Floydiana is a serial book, not a blog. Chapter by chapter it explores life in Floyd, a town and county in Southern Virginia. The area’s mixture of people is as unlikely as its scenery is “Look at That!”
Floydiana does not refer to a place–unlike Michiana, a seven-county region of southwest Michigan and northern Indiana. Or unlike Floydada, the name of a community in Texas. Instead it is a collection–like Shakespeareana, which compiles materials by and about the playwright. Pronounced Floydee-Anna rather than Floy-Diana, it records stories, people, places, ways, and even animals that characterize the improbable Land of Floyd County, Virginia.
It does not (as a friend pretended to think) capture the Virginian adventures of an Indiana Jones, although the author does wear a hat to protect his generous scalp. Another friend mis-remembered the title as Floydorama. How about Floydlandia? No such debt to Sibelius. Nor does this enterprise have anything to do with Floy Diane, who grew up in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. And it has no connection with Floydioli, a hand-made vegetarian stuffed pasta that uses local and organic ingredients. The book reflects the author’s earlier inclination to write about local South Carolina, where he directed the Horry County Oral History Project (please see hcohp.net), a long-term project that resulted in archived video- and audiotapes, transcriptions, and two books.
More immediately, Floydiana grows out of a column in the Floyd Press. When it failed to maintain its inches, the writer bundled it up and carried it to WordPress, where it thrived. Baby Blog, however, climbed out of its cradle and became an electronic book like the Randall’s Angel in Goggles: Earthly Scriptures (Amazon.com).
In doing so Floydiana defied WordPress–a rather miraculous platform for posts–which are chronological, extemporaneous, brief, and relatively ephemeral, although archived. Floydiana commandeered WP’s ability to revise and re-order material as well as to insert photographs. In doing so it aimed for a book’s potential as thematic, expansive, purposefully sequenced, much-revised, and relatively permanent. A word of caution: a blog-banana can taste as good as a book-apple.
Composed during the years 2013-2016 inclusive, much of Floydiana turned out to be generously communal in that twenty-five other writers contributed whole or partial chapters. Many others shared brief quotations.
Like the wagons that hauled grain to its now-defunct watermills, Floyd County offers an axle-busting load of grist to a writer. The fields of Floyd produce a mixture of the congenial, beautiful, diverse, disturbing, fascinating, and occasionally dangerous.
The county, located on the Blue Ridge Plateau in the southwest part of the state, points its northeastern corner toward Roanoke, or “Ro’noke.” (Map of Virginia counties.) The Blue Ridge Parkway pretty much defines its ragged northeast-to-southwest border.
The county has 15,000-16,000 residents and one proper town of about 450 people, also called Floyd, which boasts the county’s single traffic light at the nexus of State Route 8 (which runs 55 miles from the North Carolina line to U.S. Route 11 in Christiansburg, VA); and U.S. Highway 221 (which runs from Florida to Lynchburg, VA). This icon’s tricolor progression that can be spotted across Dodd Creek valley from the Wellses’ retirement house, built on a ridge unlike traditional and practical farm houses.
Although most of the county’s residents are white, it is a mixture of Appalachian-stock families, folks of hippy heritage that go back to the 1970s, other residents who are countercultural to one degree or another, artisans, people who moved here for the landscape and atmosphere, and some who returned after pursuing opportunity or serving Uncle Sam.
As for employment, about two-thirds of the workforce–aside from those who are home-based–commutes to somewhere else. Many ply the Internet, as more than partial compensation for the loss of former jobs—for example a veterinarian from Kentucky who fabricates and sells horse-rescue harnesses. How did one tourist learn about the area? “I Googled ‘pottery and bed & breakfasts.’”
Now about your septuagenarian author (b. 1942). Almost four decades ago he wrote a column for a Conway, South Carolina, newspaper that became the nucleus for Along the Waccamaw: A Yankee Discovers a Home by the River (Algonquin 1990). He has a passion to render life with ink, as evidenced by the journal he has maintained, by pen and then pixel, since 1960, when it was assigned his last semester of high school. He is so fervent, too, about visual compositions, that he was diagnosed with L.A.D. (“Looka Dat!”) and prescribed a cell-phone camera for this book.
Although raised as a white Midwestern suburbanite Christian Republican, he has retained only the complexion. He postponed his sophomore year of college to travel around the world with friend Tom. Before retiring to Virginia he lived in Wyoming and Connecticut as well as other Southern states: Tennessee, North Carolina, Mississippi, and South Carolina–this last place where Randall and Marjory spent a third of a century and raised two children.
The author salutes the no-fewer-than-twenty-five contributors to Floydiana. He also recognizes two precedents for the book. Familiar Faces was an accomplishment of Ms. Morgan Cain’s. A series of more than sixty interviews with Floydians both home-grown and transplanted, it was printed in the Floyd Press, each with a photograph, before she graduated from Floyd High School in 2005. The audiotapes will be digitized and deposited in the Old Church Gallery.
“The Road Less Traveled” ran biweekly in the Floyd Press from 2004 until 2011. In this column Fred First celebrated the county’s natural resources and, backed by research, cast a chilly eye on threats to the health of Mother Earth. Fred has also written two books on the area, Slow Road Home and What We Hold in Our Hands, takes ace photographs, and keeps a well-read blog, “Fragments from Floyd.” Floydiana is heavily and happily indebted to Fred for his technical expertise as well as to Randall’s other friends and his family.
