Come for the scenery, stay for the food.
Not the beginning of a joke.
Not the beginning of a tragic story.
Not the beginning of a world-changing summit.
Just strangers meeting in an Italian coffee shop in West Virginia, of all places.
Joe and Gloria, the Americans, trying gelato for the first time. They take their little dessert cups to the sunroom and wait for their coffee. It’s a cozy little room with seating that’s just right to encourage conversation, even with people you don’t know.
Enter Nadia and Ester. Young ladies in their twenties. We exchange hellos and other pleasantries.
Ester is outgoing; Nadia a little more quiet.
Gloria is outgoing; Joe a little more quiet.
So Ester and Gloria talk. Ester says she will soon begin working at the Italian coffee shop we are now in. Gloria inquires about her accent. Persian, she says, but everyone thinks she’s Italian because she currently works at a local pizzeria. She is from Iran. Nadia is from Iraq. They’ve been in the United States a few years, each coming under different circumstances. They met here and became friends.
Gradually, Joe and Nadia enter the conversation. They all talk about language (Farsi, Arabic, English, and Mandarin), they talk about work, they talk about coffee. They don’t talk about politics.
Until Roberto walks into the room. He can’t help himself. He owns this coffee shop and has worked hard to make it a success. He’s a successful business person. He’s a nice guy and is very, very outgoing. And he has a heart for the less fortunate. He expresses his heart in terms of worldwide political and economic philosophies.
The others listen, the others being the Iranian, the Iraqi, and the two Americans. Geopolitics is beyond their realm of understanding, really. What countries do is beyond their control. They speak of respect for individuals and love and taking care of your neighbor in need. That’s all.
Ester says she is blessed to be in America. Joe says America is blessed to have her.
Roberto would have gone on all night, spirited man that he is. But it’s time to go. Roberto is very pleased with the international exchange that has just occurred. Everyone seems pleased. There are smiles all around. Nadia gives Gloria a hug.
We’re different. We’re the same. We have different perspectives, but we all want the same thing.
Just to live a life with meaning.
This is what the world should be.
Editor’s Note: This is a true story. The names have been changed to respect privacy.
A warm summer’s evening in Small Town USA, and some of the best music you’ll hear anywhere. And that, my friends, is no exaggeration. There will be no bad video uploads from me to taint the amazing musicianship of this family. Look them up yourself. You know how do to that. Or take a look at Zeb’s take on Turkey in the Straw.
But they’re more than just another bluegrass band. Zeb introduced one number as a prog rock (progressive rock) that Samantha wrote, and you could definitely hear the classical influence. And Zeb’s got more than a little southern rock in his soul. I don’t know if the two write together, but their play together is so tight, even as they take turns with virtuoso solos. And there’s Dad – Bud – in the background, the glue that holds everything together as he puts down the bass line and keeps the rhythm. The star of tomorrow? Yeah, that’s Owen, who at twelve years old has a stage presence well beyond his years. Mom? She shows up onstage in some of the old photos on the internet, but she’s behind the scenes now, doing what all moms do, I imagine, and that’s keeping everybody in line as she manages the group.
In Small Town USA, they don’t care if you run all over the place taking pictures. And backstage is just behind the yellow caution tape, where I got a chance to talk to Zeb and Owen and tell them how much I appreciated their music. A great night, for sure. Check out my photos below.
Are you a surfer or a cowboy?
What?
Are you a surfer or a cowboy?
Uh…cowboy?
Loaded question. Especially for me as a fifth grader from West Virginia, living in Houston, Texas. The wrong answer gets you in trouble. Gets you beat up.
Not really. At least not in the fifth grade. It was more of a starting point for a friendly argument. But what the heck did I know about being a cowboy or a surfer?
Cowboys are tough guys. Wear hats and boots. Eat beans by the campfire. Drink coffee in a tin cup. Ride the range on a horse.
Surfers are hip. Catch the wave and hang ten. Get all the cool girls. Tool around the beach in a dune buggy.
But in the fifth grade, I’d never ridden a surfboard. Still haven’t. I had a cowboy hat and boots. So yeah, I was a cowboy.
Tribalism. Even back then.
But there’s something about the cowboy lifestyle that’s still appealing to me. It’s simple. Not a lot of flash. Lots of time for thinking things out as you do your job. It’s the kind of life suited for someone who doesn’t mind being alone now and then. And the hats. Yeah, pull the brim down when you ride into town. And for the cowboy, love is strong and forever.
The fire had burned to coals and he lay looking up at the stars in their places and the hot belt of matter that ran the chord of the dark vault overhead and he put his hands on the ground at either side of him and pressed them against the earth and in that coldly burning canopy of black he slowly turned dead center to the world, all of it taut and trembling and moving enormous and alive under his hands.
What’s her name? said Rawlins in the darkness.
Alejandra. Her name is Alejandra.
