THE LITTLE WHITE LIE ABOUT AC ON BENT MOUNTAIN

Full disclosure:  Yes, we have it.  Sometimes we use it.  Yes, we could live without it.  And the summer of 2011 has had it cranked on Bottom Creek Lane.

This particular mid July morning I'm feeling blessed to be cool.  I did go outside earlier to play with my chickens (that's what farmers do, right?  Play with the chickens?) and the morning heat took my breath.  Usually Bent Mountain summertime is famous for cool evenings and even cooler mornings, flanked by a bit of glorious warm sunshine mid-day.  Many summers we don't turn on the AC at all; in fact we become a little prideful and obsessive and leave it off even on days where we might be a bit less cranky if we were to succumb to the evils of canned air.    The deal is, we kind of think of it like that.

 I want all the windows wide open, ceiling fans whirring and what we have of sheer draperies blowing in and out of the room and getting stuck to the screen.  Much less claustrophobic and those breezes remind me of summers long ago on the River in Minnesota.  Problem is, summer in  southwestern Virginia is not exactly summer in upper Minnesota.  We Southern women take mid-day naps under the fan in our slips for a reason.

Actually I don't even think I own a slip, but a friend who was a marvelous storyteller used to spin wild ones about the women in her Georgian family who took to the bed mid-day (probably after sipping bloody marys much of the morning) and luxuriated the afternoon away on the sleeping porch under the fan in their slips.  Just sounds so civilized. And twisted.  I like that.

So, I've told you the lie.  Now I'll tell you the truth.  Summer on the county line between hot and sticky Roanoke and cool and fictional Floyd County is wonderful.  We do appreciate the 10 degree dip in temperature up here at 2,700 feet.  But when you are talking 107 degree heat indexes in Roanoke you will probably be looking at 97 up here on the mountain.  And you may need to crank up the air conditioning for a week or two.  Then you can go right back to wearing your slip under the ceiling fan.  And get Faulkner or someone to write a story about you but make sure he changes your name to Blanche.  Or Mary Something or Another.  We've got to keep that sultry Southern girl image perpetuated.

HISTORY OF THE BOTTOM CREEK GORGE COMMUNITY

I'm going to steal today (well, steal with permission) from a lovely book written about the community that used to live on the top of the mountainside on what is now owned and protected forever by the Nature Conservancy, for which most residents (old and new) of Bent Mountain are grateful.  The land owned by Floyd Virginia Land called the Knolls adjoins this protected 1,657 acres that boasts the second highest waterfall in Virginia forming the headwaters of the Roanoke River.

The book was written by Genevieve Craighead Henderson who grew up "on the creek" and is a tribute to her parents, relatives and friends who sacrificed and worked the then remote land, perhaps in a better time.

"Residents of this area have also stood at the top of the mountainside and looked across Bottom Creek Gorge at the beautiful waterfall -- Noah Hall did on summer days as he, with his horse or his hoe, worked out a small corn patch or a few rows of green beans on the hillside opposite the falls and probably wished for a cool dip in the rushing water far below."

"As you stand by the edge of Bottom Creek and watch the clear mountain water rushing by, and try to see the "endangered species" of fish, remember you are not the first to do so.  Bottom Creek boys did this many years ago, some even catching rainbow trout to be cooked by their mothers for supper.  When fishing season opened,many of these same boys stood along the banks of the creek and watched the "city slickers" in the hip waders and fancy fishing equipment pull fish after fish from the dark green pools of water along this creek.  Sometimes the girls got to go fishing, too, but with a string on a pole and a safety pin!  Lucky was the young boy who found a real fishing line and hook that had gotten tangled in the brush along the edge of the creek and left behind by a fisherman with more money than patience. Even more lucky was he when he slipped back to the creek after dark, along paths around the boulders only familiar to the local residents, and threw this new line and hook (and juicy worm that was dug along the patch to the creek) into "the big kettle" or "the little kettle" where the big fish had been hiding all day."

Thanks, Genevieve.  I think I needed to go back to that day of simply fishing today.