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.

PARTY WITH A LIGHT SHOW, HOPEFULLY

Good morning, bloggees.  You are most highly regarded.  Today my goal is to entice you to drive up Bent Mountain Saturday evening , June 25th to share some BBQ, a bonfire and a brilliant sunset with us.  The BBQ and bonfire will be supplied by the Florins.  The sunset, that most gorgeous of artwork, will be courtesy of the Creator.  I am notoriously self-obsessed but I do thank Him regularly for delighting ME and ME alone with the ever-hanging beauty of nature but I do expect He'll be more than happy to show up around 8:41 and dazzle you all as well.

We'll start hanging out around 6.  Bring a sweater, a lawn chair, adult beverages and a fiddle if you are so inclined.  We've got the rest.  There may or may not be a bathroom so take care of business before you head up if you are shy that way.     

Directions:  221 S to R on County Line to bear R on Patterson to L on King Bros. Open house on R.

PINING FOR SIMPLER TIMES: BENT MOUNTAIN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

The Florin family is at a crossroads.  Actually, it's probably just Mama Florin who is stuck in the middle of the street.  The rest of the family seems to be moving along just as they should be.  We all raise our children to become responsible members of society, to be healthy and independent of us.  And I believe that God has even fashioned something into the DNA of a child that prompts them towards that self-reliance.  If you have raised a child you have undoubtedly experienced what I'm talking about....at about age two....at about age 11....at about age 16.  Sometimes the progression is easy and organic, and sometimes it is downright nasty.  But most kids do learn how to breathe outside of the womb, and most learn at some point that they are not their parents.  Some even learn to respect the wisdom of their doddering aged elders. 

We did have a slight advantage over the rest of the world before thrusting our children into the deep, vast unknown.  Sweet Bent Mountain Elementary School.  The powers that be tried for the last 30 years to shut down the smallest of Roanoke County Schools...which was finally accomplished about a year ago.  

Bent Mountain Elementary wasn't exactly economically feasible in this age where not much is.  But oh, what a model.  When Cameron entered kindergarten in 1997 he joined about 66 other local kids... in the entire school.  The school was not only a microcosm of our Bent Mountain neighborhood such that it is, but actually a pretty good petri-dish for all of American society.  His class of 18 and most every class that followed or came before was completely diverse: racially, socio-economically, religiously.  And...guess what, America?  It completely worked. 

Emma followed into kindergarten the following year, she and six of her best friends.  Her class wasn't quite as diverse as it was much smaller and that skewed the demographic somewhat.  She was the only girl in the third through fifth grades;  because they were so small in number they combined with the class a year younger for some of their subjects..  But for part of the day her class was just six.  Emma was the only girl and she sat in a fancy wing chair while the boys all sat at her feet on the floor.  If you know my daughter you will understand how formative that was to her self-esteem.  She was and always has been "the Go-to girl" and "The Boss".  Of "THE WORLD". 

But good things can't last forever and my children eventually graduated from the fifth grade.  They went on to middle school at small private schools, mostly because both my husband and I moved from small schools to a LARGE public school at the tail end of high school.  Larry and I met and fell in love partly because we found each other in the sea of a huge high school where we both were overwhelmed and somewhat lost, not at all understanding the whole jock, freak, popular, geek thing.  We had come from small schools where we had solidarity BECAUSE of being different people, not lumped into a group of young people who we really had nothing in common with, because we were different.

Anyway, I am completely thankful for Bent Mountain Elementary: for the wonderful teachers who made do with second hand copies (something already on the back) and not so much money for field trips.  For the parents, who not only had to join the PTA, but to hold some major position during their tenure.  For their classmates, who still love one another and will forever, even as they move away from the mountain and pursue their dreams.  I am in a period of reminiscing...as I try to transition into this new phase of empty nest.  I reminisce, and I am very thankful. 

A HOME-TOWN TOURIST IN SOUTHWEST VIRGINIA

It's good to have visitors come to town.  My mom came in for Emma's high school graduation and stayed for nearly two weeks as she was waiting for Cameron's much heralded return from Hawaii, the Ukraine and Turkey.  (If you are my facebook friend you have heard me herald, and herald again. Perhaps heralding to the point of nausea for some of you.  So sorry.  Kind of.)

