Friday, August 1, 2025
Bad Poetry: Scab
Tuesday, April 11, 2023
Gate City Kitties Should Come Inside This Week
Tuesday, April 4, 2023
Mark Warner on the Lower Energy Costs Act
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. WARNER
United States Senator
Monday, January 16, 2023
Voting Rural? Is That Even Possible?
Tuesday, September 7, 2021
Status Update: McDonald's Is Open
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
Book Review: Hiding Ezra and Wayland
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
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

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
[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
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?
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
"
Gate City, VA 24251
March 21, 2019
1:30 PM - 3:00 PM
