The bluegrass will live on

It appeared only a smidgen strange to me that a group of old men would get together every Thursday at Denison University to pick and strum their favorite, well-known bluegrass tunes in Slayter student union's lowest level, also affectionately known as "the pit." Sitting alongside them would be wives and close friends, often singing, just as often chatting while the cherished weekly routine unfolded. I label this gathering as strange only because these seasoned musicians had no official ties to the university, nor to any student interest groups, at least none that I was aware of. These gentlemen played their bluegrass for themselves, certainly not with an end of catching students' attention and interest. If I remember correctly, they were present and played even in summer and during our winter semester break, when student numbers on campus were slim to none. (My own residency on campus one summer and significant winter break time logged on the hill with our basketball practices and games spur memories of their consistent musical presence.). That isn't to say though that students are unwelcome listeners. "The pit's" design is such that those bluegrass medleys float up the ever-active principle Slayter staircase. Students occasionally pull up a chair or nonchalantly occupy a table nearby, soaking in the live version of whatever alternative might await them on a playlist or their favorite Pandora station. Never would I have thought during my Denison years that those familiar bluegrass sounds would eventually define the musical culture of where I live. But here I am, living in the heart of bluegrass country and today's reflection comes from the vibrant life found amid this impassioned, traditional art form.

One of my first experiences with bluegrass here in Virginia came in the second week of being in Jonesville. My supervisor and his family suggested we go as a staff to a local hang-out called Wayne's Place. As told to me, Wayne was a stand-up, community-minded gentleman who lived in the area and died just a couple short years ago. Close to his home, where his wife still resides, there is a sizable building with a multi-purpose sort of feel, including a small stage and various patriotic decorations that grace the walls. Wayne's place serves as a community center that keeps its doors open solely from donation funding. Nearly every Friday and Saturday night, you can find (if you can actually find Wayne's Place way back in its holler') fills up with folks yearning to tap their toes and pick a good bluegrass tune or two (or many). The Friday that we went, our dinner contribution included a large platter of macaroni and cheese and coleslaw. On arriving, we found that a spread of several soups, sandwiches, deviled eggs, other vegetable dishes, pies, cakes, donuts and mounds of cornbread, among numerous other dishes awaited the crowd that had gathered. Talk about a full table of bounty to enjoy once the meal had been blessed.

Then the playing began. A handful of guitar players, a base, a banjo or two, a mandolin, and even a dulcimer, not to mention the enthusiastic spoons player in the audience, played classic tune after classic bluegrass tune. We even enjoyed the sweet crooning of the sweetest 3 or 4-year-old little girl who adamantly told her grandfather that she wanted to sing; she actually knew the vast majority of the words to her couple of songs and was far from shy about "kissing" the microphone to make sure her audience could hear the inevitably sad ballad of her tunes. We stayed til around 9:00 PM that evening, but I have no doubt that the dedicated regulars of Wayne's Place were easily there til midnight-- picking, singing, laughing, dancing, and just sharing life with one another.

Since then, I've had the pleasure of listening to two other official bands here at our ASP center in Jonesville. Typically, we try and host a "culture night" once weekly for our volunteers, and what could be more culturally appropriate, more true to southern artistic roots or a more enjoyable way to spend an evening on the porch here in Jonesville than with a local bluegrass band taking the stage to show off their stuff? The Town Branch Bluegrass band provided our first cultural entertainment here on the porch. With a traditional sound and talented crew, Town Branch is a well-known name in the region and finds themselves steadily booked with gigs (noted from the local paper's repeated mentions of their performances at many a local festival).

Most recently, we've played host for the Sycamore Hollow Band who was also received with a captivated attention and excellent reviews from our volunteers. The following cultural observation, though, is the thing that made me most excited about experiencing their music: everyone in the band is so YOUNG! While I had friends at Denison who studied and focused on performing bluegrass music, very few of them were dedicated to this style of music as something that had been pulsing through their veins since they could walk. Several of Sycamore Hollow's musicians are probably younger than me, and I feel like I could say with a certain assurance that none of them are older than 30.

I became so enthused about this, I think, because bluegrass music is so intimately tied to the heart of a Southern, and especially Appalachian, identity. While Sycamore Hollow calls themselves an "Outlaw Bluegrass band," attributable to their mixing of traditional bluegrass with their own upbeat, musical twists, bluegrass music is reaching a new generation in very relevant ways through the ways they write and perform their music. In just one evening of observing these musicians act out age-old traditions, the talent and soul that Sycamore Hollow pours into every tune was evident. And when you have a lead vocalist who is both playing on a camouflage guitar and who looks like he could be, maybe, 18 years old but sings with the dark, smooth, mature voice of Johnny Cash (Josh Turner anyone?), I believe you've probably won over a few in the audience already. Yes, I believe the invaluable, distinctly Appalachian legend of bluegrass will live on.

