‘Is this for the blog? If so, no comment’
Interesting trend developing, particularly among local officials.
If I call for comment on a story that I’m working on for The Floyd Press, I generally — but not always — get cooperation.
But if I call wanting comment for something I’m writing for this web site, then I increasingly get "no comment."
"I don’t want to be quoted on your blog — not now, not ever," a Floyd County official told me recently. But he will go on the record if I’m writing for the paper.
I’m not sure where this fear of appearing on the pages of Blue Ridge Muse comes from but I find it both amusing and confusing.
Day trip: Abingdon
Hadn’t been to Abingdon since returning to Southwestern Virginia five years ago, so I took a motorcycle ride over the mountains on U.S. 58 from Independence to Damascus and headed for the home of the Barter Theater on a blustery Sunday.
As expected, the outlying areas of the town have expanded a lot in 40 plus years but Main Street with the Barter Theater (above) and the Martha Washington Inn (below) looked pretty much the same as my last visit there in 1965.
The Barter has expanded with a second stage and cafe across the street and the brick sidewalks add a nice, historic touch to the town.
Came back via U.S . 11 and past the Apple Festival in Chilhowie. Not much traffic. The crowd seemed small.
The Post discovers Southwestern Virginia…again
Every four or five years, a writer for The Washington Post ventures out of the bowels of Northern Virginia and heads for the Southwestern end of the state to discover the Blue Ridge, mountain music…and Floyd.
The Post has written about Floyd a number of times, featured the town on the cover of their Weekend Magazine, and included stories about the town in tours of The Crooked Road.
This time, writer Melanie D.G. Kaplan ventured down into our area of the Old Dominion to discover life beyond the megapolis of Northern Virginia.
I arrive at the Marathon gas station in Stuart, Va., just above the North Carolina border, to find a man eating beans out of a can and a collection of animal heads peering down at an understocked convenience store. I am at my first stop on the Crooked Road: Virginia’s Music Heritage Trail — a 250-mile path of music venues in the Blue Ridge and Appalachian regions of southwestern Virginia — and I don’t see anything that resembles the jam session I expected.
Hmmm. She missed the first real stop on the Crooked Road by the time she got to Stuart but what the heck.
The Crooked Road mostly follows Route 58, the longest roadway in the state; this part of it is a two-lane mountain route that passes idyllic farms, moseying cows, sparkling rivers. The trail covers 10 counties, three cities and 19 towns, including Floyd, Galax, Damascus, Abingdon and Bristol along the North Carolina and Tennessee borders, then Norton and Clintwood bordering Kentucky. In every spot, nearly every day of the week, you’re bound to find a concert, a festival, a square dance or a jam. Take it slow, and keep both hands on the wheel. The route looks like an intestine on my GPS device, and, as a local says, "The roads are so curvy, you can almost see your taillights ’round the bends." As I leave the jam Thursday night, after 9, G.C. gives me a stern warning about deer on my hour-long mountain drive to a B&B in Floyd. "They’ll jump outta nowhere, right in front of your car," he says. "Be careful."
Friday night in Floyd (home to Floyd County’s one stoplight), there’s no question that I’m in the right spot for music. I show up early at the Floyd Country Store for the Friday Night Jamboree. The store, celebrating its centennial next year, sells everything from Carhartt overalls to sweet potato biscuit mix and still records sales in a steno notebook. The show is held in the back of the store, but when the weather’s nice, pockets of music (and some nights, as many as 1,000 people) spill out onto the street. An hour before the first band, always gospel, I find seats saved, some with tap shoes.
Woody Crenshaw, the store’s owner, welcomes everyone. "We have two gallons of blueberries picked in Floyd County this week, and we’re making fresh blueberry milkshakes!" he announces. After gospel hour, another band takes the stage, and flat-foot dancing, which looks a lot like Irish dance, begins. The crowd is largely "down-home folk," old-time regulars who come every week. But there are also Floyd transplants who have moved here recently for the music and the farming, a handful of students from nearby Virginia Tech and visitors from as far away as Denver and Edinburgh, Scotland.
Well, at least no one here was eating beans out of a can. She went on to visit Galax and Hiltons, which she said was "the middle of nowhere."
To Nothern Virginians, any place more than 60 miles south of the District of Columbia is usually "the middle of nowhere."
Such is life down here in the sticks…which is the way we like it.
A new day and a new beginning
As the sun rises over the Blue Ridge Parkway in Southwestern Virginia, a new day and a new beginning starts in our lives as well.
Amy and I will be heading in new directions as we begin the process of closing our studio and gallery at The Village Green and embark on different challenges for the future.
Friends expressed concern over by depressed mood of late but I’m getting over it. As my grandmother used to say, "you’ve still got your health." Yes, we do and we have much more. My political news web site will celebrate 15 years on the World Wide Web on Thursday, October 1. Sports season is in full swing and my cameras will capture the action for The Floyd Press and this web site. I have a good gig covering county government and local courts for The Press as well.
I start collecting Social Security at the first of the year, which marks the beginning of semi-retirement. Amy still has years to go before she reaches retirement age so she is returning to work to bolster her contributions to the system.
Yes, we face challenges as we rebuild from the loss of our second business in five years but a life without challenge is a life without purpose.
We will make it.
Two losses in one night
Floyd County High School’s varsity football team lost their homecoming game to Fort Chiswell Friday night.
