviews of these two novels-from-family-history, hitting "Post," and having the book's home page pop back onto the screen with a smarmy little message saying "Priscilla King, write a review of [the book I just did]!"--I don't like web sites that bark orders at readers, in any case...I'm going back to my own blog. Which Google, of course, will try to hide from people, and Goodsearch will try so hard to hide that it'll even redirect readers back to cached copies of the posts for which Blogjob paid. Goodheavens, the corporate would-be rulers of the world cried, we mustn't let people discover a blog that blows the whistle on sneaky corporate censorship on the Internet!

If the Internet doesn't pull a U-turn and require human review before even the ugliest porn images and hatespews can be censored, how long do you think it can last? Two years? Three? It's been fun, and I look forward to getting paid again for my special talent for creating decent-looking documents on manual typewriters...

Here, while it lasts, are full-length reviews of two short paperback novels. They can be read independently; they're best read together.

Author: Rita Sims Quillen

Title: Hiding Ezra

Amazon details:
  • Paperback: 220 pages
  • Publisher: Little Creek Books (February 18, 2014)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 1939289351

And the sequel: Wayland 

Amazon details:
  • Paperback: 160 pages
  • Publisher: Iris Press (September 16, 2019)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 1604542543
I'm late to the Internet today, Gentle Readers, because I started reading Wayland and couldn't put it down. I already knew from Hiding Ezra that this author is not averse to making readers cry, so I had to find out what she was going to do with this study in Human Evil...

Rita Sims Quillen is best known as a poet. No worries for those who don't like poetry; these stories are not told in the sort of lush  prose that tends to be described as "poetic." Landscape descriptions like "She also loved to go to a cool, shady bend in the little branch [creek] below the church where the trees created a canopy like walls" are as "poetic" as it gets. These novels get full marks for clear, straightforward prose that's not wordy, sentimental, or difficult to read. In fact one reviewer has quoted the first sentence of Hiding Ezra as an example of a good opening line for a novel.

They read like family history. Hiding Ezra is in fact based on family history--an old journal kept by a soldier who deserted from the Army in order to help his last few friends and relative survive a set of epidemic diseases that swept our part of the world in the 1910s and 1920s. Wayland might easily be based on another old journal.

Hiding Ezra is about the oddly enjoyable summer Ezra Teague spends hiding in a cave, leaving game near the homes of people who leave bread and ammunition near the cave. It's also about his grieving sister Eva, his faithful sweetheart Alma, and all the other friends and relatives they lose to the epidemics. It's also about Lieutenant Nettles, a nettlesome outsider from Big Stone Gap who connects with his inner decent human being after exposure to the grieving and loving people of Wayland, Gate City, and Fort Blackmore.

Wayland was the real name of one of the little rural settlements outside Gate City up to the 1940s, when it changed its name to Midway. Gate City had changed its name a bit earlier--in the nineteenth century it was called Estillville. Moccasin Gap, on the other side of the gap in the mountains formed by the Big Moccasin Creek, also changed its name, in the 1950s, to Weber City--spelled Weber, as in German, but pronounced Webber, as in English--after a radio comedy about a new subdivision: "The characters were having so much fun with their Weber City, we thought we'd have one too." In these novels place names are used as they were at the time.

When I read this novel, I enjoyed its dramatic climax, but wondered why the denouement was so long and so sad. A more tactful reviewer posted online that she wanted the story to be even longer, to resolve the new issues the denouement raises for the characters. Readers be warned. The last few chapters of Hiding Ezra are the trailer for Wayland.

In between reading the two stories, I cried. I won't spoil the denouement, I think, by explaining that I don't cry about fictional characters. No, but once when the words "rock hall" triggered a memory an 85-year-old great-uncle said, "My sister and sister-in-law used to take bread to the fellows that hid in the rock house." (Actually he used their given names, and one of them was still alive to confirm his claim.) My mother wondered if he was remembering the story she'd heard about my great-grandfather leading a party of soldiers to the nearby "rock house," a cave big enough for people to camp in. No, he said, this was in his lifetime...but he was weak and never had much to say at one time, and never mentioned the cave story again.

In my family the young spoke more frankly to the old, and asked more questions, than in some neighboring families. Still, I never asked for more details about feeding the deserters in 1918. I knew the cave was real; my brother and I had been shown how to find it on condition that we not try to get inside it. I knew Great-Aunt belonged to a pacifist church, and her sons were conscientious objectors, but her husband, Grandfather's brother, was exempt from military service because he was a minister. The great-uncle who first mentioned the story had one of those given names that commemorate a family friend's given and family names: Otto Quillen.That's all I can add to the facts behind Hiding Ezra.


What made me cry was that this story made me realize how lucky the elders were. My grandfather and eight of his younger siblings lived to ages between 75 and 99. Many of their generation did not. Physically and emotionally my elders survived by keeping a healthy distance between themselves and any friends they'd had as children...and even in the 1960s I still grew up hearing "Don't get closer to town children than you can help, don't go into town unless it's necessary, don't EVER go into a swimming pool, don't go to other people's houses and if you do don't eat or take off your shoes..." Two generations later, my extended family are still known as a stand-offish bunch. Possibly the elders' losses of friends to the epidemics had something to do with that. I've heard a lot of rot about possible kinds of "hurt" might have caused our family subculture to be so clannish, but this insight rang true. And it did hurt, briefly, wondering how many school friends my elders had buried...Grandfather was one of fifteen children, eight of whom lived to ages between 75 and 99. In another family of fourteen, six children born before 1940 were still alive in 1970.