The author dedicates Floydiana to the late Gregory Scott Wells, his brother, who along with his wife drew Randall and Marjory to Floyd County. Although we are here without him, without him we would not be here.
In 2012 the Jacksonville Center for the Arts sponsored Portrait of Floyd, Virginia. Mr. Glen McClure of Norfolk took seventy-four black-and-white photographs of residents, mainly downtown, many of the photos then included in a booklet and exhibited in the gallery. This album of six-dozen-plus residents underlines the diversity of the indefinite “Floyd,” both its individuals and groups. Just consider the retirees–each deserves an autobiography. In Appendix 2 you will find the girlhood memories of Betty “Sunny” Bernardine, who was born in 1926 and raised in a country town in Illinois, where her parents moved from Chicago to grow their own food during the Depression.
Here is another album of citizens, along with a little sociology offered by your perspicacious author.
There tends to be a wide political rift between the Soapstones–quarried from local rock–and the Bridgestones, who rubber-rolled here from elsewhere. But the county’s unlikely mix of citizens, besides being stimulating, may be placid to a surprising degree, thanks partly to the in-migrants of the early 1970s who helped inoculate the natives against xenophobia.
One clerk at the Rt. 8 Dollar store speaks with a Long Island accent and lives in Hillsville, about 45 minutes and 450 curves away. At the Rt. 221 Dollar, near the Post Office, a woman parked a truck displaying a sticker “I am the Gun Lobby.” A little bumptious, she wore cowgirl boots, jeans, and a shirt that didn’t mind moving up and down at the bare midriff. Another customer wore a net-like cap, a print dress, gray stockings, sensible shoes and spectacles, along with the expression “I am invisible.” Another time, one of her denominational sisters would steer out of the Food Lion parking lot with her right hand as she held a cell phone to her net-cap. At Floyd Pharmacy a customer reported that the child accompanying her had woken up before dawn to buy a tractor with Daddy; another told the clerk in rich New Yorkese that she still owned property in Brooklyn. One of the most prominent members of the alternative community came here decades ago from where else but British Columbia. One native, Susan Osborne, is an osteopath who sings, paints, plays the violin, runs the Barter Clinic, and tends to wear a long-skirted Royal Peasant ensemble. more »
In about 1847 a thirteen-year old arrived in Jacksonville, Virginia—later named Floyd. No family stories explain how he traveled there, how long the journey took, who might have accompanied him, or how he felt about his lost past and unknown future. But over the decades he painted his own venerable portrait.
Born in Bedford, Virginia, to the wife of a country doctor. James Lucas Tompkins was eventually joined by twelve more siblings. Too many eggs for one carton, so the oldest was sent to live with his mother’s brother, Dr. Tazewell Headen, and his wife. Because the couple had no children–youngsters at that time were part of the labor force–James worked at their mercantile store. He also attended Oxford Academy in town and later worked at other stores in the area.
The seen defines the seer; the seer defines the seen. O reader fortunate! Your prophetic author, armed and eyed with the HaruSpex, apprehends the Bald Truth!
Granted, everyone perceives a different Floyd County. Little Margie Keith as she watches her father butcher hogs; a farmer attending with satisfaction as his tractor turns noise and grass to hay; a former soldier returning or settling; a tourist descending from the Parkway and passing a sample yurt, then an arty-dairy barn, then the relic of a water tower; an old-timer pulling turnips at dusk before they freeze; a driver zipping across one branch or another of the Little River to work in an adjacent county; a family drifting or paddling down the same river and encountering a party of back-to-the-birthday-suiters.
If you begin at The Stoplight and drive northward on Rt. 221, then make four left-turns, and don’t mind dust or mud on the vehicle, you will come to Anahata. (A place not to be confused with the secluded Ananda Way, another borrowing from Sanskrit.) Its handsome lodge, built on a hillside, includes a large kitchen that displays this sign:
Observation without evaluation is the highest form of intelligence. J. Krishnamurti.
This aphorism may have a corollary that was asserted by Napoleon Hill, a motivational writer: “Another weakness found in altogether too many people is the habit of measuring everything, and everyone, by their own impressions and beliefs” (Think and Grow Rich, 1937). But the very singling-out of any phenomenon from the blur of background–does it not constitute a judgment? “Such-and-such is worth noticing.” How to distinguish “see” from “see into”?
Both observation and judgment drag along some degree of bias. To reduce it, your author employs the HaruSpex!
Its circumference bears eleven gems, an odd number that is proudly prime, authentic, maybe idiosyncratic (think of Lords a-leaping). The set runs clockwise, counterclockwise, and both at once. Yet it complements the central jewel to form a concurrent, harmonious dozen. A Cyclopian zodiac? This even number, ten-plus-two, is multi-divisible, twelve being the Platonic egg carton,the Days of Christmas, and the ancient formula of knuckle-reckoning. In this early kind of digital computation, the index finger of one hand pokes the knuckles of the other one’s fingers: so three knuckles times four fingers equals twelve. Two hands = 24 bushels of Nile-swollen, Pyramid-building, wheat.
Here is the first in a series of seer-certified glimpses. Read and grow rich!