Author: cigarman501

The Cellar Revisited

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I originally wrote this years ago. Since learning the former Beach Music icon, The Cellar, burned Saturday morning, I decided to update it as a eulogy for a place that held a prominent place in my memories and a time long gone.

“A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile”               -Don Mclean, American Pie

It was an early Sunday morning, as in after midnight. I had just returned to my dorm room from a date with a young woman who was successfully auditioning to become ex-wife number one.

Sitting at my desk listening to the local radio station, I was shocked to hear that Billy Stewart, the singer, had died in an automobile accident near the North Carolina coast. It was January 18, 1970; he had died just hours before.

Saddened by the news of his tragedy, for the next hour I sat and listened to Billy Stewart’s greatest hits while reminiscing with one of the voices in my head about seeing him live the previous summer. “Summertime,” “Sitting in the Park,” “I Do Love You,” “Secret Love,” – I heard them all and more that morning on WKDK. I had been there to watch him sing all those songs live at The Cellar in Charlotte in 1969.

To this day, I enjoy “hole-in-the-wall” kinds of places, and The Cellar was certainly that. A little dark, it was mostly lit by neon beer signs and had an ambience that was special only to me and the rest of the flat top, madras and khaki wearing, and Weegan crowd.

A door next to a large oak tree had a simple wooden sign above that welcomed you to “The Cellar.” The tree with roots pushing their way above ground level was an obstacle getting into the club. I think it had become a type of “drunkenness” test administered by the bouncers taking up the cover at the door. I once had a friend get kicked out for being drunk after he had tripped over one of those roots. The problem was we hadn’t made it into The Cellar. Don’t you have to be in before you are thrown out?

The Cellar was aptly named being in the basement of an old brick building. Once you navigated the tree roots, paid your dollar cover and walked through the door, you would be assaulted with the sound of a live band playing “soul” or “beach” music or the greatest “beach” music jukebox in the world doing the same.

A bar, located to the right, ran the length of the foyer for lack of a better descriptor. Double archways separated the bar from the young people “strutting their stuff,” dancing a dance known as the “Carolina Shag,” a descendent and a much slower version of the Jitterbug or Lindy Hop. The dance itselStrandmusic that went with it was born on the shores of the Carolina Grand Strand and continues to be so popular today that it has been named the state dance of South Carolina.

A small bandstand was located against the left-hand wall in front of a hardwood dance floor. The rest of the flooring was unfinished concrete. Near the right-hand wall was a small seating area. In addition to the music that made normal conversation impossible you would be seduced by the smell of stale cigarettes and spilled beer. Oh, how I loved it!

The Cellar had everything a college boy might desire except the restroom was upstairs and navigating the stairs became much harder as the night progressed. It was such a ratty place that people our age could do as we pleased and there was no way we could mess it up any more than it was.

We certainly did not have to be rich to go there as it had a cheap cover charge, live bands, fifteen-cent drafts, and college girls…if you had a good line to meet them. I did sing the Sam Cooke lyrics from “Another Saturday Night” on occasion, “If I could meet ‘em, I could get ‘em, as yet I haven’t met ‘em, that’s why I’m in the shape I’m in.” I wonder if a simple “Would you like to dance?” would have worked?

I was not shutout every night but the night I heard Billy sing live I invited Sally McGinn to join me to ensure I didn’t want for female companionship. It was a good thing. There were so many people jammed into such a small space, movement, or meeting anyone was nigh on impossible. I remember being packed in so tightly, Sally and I could not have been any closer unless it had been our wedding night. No, tightly packed doesn’t quite describe it. When we left, the floor was so sticky with spilled beer, momentarily I was cemented to the concrete. I miss that.

Billy was not the only live act to grace the small stage at The Cellar. Every weekend there were different groups performing. Archie Bell and the Drells “Tightened Up,” The Georgia Prophets gave me a “Fever” and the Catalinas reminded me that “Summertime’s Calling Me,” as is The Cellar…which, like so many places of my youth, no longer exists.