Anyway: Ezra Teague survives his adventure, but the epidemic diseases and early deaths aren't over. In Wayland Ezra has left his daughter for his sister to raise. Eva has indeed married Lieutenant Nettles, who is now a nice guy but still insecure enough to be impressed by a stranger's show of respect. That insecurity places the Nettles family at risk when the lieutenant offers a job to a "hobo" who calls himself Buddy Newman. Newman's real name is Deel, as in Scottish "de'il," and his character is a study in Human Evil. He wants to set people against each other, ruin the reputation of a pious but sex-starved old lady, and do even worse things to little Katie Teague.

The suspense of the story is finding out whether Newman's schemes will be foiled, and how, and by which of the decent local folk. There is an interesting and thoroughly local delineation of the relative vileness of Newman, an otherwise likable hobo who has an icky relationship with a teenaged boy, a rude drunk, and a murderer. Newman is a bigot, a pedophile, and also a murderer, but his evil runs deeper than that. (The narration of his evil won't embarrass readers in front of their children but the single telling details, when they emerge, may upset children.)

Did an ancestor really keep a diary that narrated such events? At least they're not the local pedophile story I always heard: it would have been fifteen or twenty years later when the man I heard described as "an escaped mental patient" did some physical damage to a local primary school girl. And I was glad. I did not want that girl, who survived but never married, to have been the real model for Katie. (Katie is characterized as pretty much the perfect niece in Eva's diary, but aunts know to allow for another aunt's auntly perspective. I think each of The Nephews is pretty much a perfect child, too, in his or her own way.)

Once again, after the main plot has resolved itself, the last two chapters go on. I didn't cry while reading Wayland but I found the denouement somewhat sad. Others may like it but I think they'll agree that, once again, the last chapters of Wayland are a trailer for another story.

I gave both books five stars on Goodreads for Keeping It Real. These are not just another stereotype of "Appalachia," the whole mountain range, from Georgia to Nova Scotia and possibly also Britain, confused with old pictures of the coal-mining town. Anything looks grim in a black-and-white photograph. In these books we see Scott County much closer to the way it must have been, between 1917 and 1930, to have become what it's been in Quillen's and my lifetime. I'm delighted.

Thursday, August 29, 2019

Status Update: Pause to Catch Breath

So I've been sick. Very sick, though not in a great deal of pain. Inside parts of the body take a beating from any celiac reaction. Prolonged celiac reactions can cause them to stop functioning, temporarily, which is what was going on last week, or permanently for a few days before death. Celiacs never know which bad time will be their last one so these things are always good for a certain amount of drama. Will we be back to business as usual next week, or will we be dead? Until a person is most definitely going to be dead, the symptoms never give much of a clue. I was feeling just a bit sluggish and grumpy, and knowing that I was feeling sluggish and grumpy because I might start feeling extremely sick for a day or so and then die. It's an interesting experience. I only wish certain world leaders of business and government could share it. Does anyone else out there enjoy the mental image of Donald Trump doing Twitter in the bathroom, tweeting "I wonder if I'm ever actually going to sit on the toilet and use it again"? That's sadistic enough for this web site, so let's move on.



My insides were able to repair themselves and resume functioning--this time--though they're not quite back to normal yet.

The damage was done by spinach. Vegetables are the staff of life, when they're not full of glyphosate. I saw things online about how the natural phytochemicals in vegetables may help the body recover from glyphosate poisoning. Grandma Bonnie Peters affirmed that she was sticking to her beloved vegetables, and she was still walking about. I was sticking to my resolution to eat only plants that grew on my own property, and some of those were tainted by glyphosate vapor drift too. I was tainted by glyphosate vapor drift whether I ate anything or not. And then I was walking down the road, and I came to a whole sack of canned vegetables that had been dumped out along with a card notifying the dumpers when they could get another load of food from the local food bank. As this web site observed a few years ago, rural communities are lavishly supplied with fresh vegetables in August. People whose neighbors are likely to leave sacks of fresh new potatoes on their steps at night don't even want to bother carrying in canned potatoes. So I left the cans of potatoes where they were, but I took home a can of spinach--a name brand I used to like--and ate it. I like spinach. And did that can of spinach ever "bite back." In fifty years of celiac life I've never been so sick before.

Lesson learned: We need to be vigilant about the fact that what we've always thought of as healthier eating has flipflopped, in the last few years, into being dangerous eating. This summer I've talked to someone who had no reason to distort the facts, who said that when his children worried about his not eating enough fruit and vegetables, and brought him some tempting juicy apples, he ate two apples and was "sick as a dog." I've watched someone drink a nice healthy V8 and have to run out and get rid of it within minutes. And one little can of spinach has all but literally tied me in knots for most of this month. Do not eat fruit or vegetables you did not personally raise in a place separated by at least a half-mile of trees from poison-sprayed areas, such as public roads, Gentle Readers.

Anyway I kept working, on the principle that if you are going to die next week you might as well get as much as possible done this week. This is a useful thought for celiacs because most of us are going to survive a few life-threatening crises, and it pays to keep working through them. I wrote most of a book for one e-friend, and proofread the manuscript of another one for another e-friend, and agreed to write a nice review of a book by a friend of an e-friend whose judgment I trusted...

Ulp. I don't trust that e-friend's judgment so much any more.

It is a superbly well written book. It took me right into the consciousness of a character who, at the time when I was born, would have been certified insane. During the years when I was growing up, part of the definition of a Real Liberal was someone who defended the right of characters like this one, who aren't violent and can usually do some sort of job, to live as normally as they choose to live and not be certified insane. And it left me feeling that, in fact, the character is insane.

