Oh Shenandoah

I wandered down to the Shenandoah to say goodbye. Stupid to have not gotten down there sooner, but there was a lot going on up the hill. Smoked venison, Kentucky Bourbon, blues and folk and more blues and some hot pickin'. Chuck E Costa's haunting voice and heart-rending storytelling. The Biscuit Rollers: blues with smiles that are somehow bigger than their bellies. I had never been to Virginia before. I was driving through those wide open hills with rolls of hay out in the fields, thinking, "this is a little like where my Pappy is from." Rusted out water tanks abandoned in cow pastures, vans by the side of the road that look a little more permanent than just parked. A grandmother pushing her lawnmower around in the heat of noon with a tube-top and short shorts, leisurely two-handed grip on the handle and a cigarette balanced on the corner of her mouth. "McCain Country" billboarded on every other lawn. Really not so different from Maine. Parts of Maine, anyway. The "real" Maine. Like Jonathan Byrd said: "Maine is so far north it's south."

I couldn't help but think that the Shendandoah looked a little like a pond, though: reeds and maybe lillies, some kind of water plants just growing right out to the middle. Sleepy. Good fishing, I hear. Great, actually, if you believe the stories, and I do. The 20 hour stopover wasn't enough. Not enough to do any fishing, not enough to even learn everyone's names. I hate that. The nicest people you'd ever meet, and you get introduced all at once at the precise time that all you're thinking about is finding the portajohn and seeing if the "all lanes closed" on 95 Southbound has got you bumped out of your first set. It didn't.

I was just a stone's throw away from the river in the Winnebago where I bunked down (this is another story entirely, but very comfortable) but I didn't get down to it until just before I left. Foggy morning, everybody kicking around, not wanting to leave. A row of cars with open trunks, waiting for the packing to finish. A huge maple tree with four elephantine trunks. Ashes in the fire pit and styrofoam cups of weak black coffee. That drawl I always forget I'm missing until I hear it again. Good friends, all. Can't wait to get back.