 Much of my time during the summers of ‘68 and ’69 was spent pursuing coeds at The Cellar. High school friends, Al Stevenson and John Nesbitt, along with myself, became the Three Musketeers those summers pursuing “man’s favorite sport,” but like “car chasing” dogs, rarely did we catch our quarry. We were the Three Stooges instead.

We worked during the summer, and I remember many mornings getting home just in time to change clothes and head back to work in Charlotte. Working for Crowder Construction Company on Interstate Seventy-Seven, I attempt to avoid bridges that I know I worked on during those summers. I fear they could fall in at any minute.

My last trip to The Cellar would occur in the summer of 1970. I brought Dianne, the woman who would become ex-wife number one, home to meet the family and later took her out for an evening of shagging at The Cellar. It was a standout night that figured prominently in my memories. Dianne was a statuesque redhead who rocked a red-patterned halter suit that she filled out quite nicely and more than adequately. We ran into Al and with his drooling Saint Bernard impersonation I would say he was impressed, too.

I’m not sure why I never went back. I know I never intended not to. School, life, and marriage along with divorce got into the way. I think in some ways it was a sign of the times, or I just grew up.

Al decided to hitch hike to California. He didn’t make it out of Charlotte but ended up living on a local commune trying to find himself. I understand he was successful. John followed the same track as I, teaching before getting into school administration before he died. Shamefully, to my knowledge I never saw them again.

While the music didn’t die it changed along with the times. It went from easy rhythms about love to harsh Protest music. Shagging to that was impossible and the mood was wrong. In 1977 Saturday Night Fever put a spotlight on leisure suits and Disco. I never tried to get the hang of it.

As disco fought its death throws, Urban Cowboy was released, making Country, the Texas Two-step and line dancing the craze. Somewhere in the Seventies and Eighties I got lost and our ratty club became The Country Underground and later a restaurant and…sadly, like Sally, Dianne, Al and John, a memory of something that once was.

Valentine’s Day

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“This fire that we call Loving is too strong for human minds. But just right for human souls.”
― Aberjhani, Elemental: The Power of Illuminated Love

It is Valentine’s Day. My first without my bride. Memories flood over me…and when it came to this day, few were memorable in a positive way. It was always a very stressful day.

My bride didn’t like traditional Valentine’s Day gifts…you know…roses or chocolate.  Stress!  I mean she likes roses, but she’d rather have a bare root rose to plant in the spring…you know the gift that keeps on giving…season after season.  I did that for one year.  It died.

Chocolate would be fine if we celebrated at an intimate little Belgium chocolate shop, we once discovered in Charleston…the owner, a Belgian Jew whose family fled to the United States as Nazi tanks began rolling toward France, died a while back.  How dare she.  The son who took over was…was…delicate and high strung, prone to fainting.  He couldn’t take the pressure of making handmade chocolate delights.  He sold out and for some reason, it’s just not the same.  It’s like the shop died too.

One of the first Valentine’s Days we celebrated after moving to the foothills of the Blue Ridge is a prime example of my luck as it relates to Valentine’s Day. I found a nearby inn offering a romantic dinner for two.  I jumped on it…it snowed.

The owner called us saying, “they say the roads are cleared.  We’re open but have no power.  We’ll be preparing your meal over an open fire if you can get here.”  We’ll get there. 

“Have four-wheel drive, will travel” which explains why we opted to take the Thunderbird instead of the old Landcruiser.  The Landcruiser just wasn’t sexy enough for Valentine’s Day.  “Fools rush in….” Up the Saluda Grade for twelve or so miles.  Everything was fine until we hit the North Carolina line.  Snowplows?  Even South Carolina has heard of them.

It was a drive through the mountains that reminded me of the scenes from the movie “Battle of the Bulge.”  The road looked like it had been bombed.  Trees and powerlines went down, six inches of snow on the ground with a heavy fog rising as it melted.  Instead of Nazis directing mortar fire on us, power crews in yellow helmets directed us around obstructions.  No artillery shells exploded, just transformers lighting up the approaching darkness.  We made it.  How are we getting home?  I’m sure the inn is full…it was.