I think a free society should have room for books--not necessarily in public libraries where children might find them--that fully express the consciousness of people who are definitely different from most of us, or from anyone we'd want to know. I think the danger in a book like The Turner Diaries, which also expresses that kind of viewpoint, is that such books can confuse or frighten the very young, not that they'll "convert" any normal mind to thinking the way characters like Turner think. I think it's good for educated adults to read things that help us understand the way these people think. Who knows whether, if German libraries had stocked copies of The Turner Diaries, the German people would have recognized that putting Adolf Hitler in charge of anything more momentous than the perspective on one of his paintings was a Very Bad Idea, and how much good a Very Bad Novel might thus have accomplished, or how much good a different but also Very Bad Novel might accomplish today.

[For those who don't remember: The Turner Diaries is the one with the neo-Nazi narrator who writes, among other things, about going for a Sunday afternoon walk in the park with friends, meeting a neighbor family, and opening fire: "I got one of them, my pal got two, my girlfriend got the mother and baby, but the old grandfather ran away." The world needs to know that that kind of consciousness exists, but yurgh.]

I just feel very, very squirmy from the cognitive dissonance...of recognizing...that people like the friend's friend exist, and have a right to write about the way they think...but for most purposes they probably really are what I'd have to call insane.

It reminds me of the experience of reading The Turner Diaries, or of reading Surfacing, only in a different way from either of those.

Surfacing ticked me off, on the first reading, because as the nameless narrator's guilt reaction builds up to its explosion point she starts babbling about "Americans" as the embodiment of all that is evil in the beautiful Laurentian forests. Theoretically this particular hang-up was chosen, like the character's temporary anorexia in The Edible Woman, as an obvious index of the character's loss of contact with reality, because nobody really hated the United States all that much. (Prozac Dementia has since added a whole new dimension to hate in both the United States and Canada; Surfacing was first published in 1972.) Reading in 1992, I could very easily imagine people (like Idi Amin and Saddam Hussein, back then) hating the United States all that much; I was not amused.

After giving myself a year or two or three, I found myself accepting that the character in Surfacing becomes hysterical about "Americans" (by which she means greedheads) and flees into the woods in a crazy fantasy of becoming a pure-souled Canadian bear, or whatever, because she's racked by guilt about having let herself be bullied into "choosing" abortion. All of us American literary critics accept that, in print. Funnily enough, in real life I've never talked to a U.S. literary critic who was really comfortable with Surfacing. We'll grant that, Canada being part of the American continents too, the character's temporary phobia of "Americans" is an acceptable way of fictionalizing what might in real life have been a phobia of men or germs or food or who knows what; that the rest of her mental breakdown narrative is credible enough to convince us that Atwood observed a real woman having a real mental breakdown; that her spiral into real temporary insanity is something that might be caused by guilt about having "chosen" abortion...Ouch. We want to believe that people who might consider "choosing" abortion are sane enough to be respectfully left alone with their horrible "choice." We don't like the ramifications of a beautifully written novel convincing us that "choosing" abortion might be either a symptom or a cause of what may be nonviolent, or temporary, but is certainly insanity while it lasts.

So this friend of a friend has written another brilliantly horrible, horribly brilliant novel, and now I've promised to think of a tactful, tasteful way of introducing it to American book lovers...and that task leaves me feeling wan and inclined to wail, "But I've been sick." Cognitive dissonance bites.

Can I procrastinate a little more with a quick phenology note? So far this week I've seen a beautiful red-tailed hawk, the usual butterflies (Tiger Swallowtails, Red-Spotted Purples, Wood Nymphs), a relatively small (only five inches, not six) Carolina Mantis, the usual flowers (Queen of the Meadow, dayflowers, Ladies' Bedstraw (the perfumy kind), myrtle, chicory, jewelweed), one of the usual caterpillars (Anisota senatoria, the Orange-Striped Oakworm, in its next to last skin where the stripes are mostly yellow) for late August--and one unusual thing: a small but ripe pawpaw fruit. Those usually start forming on the trees in late August but don't ripen and fall before mid-September.

And peaches, of course...I have a little feral peach tree, an unplanned descendant of some less hardy Elberta peach trees that snowstorms broke down long ago.  It survived last winter's Big Snow; without even being braced back into position, it grew back to a reasonably upright angle. It is bearing like mad. Its fruits are about half the size of the ones sold in supermarkets, at best, and tend to fall off while green, but this year it has an excuse for dropping so many underripe peaches. It can hardly hold its branches off the ground under the weight of the bigger, riper ones. Most years having a peach tree in Virginia is pure self-indulgence: the flowers are pretty in spring, and some people like the look of the trees, but if you want to pick a bushel of peaches you have to drive further south. I have heard that it's either one year out of ten, or one out of twelve, when a peach tree is worth propping up after it collapses under snow. Either way, this is the year.

Human behavior does and doesn't qualify as phenology...Tuesday morning, a little before 3 a.m., I woke up sneezing. "Drat and blast, they must've sprayed glyphosate on the railroad again." Then the situation got worse--I smelled smoke. I got up and checked that it wasn't coming from any electrical wires inside the house before I found the source of the smoke. It was that college kid from down the road. Likely the kid woke up sneezing or feeling sick too, and sneaked out to be sick privately without disturbing his parents. Well, the kid's wandering up and down the private road is no problem, and even his dog is all right as long as the dog stays with the kid, but I hate the smell of marijuana.

