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.