Saluda, North Carolina, is a rustic little village filled with memories of past days when it was a stop for the railroad.  The inn, built to serve the railroad elite, was located on the far side of town, and welcomed us with hurricane lamps that gave the old structure a turn of the Twentieth Century feel.

Oil lamps provided a warm glow with a hint of kerosene wafting through the air.  An intimate table for two covered in red and white checkerboard.  A flickering candle in the center of the table caused shadows to dapple around us as if bathed in soft moonlight.

There was a view of snow-covered mountains as we sat next to an open fireplace that could have burned a giant Sequoia tree.  Everything was warm and cheery…and of course, romantic.  None of the waitresses called anyone honey or sweetheart.  The offer was of a young red wine, not sweet Southern tea.

The bill of fare included mushrooms stuffed with duck liver pâté, Caesar salad, a healthy cut of filet mignon sided with asparagus and roasted potatoes…can you believe I can remember a dinner from nearly forty years ago?

A chocolate cheesecake topped with a cherry sauce finished the meal…a decadent, triple-digit priced meal…worth every penny…to me…but not to my bride which is the only reason I had come here anyway.  She enjoyed the meal when she ate it, later…not so much.

We decided to take the long way home by interstate…the interstate had to be clear.  The wide four lanes had to be safer than the two lane we had traveled up.  We found it clear of snow.  We also found it shrouded in a heavy fog rising from the asphalt as thick as (insert your own cliché here).

Worse still, my bride was sick.

“Honey, you need to pull over,” she said weakly.  She looked a bit green in the light cast by the passing headlights.

“What?”

Said with emphasis, “YOU NEED TO PULL OVER!  I’M GOING TO THROW UP!”

Slowing and easing to the side of the road, “STOP THE DAMN CAR WILL YOU!”  Okay, not fast enough.

I watched in horror as half of a triple-digit meal landed on the pavement with the force of a high-pressure hose.  Think Linda Blair in “The Exorcist.”

Once I helped her into the car, I pointed out, “The pâté….”  I shouldn’t have mentioned food.

“What?”

“It had to be the pâté.”

“Oh, just shut up and get me home!  NO WAIT.  STOP THE CAR…NOWWWWW!”

So much for the after-dinner festivities.

I’m only sharing because it exemplifies the horror that is Valentine’s Day…and it is more subtly humorous in retrospect than at the time.  The ‘meal from hell’ is not the exception; it is the rule.  So bad are my Valentine’s Day memories, I’ve blocked most of them, locking them away somewhere in my head and throwing away the key.

What can you expect from a celebration of love named for the patron saint of epilepsy?  A jailer beaten, clubbed, and beheaded for trying to convert prisoners into Christians.  Nothing says “Be my Valentine” like a bloody, headless corpse.

I thought long and hard about this Valentine’s Day…just like every other one when she was alive.  It’s been a rough month in a rough year.

The last Valentine’s Day gift I gave her was perfect. A handmade (chortle) necklace…a cheap, fake silver locket in the shape of a sunflower on a cheap, fake silver chain.  The sunflower splits apart to expose an engraved message, “You are my sunshine.”  It’s beautiful.  Perfect.  She was my sunshine.  Her light still burns brightly in my heart.

Soulful Vaccination

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“The saxophone is an imperfect instrument, especially the tenor and soprano, as far as intonation goes. The challenge is to sing on an imperfect instrument that is outside of your body.”

— Stan Getz

Other than those found on my playlist, I hadn’t thought about saxophones until I chanced upon a beautiful, blond, Dutch saxophonist named Candy Dulfer. Where have you been all my life?  I admit her long legs and short skirt got my attention at first but then I clicked on a YouTube video, and not only does she look alluring, but she is also a damn fine saxophonist.

A version of “Pick Up the Pieces” led me to a cooperative effort with Glennis Grace singing Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight.” This in turn led me to a comment by a fan, “Just what I needed, a soulful vaccination.” I feel it. I needed one too.

I am prone to following pig trails in my mind and was led back to late 1950s or early 1960s to my mother’s living room. A large, cabinet stereo occupied one corner, and my mother was prone to playing Ray Coniff, Perry Como, or Mitch Miller…she did give me Johnny River’s “Live at the Whiskey a Go-Go” my fourteenth birthday, but rock and roll was a rarity for her.