And then, for once, the local weather did the most convenient thing it could have done in this situation. It poured rain. The kid got a nice cold shower as he hurried home, and the poison along the railroad soaked in, leaving lots of browned-out privately owned gardens near the railroad but nice clean air to breathe, and I continued to recover from the last bout with poisonous vapors rather than getting worse.

Yesterday I heard some good news: a busload of tourists had asked the travel agency, particularly, to stop at the cafe in Gate City. Our fame is spreading. "They'll probably want to talk to you, or some of them will," someone idly speculated. It was not as if that was part of the tour. It was not as if any visitors who wanted to talk to me, in particular, wouldn't have been able to e-mail or tweet about it.

"Hmm. How big is this bus?" If it had been the size of the last tour bus I saw--ten or twelve people--I would have wanted to come in and watch the tourists' reactions to my picturesque little town.

"Thirty-five or forty people."

The cafe seats thirty-six. The table where I like to plug in the laptop will seat two people, but the laptop takes up more than half of the table.

"I think I'll come in late," I said, "so all the tourists can sit down and sip their coffee."

So I did. I didn't see any tourists when I strolled in, about 11 a.m. I did see a beautiful reduction in the stack of souvenir T-shirts, though, and I hope the tourists are enjoying their new shirts and other souvenirs.

Wednesday, June 19, 2019

The Saddest Moment at the Cafe

A couple of cafe philosophers were talking about the saddest moments observed at the cafe. (Click on that word "cafe" to see the foodstuffs discussed below, photographed with a good camera-phone.)

Obviously, this did not include one-off moments of private personal anguish such as break-ups, rejection slips, or noticing that a now-retired neighbor read the part of your long-ago Yelp observation that his store was seldom open, due to illness, rather than the part about its having good deals on good stuff when it was open. This discussion was limited to the kind of dissatisfactions cafe customers generally have to be prepared to encounter.

There are moments behind the scenes...let's just say there's a reason why these books are displayed on the reading table.



There are moments of dissatisfaction, like realizing (if you still eat oatmeal) that they're out of your favorite flavor of oatmeal...you wanted the mad Moroccan spices, and you're going to have to settle for the red-white-and-blue-berry-flavored Patri-Oats.

There are times when people go in too late to ask for a fresh batch of Appalachian Morning coffee, which tends to move fast, and have to cut Jamaica Me Crazy (which is sweet) with decaf (which is bitter).

There are moments that stir up activists, such as realizing that, although a cafe that employs a gluten-sensitive baker gets full marks for offering gluten-free food options like oatmeal cups at any time of day, chocolate oatmeal "Cow Patties" cookies, or just the icing for a cupcake, or taco soup in winter, or salad in summer, these days all of those things are still likely to be contaminated with glyphosate. I ate taco soup last winter and didn't get sick, ate a Cow Patty last week and didn't get sick, but it still feels like gambling...I just give thanks that the cafe doesn't serve glyphosate-drenched Kona coffee. I can safely drink coffee here. So few things sold as food and drink these days are safe for me that people have expressed concern about my "having to live on weeds." Currently that would be fresh raspberries so I don't feel terribly deprived, and although the waistline reflects different levels of inflammation from day to day I'm still sitting on a nice cushion of honest flab...other years have been worse.

Most days, however, these things don't happen to anybody.

The saddest moment that regularly recurs at the cafe, if you think about it, is when you eat the last bite of your cookie (or whatever).

Another one would be too much. The portion you get was a generous amount for most people to eat at one sitting.

Although they're oatmeal-based cookies the Cow Patties are mostly chocolate fudge...a thin slab of nut-free fudge about as big as a man's hand.

The wheat-based cookies aren't quite so rich so they're even bigger. If you're enjoying a conversation you could probably make them last ten minutes or more.

The Fat Bottom Girls (high-frosted cupcakes with cheesecake underneath) turned out to be a little too much for some people. Customers now have to ask for the full original pile of frosting, because it seems that a lot of people can enjoy a fist-sized wad of frosting or a full-sized cupcake filled with cheesecake, but not both at the same time.

The Buckeye Brownies are double-wide brownies. (The buckeye, foreign readers, is a sort of inedible nut, which is usually bigger than a buck deer's eye but similar in its glossy brown color. It's not sphere-shaped; it has a flattened patch of lighter brown on one side. Though sometimes considered an emblem of Ohio it grows abundantly in Virginia too. The original "buckeye" candy was a ball of peanut butter fudge dipped in chocolate, with a patch of peanut butter fudge showing at the bottom. The Buckeye Brownies are just bricks of chocolate and peanut butter yumminess.) If not literally thick as bricks, they're certainly generous portions of rich cake. People might buy one to share, or wrap up half of one to take home and eat later.

Whole cakes on display tend to be baked in smaller pans than the standard nine-inch round layer cake pans used at home, but since each one has two layers with a thick mortar of penuche, or caramel, or ganache, between and on top of them, people know better than to try to eat a whole cake at once. You can have one boxed up to take home, or share one with friends in the cafe, or buy just a slice.

Winter soups, summer salads, and year-round sandwiches also tend to be generously portioned. (And I don't particularly want to mention the quiches, because after perfuming the cafe with onion and/or bacon the cook then fills the cafe with the smell of melting cheese, but yes, some people love those quiches.) The cafe is one of those eateries where nothing is cheap, but you do get your money's worth.

But now it's gone.

There's nothing to do about this. Your only recourse is to come back and buy another one tomorrow.

Sad...ish...isn't it?

May this be the saddest moment of your day, Gentle Readers.

Friday, March 15, 2019

Makers & Takers: Should People from Washington Visit Gate City?

Well, duh. Of course they should.