On blazin' new trails and avoiding small, striped creatures

Living in the mountains for the first time was one of the more exciting, highly anticipated aspects of moving to Western Virginia for my Lilly fellowship position with ASP. Some of the first on-line perusing I did of the region was a careful search of available state parks: how far they are from our center, their amenities (camping, hiking, biking, etc.), their natural features of note, etc. Knowing already that any city of significant size is at least an hour's drive from Jonesville, plus keeping my humble fellowship salary in mind, I had an early, vested interest in exploring the cheaper adventures that would be available. My interest in locations suitable for mountain biking increased exponentially at the end of August when my adopted family at Trinity Friends Church (Van Wert, Ohio) surprised me with an extraordinary end-of-my-youth-ministry present: a new mountain bike! Much like many people who don their cars with pet names, I think I would like to bestow my Mongoose mountain bike with a name of her own. Maybe something appropriate to the mongoose's natural qualities or habitat? But I digress...

We've been enjoying some abnormally warm October weather here in Jonesville; it was in the 80's all weekend, bright and sunny in Lee county! With similar, fantastic weather last week as well, I wanted to take advantage of the favorable conditions to visit a state park and break in my new set of wheels before colder conditions set in. And so, my hopes were set into action last Monday alongside two fellow staff members. We drove to Duffield and Virginia's Natural Tunnel State Park for a day of hiking, biking, and general outdoor enjoyment. This particular park boasts a natural limestone tunnel of 850 feet in length and (up to) 10 stories in height, traversed daily by up to 10 coal trains and, on the day we visited, maintenance vehicles keeping the tracks and their vicinity clear for aforementioned industrial transit. Unfortunately, individuals can't actually pass on foot through the tunnel itself, but even from the mouth of this natural monstrosity, I was amazed and absorbed by a feeling of smallness.

The other spot of legend within the park is Lovers' Leap, historically alleged jumping point for two young lovers, a Cherokee young woman and Shawnee young man, who were forbidden to marry one another by their respective Native American tribes. The recorded story is that, denied this opportunity to join in marriage here on Earth, the pair jumped from the pinnacle together to their deaths below, hopeful for a chance to be reunited in their next lives. Our trek on Monday carried us to the edge of Lovers' Leap, all the way down to the mouth of the Natural Tunnel, and through some other beautiful wooded areas, still awaiting autumn's colorful palette of yellows, oranges and reds. My subsequent biking adventure traced the 2-mile Purchase Ridge Trail, ultimately leading to the Purchase Ridge Outlook. What a picture-perfect (a real shame my camera died within 5 minutes of arriving at the park and turning it on to take pictures), stereotypical Appalachian, expansive view awaited me from that outlook. A few trees had been cut down in order to reveal the mountain-overlapping-mountain, seemingly never-ending sky view from this point. In my opinion though, those few trees were a small price to be paid, and easily replanted elsewhere in the forest, for the well-appreciated moment of respite that awaited me following the work of pedaling up the mountain.

I'll conclude my reflections today with the most humorous moment of my Natural Tunnel State Park adventure. On returning from the summit of the Purchase Ridge Trail, my peripheral vision and its recognition of minor rustling at the side of the trail, ahead of me, triggered a "BRAKE!" signal in my brain. I did brake, surprisingly quickly, and found myself approximately 10 feet away, staring face-to-face with a baby skunk. You know how kittens have that wispy, barely there fur in their first months of life? This kit (i.e. baby skunk) had that same wispy fur on his tail and we both froze momentarily. He glanced my way for a couple moments, without further reaction, then meandered further up the hill with a sort of slow waddle. When he was no less than 15 feet off the hiking/biking path, I remembered that my cell phone has a camera and that I should be snapping a picture of this close encounter! Needless to say, with the less-than-average image quality of my phone's camera, the minuscule size of the critter and the distance he had already put between himself and the path, I couldn't get a shot that depicted him as any more than a semi-distinguishable, black ball of fuzz. I assure you however, that I was close enough to look this little dude in the eye. My obvious first question was: could I have been sprayed? and upon further research after arriving back in Jonesville, I learned the following:

• skunks typically give birth annually to their young, a litter of between 2 and 10 kits, by June of each year
• skunks have the ability to spray just a month after being born
• skunks typically use their spray as a last resort when they feel threatened because it takes their body a number of days, after expelling all the available fluid, to refill these defensive anal glands
• skunks have a very poor sense of sight, generally being unable to see objects further than 10 feet away but an excellent accuracy rate in spraying their "stink juice," with spot-on projections to targets over 10 feet away

Moral of the story, I probably could have been sprayed by our striped, actually very cute friend on the path the other day. I think God had mercy on me (and my coworkers who had to ride back with me in the same van!) though, via the skunk's poor eyesight and my functional peripheral vision. Hopefully my bike shall see the trails again soon (sans skunks) and meanwhile, there are an abundance of volunteers to meet and home repairs to be tackled in Jonesville.