She inadvertently introduced me to the saxophone with Billy Vaughn and his Orchestra. Vaughn’s trademark was harmonies with twin alto saxophones.  I think it was his rendition of “Red Sails in the Sunset” that got my attention, and I found myself attempting to play the sax in my high school band. They accepted all comers and honestly, I was no better at the saxophone than I had been at the drums, the first instrument I tried but failed to master.

Unless playing the cymbals, I didn’t have the manual dexterity to be a great musician despite my “want too”. More than likely, I would simply catch a body part between the two cymbals.

 More importantly I needed a “soulful vaccination” …or maybe a “soulful transfusion.” To quote my band instructor, “You’re just too tight assed.” He was correct and not just about playing the sax. It is a trademark of my life in general. Friends always comment, “I can’t believe you did that”, whenever I might step out of my comfort zone.

I played just well enough to join my college band, they accepted all comers too, and even spent a year as the second alto in the jazz ensemble… but only because we needed five saxophonist and five were all we had.

 I was no Cannonball Adderly or Junior Walker, but I had a great time and made great lifelong memories. I even got to play with Doc Severinsen during a jazz clinic. There was also a long night of partying with him but for some reason I don’t remember it as well.

I probably could have been better had I concentrated. I blame my small high school. Blame but in a good way. We were so small I was involved in everything from chorus and band to baseball and football. I was able to do it all but mastered none and would not take money for the memories.

Thanks Candy. Thanks for your sexy and soulful renditions. Thanks for the pig trail you sent me down. I’ll be adding you to my playlist. Thank you for the soulful infusion.

Don Miller’s latest offering is “Food for Thought” and can be purchased on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Food-Thought-Musings-Mad-Southerner/dp/B0CVFVVKZ3/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3JOR4JC665OYR&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.qHgZwjWZGMMWOAkFzZNGvUYxwSKDGldwLlh06k97FCmeZeq-pJC3KvlR9FJlvR50DyXu0dByDs0VDomtfuOpRw.4zi2lLYNri-Omdm8TQ4n4-aweXDLZEaozt9zQm83Ruk&dib_tag=se&keywords=food+for+thought+book+Don+Miller&qid=1737828043&sprefix=food+for+thought+book+don+miller%2Caps%2C95&sr=8-1

Surviving the Spider’s Web, January 1, 2025

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Surviving the Spider’s Web

“Sometimes the greatest tests of our strength are situations that don’t seem so obviously dangerous. Sometimes surviving is the hardest thing of all.” ~ Richelle Mead

It is my annual day of introspection. A day rife with questions but devoid of answers.

What did I accomplish in 2024? What do I want to accomplish in 2025…. It is the end of one year and the beginning of a new one. It is a jumbled chalkboard waiting to be erased, a fresh one waiting to be written on.

While I am desperate to erase the old chalkboard, I’m too invested in 2024 to even think about 2025. Loss will do that and 2024 was full of loss. Viewed through the wrong end of a telescope, 2025 seems to be filled with the reckonings caused by those losses.

Often, losses won’t allow you to turn loose or maybe you just don’t want to turn loose. I am a fly caught in a spider’s web of my own making and am battling the urge to remain there.

Sometimes all you can do is survive. When thinking about 2024 the best I can muster is that I survived. I accomplished nothing but survival.

What will 2025 bring? On a personal level, it will bring whatever I allow it to bring. I visualize a closed door, and I am fearful to what spiders are hiding behind it.

I can only control my personal space and the challenges the world poses to it. I also know beyond a shadow of a doubt external forces will throw curveballs causing me to frail awkwardly. The metaphorical “swing and a miss” followed by a graceless pirouette and faceplant.

As I struggle against my web, I wonder, “What do I want to do in 2025?”  My first thought tells me a lot about where I am mentally. “I want to sit in the dark and be left alone.” I want to lay on my web and wait for the spider to wrap me in insulating silk. I am in a dark place.