That big bad winter storm is heading our way, at the time of writing, but we've had some lovely springlike days, and the blossoming of Prunus trees (fruit-bearing and ornamental) and forsythia and dandelions and other beautiful things reminds me of a Washington tradition I used to enjoy when I lived in or near the city.

That tradition is usually called a Weekend Getaway, but after sharing it with me my husband prodded, "The purpose is to pump a little money back into the local economy." Sometimes I miss the subtleties of these things. Although I was and still am a frugal fanatic, after it had been spelled out in so many words I remembered the purpose of the Weekend Getaway and packed a hundred dollars or so to spend on our monthly road trips.

But in a way he paid a price for explaining the purpose of the Weekend Getaway to me. Before that time, I used to enjoy visiting other people's favorite places, Morgantown, Pittsburgh, Chincoteague, Luray, Roanoke, Charlottesville, Asheville, Ocracoke, and of course everybody likes the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Afterward, my husband would receive monthly coupons for one night free and one night half price in a participating hotel. He'd say, "Where would you like to go?" and I'd scan for participating towns and say, "We can go to Bristol or Wytheville...I have things to do in Gate City."

The other day I talked to a village idiot type who said, in a confrontational way, "Do you buy things you don't need, just to support someone's business?"

When I read the words by themselves, printed on paper, a funny thing happens. A different answer comes to mind. Nonverbal elements of communication, as the late blogger known as Ozarque often said, change the meaning of the question.

My answer to "Did you use to buy things you didn't need, just to support someone's business?" would have been, "People include different ranges of meaning in the word 'need.' It's a good word not to use if you want to know what sort of things I bought. I did not buy the kind of gift items that are most likely to be re-gifted, the bric-a-brac made in China and so on. If a business deserves support, it sells things for which we can find a use. Prices for things people use regularly, groceries and toiletries, tend to run high in the cities; often we spent our spending money on gas and groceries, and felt that we'd found good bargains relative to what we paid for those things in Washington. More optional purchases, like the yarn stash that still takes up about a quarter of a room in my home...some of those yarn packs were bought as souvenirs of a trip, and yes, I remember the towns, the shops, and the occasions. And if a man wants to make a good impression on me in the city, yes, he should definitely buy flowers from one of the students and immigrants who stand out in the weather and sell flowers. Yes, when possible I do buy new books and records in order to encourage living writers and musicians. I never pay retail prices for ready-made clothes but I do pay for hand-made clothes or clothes resold for a good cause."

My answer, if the village idiot had asked, "Do you ever buy things you don't actually need, just to support someone's business?" in a pleading, despondent manner, would have been, "Yes. Although my handknitted blankets will last for years, although many of them could literally be buried in mud for a month, be dug up and machine-laundered, and look almost as good as new--while your cut-and-hemmed polyester 'fleece' blankets will shrink every time they're laundered--I would buy a few of your blankets, and resell them beside mine, because there is a market for cheap junk and because I recognize the natural limitations on your talent, or lack of one. Fleece blankets are good for pets." Well, "yes" is all I would have said out loud, but...yes. That.

My answer to what the village idiot actually said was "Yes." With nonverbal communication to fill in, "You've both heard and read what I have to say on this subject. I know you've been planning an insulting comment for some time, so bring it on...and pay for it." So idiot spewed, and paid, and if idiot is now telling people I've lost none of my edge at the verbal abuse game, idiot very deliberately asked for it. There's no sin in winning a game. I'm not convinced that there's a sin even in enjoying the misery of sore losers whose verbal abuse game requires them to pretend they're red-faced and teary-eyed about something other than having lost the game. But that's beside the point.

When we want to help people...disasters and emergencies happen, and we should all prepare to handle those and help others handle them, as best we can. Beyond that I think we all need to support one another's business, whenever it's feasible, as opposed to buying things from big-chain stores or giving money to those who just sit around going "needy-needy-needy."

(Which unfortunately does include some otherwise good church, community, and humanitarian causes. I don't mind buying things from their store or bazaar, or even putting money in the plate if I go to a concert or movie or lecture. My father used to say that churches should ban the custom of passing plates for money during regular services, and I used to say, "If people go to an ordinary lecture they chip in a little to pay for the cost of the hall, don't they?" and he used to say, "But a minister ought to be an example of doing without and giving to others," and we agreed to disagree. Dad never acknowledged that extroverts get some benefit from reading and discussing the Bible in groups; I concede that they do, but I notice no benefit to me in doing that, or anything else, along with a group of extroverts. But I'm not willing to pay people for advertising or fundraising. I'll forgive them for doing a little of that if other things they do are worthwhile, but if most of people's e-mails ask me for money, I will stop opening them. If you want to increase sales of a product that's been in the stores for more than one year, show me a low price in the store, not a TV commercial. I'm not rich, but if I were George Soros's last living heir I still wouldn't have any money to donate to the full-time fundraisers.)

We need to support makers, not takers.

We need to support people whose work we respect, not people who we believe are so pathetic that we can congratulate ourselves for being better off than they are.

We need to support people who will, with a little support, be as well off as we are...if only because, by and large, those people tend to be younger than we are, and like it or not we will eventually have to depend on people their age to drive our cars and clean our floors, and anyone over about age 25 should start cultivating a few carefully selected younger friends. I see a lot of baby-boomers in denial about the fact that friends who visit our homes can do a lot more to make our old age enjoyable than wage slaves who work in retirement projects. I see older people who take their children for granted...sometimes their own children are all these people hoped they would become, sometimes not.