— Cormac McCarthy, from All the Pretty Horses
photo credit: iStock Photography
This, my friends from around the world, is what Appalachian music is all about. Not that I don’t love other music. Just check out my Music page. (Note to self: Post some Foo Fighters, man.) But everything about this video speaks to my world. Zeb in his ball cap and his very non-millennial, non-hipster, Appalachian beard. The sled leaning against the wall. The wood-burning stove. Even the name. Zeb.
And how can he be so good? So easy?
The best part is Zeb Snyder and the Snyder Family Band is coming to my little town of St. Albans in June for the first ever YakFest. Can’t wait.
There were a few people on the beach, walking slowly, their heads down, scanning the sand for surprises from the deep that always appeared after a storm. A yellow umbrella pitched in the sand near the surf caught her eye and though she couldn’t see, she knew there was an old man underneath, his skin dark and leathery from his years in the sun, his shirt – a short-sleeved button-up, despite the cool weather – bleached a pale blue. There was a tackle box by his side and an always empty creel, though surely he would catch something sometime. Surely. He would sit in his beach chair and smile anyway, as if he knew he were part of the scene, part of what the people from the city expected to see when they came with their pale flesh, soon to be pink flesh, to walk on the hard, grainy sands and evaluate their lives and make big plans that would carry them back to their tedious jobs and their monotonous neighborhoods with a feeling of hope that would last a couple of weeks, maybe three, before comfortable complacency engulfed them once again and relieved them of any responsibility of living a more meaningful life. And it always happened on days like this one, not in the bright of a too hot day where the heat and lotions and kids crying in the distance worked to produce nothing better than a brief nap, followed by a short walk to the water to cool the feet, maybe venture in up to the knees, but never farther. No, the deep contemplation happened on the overcast days where the obligatory roasting in the sun was excused and those with no inclination for inner reflection went to the mall, while those who still had hope went on the long walk to the pier.
copyright 2018, joseph e bird, from the novel Heather Girl.
Yesterday I drove from Lexington to Louisville along the Bluegrass Parkway. It was mile after mile of picturesque, bucolic, pastoral scenery, on what had to be the most beautiful day of the year. It is impossible to have gloomy thoughts while making this drive on a day like that.
Utterly impossible.
How can one ponder the human condition when the day is perfect?
How can a writer let his imagination wander to the struggles of mankind when the grass is so green?
Writers need the the grit of the dark alley.
Writers need the longing promise of the empty train platform.
Writers at least need some rain, or run-down barns, or the crusty old farm hand thinking about his past.
There’s another part of Kentucky – eastern Kentucky – that’s ripe for stories. But not this stretch of highway.
No way.
Photo Credit: Walt Roycraft. The photo is the property of GRW, my employer. The architects of GRW design, among other things, equine facilities. This is the site of one of our projects, the Adena Springs Horse Farm in Paris, Kentucky. Very much like the scenery I passed on my way to Louisville.
he comes from the land down under, this Lignum Draco.
and he travels.
and he takes amazing photographs.
he just finished an intriguing series from havana.
you have to see.
one click on the link below and you’ll be transported.
what’s that building?
it used to be a store.
a store?
people used to go there to buy things.
what kind of things?
clothes. paint. medicine. watches. televisions. tools.
why didn’t they just order it?
it was different then. people wanted to see what they were getting.
why?
i don’t know. something about feeling the heft of a hammer in your hands. seeing how a watch looked on your wrist. or shoes on your feet.
seems like a lot of trouble.
i guess. sometimes they’d sell hot dogs out front. or brownies.
why?
cheerleaders raising money for uniforms. veterans helping veterans.
what’s a veteran?
people who went to war defending our freedom.
war is bad, isn’t it?
yeah. it can get complicated.
why is there so much pavement in front?
people used to drive cars.
you mean ride in cars?
no. they actually drove cars. everybody had a car. they’d keep it at home and drive it to the store.
no way.
yes. and they’d leave their cars all over the pavement while they went in the store and shopped.
that’s just crazy.
maybe. but it worked. i met your grandmother in that store.
was she shopping?
no. she was a cashier.
what’s that?
we used to buy things with money. dollar bills. coins. we’d pay the cashier before we left with whatever we bought.
grandma was a cashier?
i went to the store a lot. bought things i really didn’t need just for the chance to talk to her.
why didn’t you use an app?
you can’t flirt with an app.
why do you need to flirt?
you don’t. it’s just part of the dance.
you danced, grandpa?
oh yeah. we danced, all right.
so what’s with the rocket?
beats me. we never did figure that out.
The first photo is the former K-Mart in my small town, closed just a few weeks ago. It’s unsettling how deserted the parking lot is now. To the right, just out of the frame, a Kroger store continues to thrive, so it’s not quite the apocalypse. Not yet. The sign in the second photo is soliciting tenants for the vacant building. In the background, across the highway on the riverbank, is the rocket of St. Albans. I’ve lived here all (most) of my life and have no idea why we have a rocket on the riverbank by the highway.
images and story copyright 2018, joseph e bird
Joseph E Bird 