But I am a survivor. I am going to move forward into 2025. I’m not going to sit in my dark place. I will not allow the spider to devour me. Easy words to say, not so easy to carry out.

One lesson I learned from my losses is that I am loved. Deserved or not, family and friends have proven this, and if nothing else, I’ll not let them down. I will not let me down. I will continue to struggle against the spider’s silken trap and my own self-destructive tendencies.

I have a hole in my heart the size of the Grand Canyon, that will never be filled. I realize the crater will always be there. I also realize that there is nothing wrong with trying to fill it. Happiness cannot find me sitting in the dark. Somehow, the sunlight must prevail. Buckle up spider, the battle is on.

The Good Old Days

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“The only good thing about the good old days is they’re gone.”― Dick Gregory

The cold snap of the last few days have me thinking about the “Good Old Days” people wax poetic about. It is cold and windy and has me longing for the humidity and mosquitoes of summer.

Our good old days started when Linda Gail and I moved into the foothills of the Blue Ridge in 1987 just before a twelve-inch snowfall that kept us stranded for over a week.  Despite questioning our sanity, the old farmhouse became our “little piece of heaven.”

An old farmhouse sitting above the Cherokee Scenic Highway, built in 1892 that had no electricity, heat or plumbing until 1956 when the new owner, long time Methodist missionary and reverend, James Copeland and some of what he called his good “Baptist Brothers” installed it. It has never been updated and I admit I sometimes worry about how well the good “Baptist Brothers” installed it.

 Prior to 1956 this old house, with no insulation, was heated with a wood stove and five fireplaces, water was hauled from the stream located below the house and the outhouse was, and still is, located some thirty yards behind the house.

Would anyone like to explain to me the “Good Old Days” as it relates to the series of cold days we have experienced and the impending “Snowmageden” we are facing this weekend? I am reminded of the old childhood joke, “Have you read ‘A Mile to the Outhouse’ by Willie Makeit. The book was illustrated by Betty Don’t.”

I should point out that indoor plumbing was added in 1956 to an old porch that was closed in to accommodate it. We now have updated heat, two more bathrooms, a new well with running water and we only actively use one of the fireplaces. The insulation in the old part of the house needs to be redone but at least the old wavy lead windows were replaced.

 I spent some eight hours spread over three days, cutting and splitting two pickup truck loads of dead fall with a chainsaw, axe, sledge and wedge. I also had benefit of a tractor with a frontend loader to help keep me out of trouble. My back might disagree with that last statement and has me wondering how did the previous generations keep a woodstove, and five fireplaces fed without benefit from later technology?

 Hey, I’ll let you keep the good old days. I’ll take the toilet paper over the Sear’s catalogue or corn shucks any day. 

Once a Proud  Coach…Now a Bad Fan

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“… the only thing worse than losing is not playing” ― Cormac McCarthy, The Passenger

I’m struggling. There are too many memories surrounding me…or too few. I really thought the college football season would provide a soothing anodyne. Something to take my mind off the way things are. A possible reminder of the way things once were. Football has not been a soothing anodyne.

I once “lived” for football season, whether I was coaching it or sitting in the stands watching…or from the comfort of my recliner. My bride was a fan too, especially College Game Day and Lee Corso. She would find kids that she could love and pulled for them as if she knew them. Linda never met a “human interest” story she didn’t love. She always pulled for the ones who had overcome some type of tragedy. God I miss her.

I haven’t felt the zing, and it is not totally because I’ve lost the most important person in my life. I’m sure that is a part of my lack of enjoyment but mostly I am not zinging because of what football has turned into.

NIL, transfer portal, too much video review, too much SEC hype, mostly off the field things have robbed me of my zing.

Once we played athletic games for the enjoyment of playing athletic games. Now every game seems to be a business opportunity. I foresee a time when players will be wearing the name of their sponsor on the back of their jersey instead of their own.

There was a time when we preached “hard work will pay off.” Now, if we are not instantly gratified, we move on to another team via the transfer portal. “Hurrah for me and the hell with everybody else!” seems to be our cheer.