Washington is unique because it was meant to be only our nation's capital, the place where our federal government worked as many days as was absolutely necessary before going back home, but it has become a real city in its own right too. Most Washingtonians are, by any reasonable measure relative to any reasonable portion of the rest of the world, rich. The ones who travel overseas know that. They have two "communities" to support: the people who are doing good work in Washington, and the people who are doing good work in the home or host towns where they go on weekends. They can afford to show respect to both.

I read and hear rumors about vague attempts to cut the federal welfare budget. Gate City has a small group of educated people--I refer to them generally as social workers, although some of them have moved up to legitimate jobs, or retired--and a large group of old-age and disability pensioners, both of whom can be counted on to kick and scream about any suggestion that their handouts might be reduced. The rest of us can hardly help thinking thoughts like "My parent/s, grandparent/s, etc., did work and pay into a Social Security handout fund, even if they knew all along that it was an unsustainable scam that was designed to fall apart before they started claiming their money...or X does have a major disability...but actually they like to have something worthwhile to do besides sit around and gossip! They want to work! And those other people who prefer to sit around and gossip? If they did starve, I'm not trying to be cruel, but seriously, they'd never be missed."

I like the idea of cutting the welfare budget. Yesterday this web site passed up an opportunity to commend a specific proposed cut. There are better ways and worse ways to cut the welfare budget and, as long as all I've seen of a proposed cut is someone's name on it, my guess would be that that person wouldn't recognize the better ways if they walked up and bit him. (For example, since social worker types get "high" on believing that "all they ask for is gratitude," by all means cap their salaries at ten percent of the minimum hourly wage.) But cuts do need to be made. People who gossip, people who push welfare, people who fail to support those who set up micro-micro-enterprises to keep themselves off welfare, need to be spending their days on a day labor site, advertising their capacity for unskilled labor. They may not need to starve to death but most of them could only benefit from the experience of hunger, and even more than that, from the experiences of walking to work and doing physical labor. Forcing some people to do physical work, like removing weeds from roadsides with a hand trowel, might actually relieve their physical disabilities.

People in Washington can benefit from meeting the people in towns like Gate City. The makers, not the takers--especially the social workers who claim to speak for the takers, who actually, in many cases, are speaking against the best interests of the takers.

The makers do not, in fact, want visitors to come out and spend their whole $100 in our stores, or roadside stands or flea market booths, just because that would make our days. Well, it would, of course. Days go by when we do not see a hundred-dollar bill. Oh this is sad. We love the sight of Benjamin Franklin's benevolent, un-handsome, greenish face. But actually we want you to buy, e.g., a doll dressed to match a children's book because you know a little girl who likes dolls and whom you'd like to interest in books, or a hand-sewn wallet because you want something to stop money sliding out of your pockets into seats, or a chunk of homemade fudge because you like fudge, and so on. Naturally the more you buy, the better we are pleased, but I don't know anyone in Gate City who is actually selling junk. (The village idiot who's flooding the market with "fleece" blankets is donating them, to the full-time professional "needers.")

Actually we like being a small town in a rural setting. The main reasons why you'd want to visit Gate City would be outside the city limits. People who don't come here to maintain their own homes and visit their own relatives, come here to camp in the woods, paddle on a clean, fresh river, and pick their own fruit on a farm. And you don't actually need to spend a lot of money to do that. Visitors can and should pay to ride the chair lift, swim in the nice safe pool, buy snacks, or rent boats on the Clinch River. If they prefer to bring their own boats and snacks, keep their faces out of the water, and walk on the trails, they can do that free of charge. Some pretty nice trails with lots of bird, flower, and leaf peeping potential are even wheelchair-accessible, too--free of charge. For people who are new to Washington and have not learned how to minimize spending on boring everyday things there, my town does offer a full weekend's worth of pure change-of-scene that won't cost anything beyond the rent of a vehicle you can "camp" in. At the Natural Tunnel Park, cabins with hot showers rent for $30 or $35 a night, plus $5 if you bring a dog.

However, here is a Top Ten List of things to shop for when you visit Gate City:

1. Handmade wooden furniture: Look for this in the Friday Market, but don't be surprised if you don't see any. The couple who make those "Amish-style" chairs, trunks, etc., bring out a truckload when the weather seems right.

2. Garden produce: Pick your own in season, buy from a roadside stand, or look in Friday Market, but be aware that the really fresh local produce is rarely sold to visitors (except zucchini, in some years, and occasionally tomatoes). Farmers who grow organic produce usually sell to short lists of close friends and relatives, then long lists of townsfolk, and only then in public places. For strawberries and blueberries, the long lists can be very long indeed. If people are willing to commit to hand-cultivating these crops, perhaps in time they'll be available to visitors. Much of what you buy even from farmers' stands is retailed from out of state and not organically grown. If the sign says "Mann Farms," it is local and fresh, though not 100% organic, and the quality is probably good. And if we can get a local ban on glyphosate spraying into effect, it will be REALLY good.

3. Homemade food: Well, duh, I am typing this in a cafe, what d'you expect? Mostly sweet baked goods, plus eggy things for breakfast, hot soups and sandwiches in winter, cold salads and sandwiches in summer, can be pre-ordered at the Family Bakery Cafe. Spicy Mexican meals and icy Mexican drinks are available at Molcajetes. Pies, fudge, and other homemade snacks are often sold in the Friday Market as well.

4. Hand-knitted blankets and winterwear: While selling those in the Internet Portal store last winter, I sold a few that were then displayed for resale in other stores. I don't display them in summer, but store them in town and can bring them out on request.