We had a lot of time to putz together while Emma was gone on a high school graduation trip to Bonnaroo and Cam had not yet returned to the nest.  We played tourist.  One day we meandered through the Taubman Museum of Art in Roanoke, ate lunch at Norah's Cafe and shopped in some of the great art galleries that  pepper almost every corner of our lovely downtown Roanoke.  We ate lunch two days in a row at the Blue Apron in Salem, which is an amazing addition to the great array of restaurants we have in our area.  I had seared fois gras, also two days in a row.  Actually, I am salivating and daydreaming of seared fois gras again as I am writing this.  You've got to try it.  Small portions but there are so many delightful flavors harmonizing in this dish that you can truly relish your meal and have room for dessert, which I rarely eat because I am a freak for savory.

Friday night we hit Oddfellas Cantina in Floyd (have you noticed a pattern yet?) and stayed to listen to some music spilling out into the streets near the Floyd Country Store.  A fantastic line-up of local and regional Appalachian music fills the Store every Friday night, even in the dead of winter.  But the street outside is just as entertaining and completely free of charge.  Last Friday there were no less than six groups of musicians hanging out and jamming together.   A lady with big hair and tight jeans was flatfooting with a farmer who had seemingly forgotten to put in his teeth.  A well dressed couple with a shopping bag from the new Troika gallery sat alongside keeping time with their feet.  A couple of dread-locked Floyd Folk were selling the most beautiful tie-dyes I have ever seen.  A band of young indie types from Nashville were singing for tips across the street before they went in to headline at the Dogtown Roadhouse.

I wish real life was as diverse yet unified as Floyd County.   Not Utopia, of course, we won't see that this side of heaven.  But people respect each other here, and this community is different than most.  Off the gridders live alongside old timers who are neighborly to retirees, even Yankee retirees.    My kind of town.  It was fun playing tourist and showing off a bit.  

BUSY, WITH A VIEW

We have had a very busy month.  My mom arrived, youngest daughter's high school graduation in Roanoke, VA followed immediately by youngest daughter's college orientation in Boone, NC.  Youngest daughter left the very next day for high school graduation trip to Bonnaroo, an infamous music festival in western Tennesee.  She's probably waking up in her balmy six man (girl) tent as we speak, ready for some Allison Krauss or Bruce Hornsby or Bela Fleck or Buffalo Springfield or Mumford and Sons or Eminem.  A very diverse festival.  But not exactly my cuppa tea with 70,000 good friends and neighbors.  Me, I'm a Floydfest girl.  30 miles from home on some gorgeous land adjacent to the Blue Ridge Parkway that seems like a different universe altogether.  With my own shower and my own bed.  Only about 10,000 close friends.  Guess we are getting old.

Later this week our oldest son returns from a whirlwind six months in Kona, Hawaii, Lutsk, Ukraine and various beautiful Turkish cities on the Mediterranean Sea. That I could handle.  I think they have showers in all of those places.

I think everyone will be happy to be back together as a family in a few days.  I surely will be delighted to have all of their sleepy heads tucked into their own beds.  Back into Mama Florin mode making breakfast, but probably not until 10 or so.  Fresh eggs laid by the newest addition to our Bent Mountain kind-of- farm.  17 chickens, about half of them named.  The rest haven't yet told me theirs'.   Precious summer days these last few years before our children start making their own memories with families of their own.  But then someday we might get grandbabies who can come visit us on the mountain and help me gather eggs and name the chickens.  

THE FLOYD CO WAVE AKA PEOPLE ARE FRIENDLY HERE

I was driving up to the metropolis of Floyd earlier today to distribute some fliers (yes, we have land for sale!) and to catch a quick bite for lunch.  I was also searching for inspiration for this blog; something not very hard to come by in these beautiful blooming days of late May.  As I crested one of my favorite hills on the short but lovely half hour drive - we are equidistant between downtown Floyd and downtown Roanoke here on the mountain - I saw Buffalo Mountain looming fearsomely over to the south. 

I love "The Buffalo" as it's known around here, appropriately shaped and especially exotic after you have read "The Man who Moved the Mountain", and consider that not that many years ago Buffalo Mountain was a rough part of Appalachia governed by moonshiner outlaws.  Bob Childress THE MAN as in Who moved the mountain?) was a Presbyterian minister who brought civility to the mountain folk.  The six little rock churches out in the middle of nowhere that he and his congregations built stand today and still preach the word on Sundays.  Read the book if you get a chance.  I think I'll put it on my list of summer rereads.

Well, what I was going to write about when I got detoured by The Buffalo was the Floyd County wave.  People here don't just give you the index-finger-off-the-steering-wheel wave; they full out salute you with the whole handed so-glad-to-see-you variation.  One more thing I love about Floyd County.  Strangers waving at you as you pass each other at 55mph, daydreaming about The Buffalo.