When I began coaching back in the dark ages of “three yards in a cloud of dust”, we taught loyalty and love for our team and teammates. We taught fair play and behaving yourself. How many times did I preach, “Remember who you are and where you come from. Do nothing to embarrass your school, yourselves, your parents, and your coaches. Go out and make your parents proud.”  I’m not sure that would go over well with today’s players. Have I become too jaded?

Don’t get me wrong. I do think players should benefit from their NIL but jumping from team to team because one team has boosters with deeper pockets is ruining the game for me. The same is true of coaches jumping ships and leaving the players they recruited high and dry.

Unlike economics, the NIL has trickled down to the high school level where I spent forty-one years coaching. I’m not sure I could coach in this environment.

I’m writing this on what is known as “rivalry weekend.” The weekend began yesterday, the day after Thanksgiving. Georgia and Georgia Tech fought through eight overtimes last night. I didn’t have a dog in the fight although I tend to pull for whomever Georgia is playing against. It was a hard-fought game that I should have found exciting but I found myself almost ambivalent. It is as if I’m watching out of habit…because watching is what I should be doing.  

Today I do have a dog in the fight, so I’ll leave self-evaluation until tomorrow. Until then “Go Tigers.”

Image was found on Pinterest with no citing.

The Witching Hour

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The Witching Hour

“Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”                   ― Stephen King

As a child I believed the witching hour was the hour after midnight. As an adult I have found it to be the 3 am hour, an hour that can often encompass the rest of the night. As much as I might wish to be haunted by certain ghostly specters, most of the spells cast upon me emanate from my own mind and create monsters that wish to consume my soul.

I once dwelled on issues that amount to little…the molehills of life.  Questions such as “Should I have bought toilet paper” when I last went to the grocery store or is there some hidden malady hiding in my water heater causing it to breakdown when I next need hot water. These issues are random and silly but rob me of my needed sleep.

I live in an old farmhouse, over one hundred and twenty years old. During the quiet of the witching hour, the house creaks and pops in the same way I creak and pop when I first arise in the morning.

The puppies squirm and whimper as they dream whatever puppy dogs dream about. Mice play in the attic…I really need to go up and check on what damage is being done. Something else for me to dwell upon while I wait for the sun to appear.

Lately my witching hour doesn’t dwell on the silly or random. Lately, my reflections focus on my bride. It has been seven months, but her death is still fresh and cutting. Many days I walk into the house expecting to find her puttering about, her dark mane of hair framing her smiling face and twinkling brown eyes.  I am heart wrenchingly disappointed.

The witching hour was the time Linda would attempt to get up, on her own, and go to the bathroom. After several falls my puppies and I learned to wake up with her. It is a habit I can’t seem to rid myself of.

In the dark of the witching hour, I struggle to see the youthful and energetic Linda Gail. I must force myself to purge the memories from the final year of her life, struggling to replace visions of sickness and pain with memories of the special times in our life.

My recent dreams seem to trigger the witching hour. My dreams have a common subject, being lost. Common locations can be seen but I can’t find my way to them. With every twist and turn they seem farther away, or sometimes, disappear totally.

I am lost on streets or bizarre corridors that shouldn’t exist. I encounter old friends along the way, folks I haven’t seen in years…many now dead. They are no help, their directions causing me to become more lost. In the dream I grow fearful and anxious.

I awaken and find that fear and anxiety are real. I lay quietly attempting to regulate my respiration before getting up and staggering outside to attempt to calm my panic with a cigar. My faithful companions come with me, guarding me until I rise to return to bed. A return to sleep rarely occurs.

I don’t need someone with a medical degree in psychology to explain the origins of my dreams. I am lost… in the dark or in the light of day, I am lost without my rudder. The seas are stormy, and I have no way to steer.  “The monsters are real, and the ghosts are real too.”

***

On a brighter note, before Linda’s transition I released the book, “Food for Thought.” It can be purchased in paperback or downloaded at http://tinyurl.com/yrt7bee2

Eclectic…Meat Day in Floyd, Va.