5. Hand-knitted or crocheted washcloths, towels, table covers, etc.: These used to be the specialty of a retired teacher (yes, one of mine), during her lifetime. A few of hers may or may not still be available at the Ivy Cottage, which was her store--if so, they may not be used but they're hardly "new." Others are now making them for sale at Roberts & Jones. I've made a few in each category.

6. Window treatments: If you want to reduce heating expenses in a hastily built Washington or suburban flat, consider a Window Blanket. (These were actually Grandma Bonnie Peters' idea, although if they're knitted they're almost certainly mine.) They're made to be hung over large, odd-shaped windows on cold nights, and can be stuffed with insulation. I also knit lacy curtains to hang in front of windows just for looks.

7. Dolls: I usually dress adult-or-older-child-shaped dolls made at a scale of 2 inches to 1 foot; can dress other kinds of dolls to order. Knitted doll outfits, made with scraps of craft yarn in shapes and colors that generally match a picture, cost $5. Sewn doll outfits, which can involve embroidery and tiny beads and so on, cost more.

8. Chickens or turkeys: If you want to inspect the bird before having it killed and cleaned...I've been pleased to see that the live birds sold in the Friday Market had a healthy, contented look, strolling around in roomy cages, sipping water, "talking and singing" to each other, until they were sold. I'm not so pleased to think about the fact that people who bought them didn't plan to make pets of them, because most of them would have made good pets. Chickens, anyway. Domestic turkeys have been selectively bred not to have enough brain to be made pets, as have some breeds of chickens; my point here is that the chickens I've seen were not those breeds. They were the kind that would have answered to names and followed people around the yard. Anyway, whatever your intentions, Gate City is a good place to buy live chickens and sometimes turkeys. People grew up thinking of these as companion animals and are likely to have led them out to graze in real grass, at least some of their days.

9. Eggs: Hens who have been reared as companions and led out to graze in real grass lay "country" eggs, with a firmer, darker-colored, more nutrient-rich yolk than supermarket eggs have. (I once heard someone say he preferred wimpy, pale-colored supermarket eggs. Pooh! Not only do those eggs contain more cholesterol and less beta-carotene, they also came out of sickly, unhappy hens, and they're likely to contain salmonella.) Buy directly from hen fanciers to be sure of getting fresh eggs.

10. Wallets and cell phone covers: I mention these because they're what I've seen for sale in Roberts & Jones. People who sew them could probably sew other things. Anyway, they're locally made by church ladies who want to be makers not takers, so that alone makes them nicer than the kind sold at Wal-Mart.

This is only a Top Ten List. I'm sitting at the cafe, and just as I got to ten locally produced things I've seen visitors buy, the part-time worker came in. She knows not to interrupt writers, so it's only the sight of her that reminds me that she's the daughter of a fairly well known painter. He's still alive, although retired, and would probably be chuffed if you arranged to look at some of his unsold paintings.

Then there's the knife maker, the T-shirt artist, and others who didn't feel able to commit to keeping the Internet Portal open, but they still live here and would bring out their products to show visitors who wanted to buy them. Sometimes they come to the Friday Market, sometimes not. Some of them tour a more upscale craft show circuit, some don't. Some of them have web sites, some don't. You just have to come out and shop.



(Currently featured on sale in Roberts & Jones. Johnny Cash and June Carter are gone, and the Carter Family Fold is...easier to get into than it used to be. But how could I mention visiting Gate City and not mention live, oldtime country music as performed by the Carters, Holston River Boys, Dwain Reed, Jim & Jesse, Mac Wiseman, Ralph Stanley, and other twentieth century legends? Most of our celebrity musicians are at best very old, but their former students are still here. If you're not in town in time to spend an evening at the Fold, which is technically in Hiltons, you're probably in time to visit Leonard's Pickin' Parlor, which is technically in Weber City...depending on the time and day you can buy acoustic instruments, have them repaired, sing along, or listen to the professional quality band that's formed in the store.)



If our elected officials and other government employees make a personal commitment to support the individual makers who don't want or need handouts, we could really cut the federal welfare system. More Americans would have taxable incomes, and feel better about having them. Only people who are genuinely disabled would need handouts--and the handout system could probably be trimmed down to the point that people would receive their disability pensions while they were in fact disabled. Oh wouldn't it be love-r-ly!

Thursday, March 14, 2019

Tim Kaine's Staff Will Meet the People in Gate City

From U.S. Senator Tim Kaine, D-VA:

"
Dear Friend,
On March 21, my staff will host Kaine Connects office hours in Gate City from 1:30 PM to 3:00 PM.
Although I can't be there in person, this is a terrific opportunity to get personalized and undivided attention from my staff. Please make an individual appointment by emailing Laura_Blevins@kaine.senate.gov. Walk in visitors will be accommodated upon staff availability.
Appalachian Community Action & Development Agency175 Military Lane
Gate City, VA 24251
March 21, 2019
1:30 PM - 3:00 PM
For more information on upcoming Kaine Connects, click here.
Sincerely,
TimKaine

Visit my website: kaine.senate.gov
"

Friday, November 10, 2017

Book Review: The Flea Market Handbook

Title: The Flea Market Handbook


Author: Robert G. Miner

Date: 1990

Publisher: Wallace Homestead Book Company

ISBN: 0-87069-559-2

Length: 203 pages

Illustrations: black-and-white photos

Quote: “[A]t any age you can go into your own business and not risk a big investment of anything but your spare time. As the business grows you'll decide how far you want to go with it.”