The Buffaloes lost more than the game: They also lost starting quarterback Matt Hollandsworth (right), who left the game with a broken collarbone in the second quarter.
Playing on a cold, misty night, the Buffaloes never got on track. Fort Chiswell trapped Hollandworth for a safety on the first quarter, then scored to go up 8-0 after a two-point conversion failed. The Buffaloes finally got on the board in the second quarter but Hollandworth went down on two-point conversion attempt.
Referees called back a touchdown from a fumble recovery because of a block from the back.
The loss drops the Buffaloes to 1-3. We haven’t heard yet how long Hollandsworth is expected to be out but we wish him a full and speedy recovery.
Wayne Bradburn
Amy and I lost a dear friend today. Wayne Bradburn died at 6:30 a.m. after a brave fight with cancer.
Wayne managed the Jacksonville Center when we opened Blue Ridge Creative there in 2004 as one of the original anchor tenants. He was a fun-loving, caring man who hugged every woman he met. He quickly became a friend and remained one after we closed the business and left the center at the end of 2006.
When he came by Blue Ridge Muse several months back with the news of his cancer, he faced the disease with his trademark optimism.
Wayne usually had a smile on his face and a good word to say. When he retired from The Jacksonville Center, the organization lost a valuable resource and an excellent spokesman.
We will miss him. We will miss him a lot.
Black & white
As a journalist, I tend to see things in black & white. Grey areas are not an option.
That tendency is enhanced by my recovery from alcoholism. Reformed addicts often become more judgmental of others. Some call it being "holier than thou."
This combination often results in harsh, blunt language that — upon reflection — can inflict more harm than good and incite passions that replace reasoned debate. There are big differences between incite and insight. I’m a master at inciting. I’m not so good at using language that provides insight.
In recent weeks, I’ve had two tense confrontations with county officials over something I’ve written. Both officials later apologized and we sat down and ironed out our differences afterward.
Both confrontations stemmed from my use of a specific word or phrase in an article. In both cases, I could have said it differently. I’m not going to inflame the situation by repeating those words or phrases here. I’ve gone back and looked at what I said and changed the words. I will take a second look at other articles as well. When changes are made, a note will be added to the article.
Words, when used in an inflammatory way, can become blunt instruments. When that happens, the chances of reasonable discussion on an important issue are too often lost.
I’m a passionate man with strong beliefs, driven by emotion and concern. My wife often tells me that I too often care too much about things and lose perspective . As usual, she’s right.
I’ve pissed off a lot of people since coming back to Floyd County in 2004. I’ve stirred a lot of emotions and generated many debates.
While my intentions may have been good, my approach too often was not.
I can’t undo the past but I can learn from it. Three are better ways. With luck, and help from friends, I can and will find them. It doesn’t mean I’m going to stop caring. It does mean, however, that I will take more care in my choice of words.
An apology
On September 3, I wrote about Data Knight 365 missing the deadline for closing on the purchase of property for its proposed data center at the Commerce Park on Christiansburg Pike in Floyd County.
In the article, I said Jack Russell, chairman of the Economic Development Authority, had "gone underground" and could not be reached for comment.
I did not know at the time that Jack’s mother had died and that he was dealing with the loss of a loved one.
I have corrected the article written on September 3 to note the reason that he was unavailable for comment and both apologize and offer my condolences for his and his family’s loss.
Failure was never an option…until now
Lost in thought a lot lately. Time for retrospective and more than a little second-guessing.
We came to Floyd County with so much enthusiasm and hope in 2004. After 39 years in journalism and politics, much of it on the road, I looked forward to a more relaxed lifestyle and a laid-back life in the country.
Well, relaxed I’m not. Laid back? Not hardly. After five years, I’m worn out, exhausted both mentally and physically and wondering, for the first time in five years, if Amy and I made the right decision to leave the hustle and bustle of Washington.
I’m sure there are more than a few out there who agree that we should have stayed in Washington. God knows I’ve caused enough trouble over the past several months. Made a bunch of people mad. Hardly a day goes by without at least one threat on my voice mail or an angry, hate-filled, anonymous diatribe via email.
Deciding to close our studio — my second business failure in five years — has brought on a deep funk. I try to lose myself in work but it doesn’t help. Failure does not sit well with someone who has enjoyed success for most of his life. Amy, the eternal optimist of the Thompson household, tries valiantly to bring me out of this depression but even her ever-cheerful perkiness isn’t working this time.
It’s not just the closing of two businesses: They are just the culmination of things. I find myself extremely bothered the recent debate over an announced data center in the Commerce Park. Maybe I shouldn’t care but I do. I certainly shouldn’t care so much.
I worry that Floyd County may be losing its soul. Some of my friends say I’m overreacting. I hope so.
I’ve overcome a lot in my life: a 23-year-denial of alcoholism followed by a 15 year battle facing the beast; the loss of loved ones under tragic circumstances and enough exposure to enough death and horror to make Stephen King retch.
But the malaise brought on by the latest events and setbacks won’t let go. Even 100 miles on my motorcycle can’t put my mind at ease. I keep looking back, wondering where and why things went wrong and second-guessing the decisions that led our current situation.
It’s not my nature to be morose or to dwell on the past, but lately I have been guilty of both. As age 62 approaches, the prospect of starting over scares the hell out of me — and I’ve never been one to scare easily.
Doctors call it clinical depression. Amy calls it being human. I call it unacceptable and will, in time, work through it, so please bear with me until I do.
(Edited on 9/24/09 to amend some language)