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Eclectic: deriving ideas, style, or taste from a broad and diverse range of sources

My brother, son-in-law, and I made the trek to Floyd, Virginia for the seventh or eighth edition of my cousin’s annual “meat day.” The reason for the lack of clarity as to whether it was the seventh or eighth edition will become clearer later. I am clear about this; it was my first time.

Meat day has three simple rules: no women, no vegetables, and no chicken bones thrown into the yard. Other than that, it was an epicurean’s delight sans females. Food in the form of many different proteins, slowly cooked or smoked to perfection, and plenty of libations to wash it down with. I think the “plenty of libations” was why my cousin was a bit unclear as to whether it was the seventh or eighth episode. Did I mention my cousin is also the long-time mayor of Floyd?

Floyd is a small, sometimes sedate, sometimes bustling, sometimes crazy town some thirty miles past the equally small town of Hillsville off Interstate 77. Located near the Blue Ridge Parkway, there is a vibrant culture of music, arts, local foods and wines, and outdoor recreation. It is a key stop on The Crooked Road, Virginia’s heritage music trail and is known in some circles for the famous Friday Night Jamboree at the Floyd Country Store. Floyd is the home of the annual world music festival called FloydFest. If you like country, blue grass, or alternative music you should schedule a stop. Music lovers from forty-seven states enjoyed FloydFest’s five day event.

None of that really matters as far as our trek is concerned and the information was taken from the Floyd, Virginia Tourist Site. One bit of information that does matter is the statement from the same site, “Running on Floyd time. Floyd is as much a state of mind as it is a destination.”

It became apparent that meat day could have been just as easily named “meet day.” As I questioned my kin folk as we traveled the four hours to Floyd I asked, “How many people will be attending this…whatever it is?” Answers varied between twenty-five to fifty. They were off by about a hundred or more. The town of Floyd boast some four hundred and fifty inhabitants, and I venture to guess that most of the drinking age males came by at one time or another along with the fifty or so hardcore attendees there for the duration.

While I did pig out on barbecued ribs, pulled pork barbecue, smoked meatloaf, pig candy, and another half dozen proteins, (nothing was bad) I remained mostly sober despite the vast choices of distilled spirits and herbal remedies available. I’m glad I did because being a people watcher, I was able to enjoy the diverse folk who attended.

Diverse in race but more than that. Floyd was a destination for the counterculture in the 1960s and 1970s. It became apparent that the counterculture attitude was still in effect with the diversity of thought and actions of the men in attendance. I can only describe it as the most eclectic group of people I had been around since my engagement party, and that was way eclectic. Meat Day was eclectic on steroids.

An undercover cop joined former felons, along with legal and illegal pot growers and moonshiners. There was a PhD who worked for the government, motorcycle gang members, a major book publisher, all who joined the “salt of the earth” types wearing tie-dyed tee shirts under Oskos by Gosh overalls. The retired football coach of Floyd High School spent his entire forty-two-year career at that one school and enjoyed the day with us. Even my cousin’s political rival dropped by to enjoy the fun. Hardcore men who left but not before saying, “I’ll see you in church tomorrow.” There is a fine line between Saturday night and Sunday morning.

I tried to listen more than I talked. You learn better by listening. There was no talk of politics despite the many Trump and Harris signs I saw posted along main street. No disparaging the women who weren’t in attendance to defend themselves. Not one “pull my finger joke” but plenty of laughter, backslapping and hugs. There were stories from the past, good natured ribbing, and some “whatever happened to old so and so” questions.

They reminded me of the kids I loved to teach. Those that walked to their own drummer. The round pegs too many teachers attempted to fit into square holes. With today’s political climate, they made me hopeful.

Now that I’ve been I will go again but I will pace myself a little better. I figure it will take my system several days to recover from the protein blitz I subjected my body to. I also am attempting to produce descriptors to use other than eclectic. How ‘bout fun. A fun and educational evening in the eclectic small town of Floyd.

THINGS I LEARNED SITTING IN THE DARK

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“Learn to light a candle in the darkest moments of someone’s life. Be the light that helps others see; it is what gives life its deepest significance.” ―  Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart

My lights went out at 2:15 in the am Friday morning and didn’t come back on until Sunday at 4:15 in the pm. Did I mention there was another Sunday between that Friday and Sunday? And two football Saturdays? With the lights went my well water. Ten days without power and water. I learned a great deal sitting in the dark courtesy of Hurricane Helene. My puppies learned about cursing.