Reality check: People have made big profits reselling “antiques and collectibles” in flea markets. Those people happened to catch a demographic trend. The market for resale items isn't dead, but it has probably passed its peak, at least for my generation. It's still possible to make a profit on resales, and on the spare time people put into hauling them to markets and shows. People who enjoy trading these items, like people who enjoy books, are still trading for fun and profit. I do not, however, see those people buying luxury homes in the islands.

This post is being pre-scheduled to appear on a Friday, at a time when I expect to be in a flea market myself, and although at the time of writing I don't know how many people are going to be in Gate City's Friday Market, I can tell you that the ones who actually display "flea market type" collections aren't guaranteed a profit on the money they spend to truck their stuff out there and rent a space in aid of the V.F.D. Some will go home with more money they took in, some with less. Nearly all are retired, although now and then one does see a desperate young working parent or family, and rely on pensions for actual income, on flea markets for entertainment. The ones who are making money, who mostly seem to come from places outside Gate City, really have mini-stores and are selling specific types of new junk--videos, hardware, underwear or whatever--not "flea market type" businesses at all. You may or may not see actual farmers, although on sunny summer days you'll see some, and the fruits, vegetables, and/or meats they sell may or may not come from their own farms. (I will say that when I went in with a real farmer to sell the farmer's own organically grown vegetables, the farmer's small display was all sold long before closing time.)

In this chatty book Robert G. Miner discusses his success with “antiques and collectibles,” the things he's learned about the whole resale business, the kinds of people he's met, the pros and cons of different types of displays, the strategies he's used to advertise his business. Can you replicate his success? No. Learn from it? Yes. Demographics have shifted and business is generally slower, but this book still describes the way flea markets still are.

Do you want to allow this writer's enthusiasm for his second career to seduce you into trying a similar career? Meh. Miner is a salesman. Good salesmen avoid telling outright lies but they present the truth in selective ways. “Plan to take a minimum of $25 in coins plus small bills...a good supply of quarters if you're selling less expensive items, plus bills in one, five, and ten dollar denominations. The 20s will mostly take care of themselves as the money rolls in.” Hah! The appeal merchandise has for anyone in a crowd will vary from day to day; those who make flea markets a regular “job” have profitable days and unprofitable days, but if you're selling legitimate merchandise (which means other people are selling it too) at fair prices, expect many days, especially at the beginning before you've found regular customers, when you never see a $20 bill. A lot of people go to markets to look not buy, and protect themselves from any temptation to become profitable to vendors by bringing only $5. As a result, when someone does bring a $20 bill into the Friday Market, quite a scramble may be observed as vendors scuttle about trying to locate change...

“Antiques and collectibles” are the mainstay of many markets that rent space cheap to “casual” vendors, but they are also often regarded as the bane of those markets. People who want to sell hand crafts and garden produce see nothing wrong with adding a shelf of secondhand “junk,” books they don't want to reread, clothes and toys their children have outgrown, as the space they rent may allow. Market owners or fellow vendors may, however, tell them outright, “This is not a flea market, or is a flea market on Sundays only. Leave the junk at home.” 

It doesn't really make sense that there's one set of people who look for rock-bottom prices on secondhand junk and another set who are willing to pay reasonable prices for handmade things. In fact I've observed that when a market is known to offer both types of booths, both sets of shoppers will be represented, and everyone can be happy. However, if you sell secondhand clothes or furniture, you will attract a clientele who will be downright surly about any new, hand-crafted clothes or furniture you offer, which is why, as a knitter, I try to avoid secondhand clothes. (Sometimes people dump them on me anyway.)

And where is the line between “antiques and collectibles” and “junk”? There isn't one. That is: Suppose someone buys you a bottle of some cheap sugary stuff you don't care to drink. You let it take up space in the kitchen for six months; then, seeing that nobody else wants to drink it either, you consider reselling it. “Diet Dr Pepper? Stale, out-of-date Diet Dr Pepper? Eeuurrgghh,” people say when they're thinking about actually drinking the contents of the bottle. Any beverage that's said to “improve with age” is the nasty fermented kind where “better” means higher in alcohol content. But wait fifty years...believe it or not, people are buying never-drunk bottles of soda pop from fifty years ago, as “collectible” display items, for far more than they ever considered paying for soda pop that was fit to drink.

The lunchbox or backpack with the cartoon characters on it, that always looked tacky to you and now looks unbearably babyish to your child? The “fashion” item that never fitted you or suited you, that seemed to scream “Here is a stupid fashion victim” and made you think disrespectful and even uncharitable thoughts about the relative who sent it to you as a gift? The lamp that didn't look good to you in any room, the set of dishes that you thought clashed with food, the “dust catcher” you never found at all amusing...as long as items just like them are still in the stores, they're strictly “junk” that may be unwelcome even at “antiques and collectibles” markets. In fifty years, after most of the items just like them have been smashed and burned, they'll be valuable.


So, one thing Miner's experience has to teach all of us is: Don't waste things—even if you find them neither useful or beautiful. Books like this one, with images and price lists of “junk” items that have become “collectibles,” teach us never to destroy anything for which someone else might find a use some day, even if that's not anyone you would care to know. During spring cleaning several things in your home may sing to your heart “Please release me, let me go; you don't love me any more,” but the place for those things is a charity resale store (or a flea market) where poor people (and investors) can buy them cheap, not a landfill.

A quick Internet search shows that some person called Robert G. Miner has died recently. Was that the author of this book? Hard to tell. If you buy The Flea Market Handbook from this web site, we'll write to the publisher to confirm whether the author, who claimed to have reached retirement age, is still alive somewhere. We are not sanguine. The book is still available for competitive prices so you know the drill: online, $5 per book, $5 per package, $1 per online payment; three more books of this size will fit into one $5 package.