The first thing I learned was that no matter how much you prepare for a hurricane, you forget something. I checked off my list of toilet paper, water, ice, batteries, flashlights, lanterns, snack food, power bars and the like. What could I have forgotten? I should have done a couple of loads of washing, invested in some paper plates, and I should have cooked as much food as I could have from my freezers. Also, I should have considered water to flush with instead of relying on rainwater. I had plenty of rainwater but had to use a sieve to remove leaves and twigs.

I learned that when the lights go out at 2:15 in the am and the clouds are as thick as your brother’s head, it is not just dark, it takes dark to another level. I literally couldn’t see my hand in front of my face and now understood the saying, “as dark as the inside of a cow.” Matches…where did I put those matches? Shit! I left that off my list too.

I learned that all things don’t look better during the light of day, especially if the eye of the hurricane hits at dawn. “Was that the wicked witch on her bicycle?” Couldn’t have been. The rain was falling sideways, and she wasn’t melting.  How long before a tree comes down?

Later in the evening on the first Friday, as the clouds cleared, I ventured outside to view the damage, not too bad in the yard. A lot of debris, a door off a garage, three greenhouse covers damaged, and the limb that had taken the power stack off the side of my house. I wish I hadn’t ventured out of the yard. A goodly number of trees down. Plenty of firewood for several winters.

Long after the hurricane had left us, I had plenty of time for contemplation. The dark seemed to aid the process.

One of my most immediate thoughts was that my forefathers and mothers were made of much sterner stock than I was. Somehow, they survived with outdoor toilets, potbellied stoves, kerosene lamps, and cast-iron frying pans greased up with lard and bacon grease. I didn’t have any lard or bacon grease or a chicken to pluck and fry up.

My only contact with the outside world was a battery powered AM/FM radio that only picked up one station, B 93.7, a contemporary pop channel. As I feared, I am not very contemporary or pop and will invest in a better battery powered radio before the next natural disaster. I didn’t realize radio stations were so repetitive. I heard “A Bar Song” by Shaboozey so much I started to sing along…and it is still playing in a loop in my head.

One thing I didn’t learn. No matter how many times I walked down a hallway and flipped the light switch, the lights weren’t coming on. The first thing I did when the power came back? I flipped that switch just to make sure it worked.

Funny story, unless you were there. With the total darkness the animal life becomes emboldened. As the clock struck one am one night, Cora, my bratty little blue heeler, decided she needed to go out for a potty break and Quigley decided she needed an escort. Cora came back and Quigley decided he was going to stay out…and I let him, leaving the door cracked and the mosquito net in place.

Two hours later, I had fallen asleep and was rudely awakened when all hell broke loose. Seems a possum decided to check out the opened door and both Quigley and Cora decided the animal didn’t belong. Luckily, she made it to the pecan tree just outside. I found both puppies gazing heavenward. My flashlight lit up two beady little eyes staring back at me.

Two days after the lights came back on the little critter decided to try it again. Quigley is still outside barking at him/her.

I don’t want to make light of the situation. I learned how lucky I was compared to the people around me, especially those in Western North Carlina. I have been to many of these places. One of the last drives I took with my wife before she passed was through Chimney Rock. It is unfathomable that there is so much misery and destruction. Chimney Rock, along with many other places, was wiped out.

Mother Nature is a bitch, and I believe we humans are fueling her anger. We cut down her trees and put up paved parking lots and tall stacks belching smoke. With eight billion people, concrete has increased, replacing much of the green, and temperatures have soared with it. It couldn’t be climate change, could it? No, its just Revelations being played out and the end of times.

Much to my mental and emotional discomfort, I once again learned that no matter how devastating the situation, politics are always in play. I probably sat in the dark too long.

No, I definately sat in the dark too long.

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Don Miller’s latest offering is “Food for Thought.” Essays from the mind of The Mad Southerner.