There is something bittersweet about derelict old houses. They evoke a nostalgic curiosity of bygone eras. Who were the people who built these places? What kind of life did they lead? What caused these houses to be abandoned? Was it some kind of tragedy, or worse, the end of a family’s lineage? Maybe it was just apathy. Succeeding generations didn’t care enough to appreciate what they had. They failed to maintain and upgrade. The attraction of the shiny and new was just too much to resist. The solidly built family home required too much effort and expense to remodel, so it was abandoned for mobile homes and flimsy new houses with all the modern conveniences.

The people who lived in these places contributed to the evolution of our culture. These abandoned structures provide a historical continuity. Their existence prevents a kind of cultural Alzheimer’s. They stand as a reminder that people lived and died here. Children’s laughter once echoed from their walls. But what was built with hope and optimism is ending with sadness and faded glory. Without someone seeing what once was and caring enough to see what could be, without taking on the monumental task of restoration, they will continue to deteriorate.

In some ways, these houses can be viewed as a metaphor for our country. We have abandoned many of the solid principles on which the United States was built in favor of flimsy new ideas that have led us to a faded glory. We were once the most admired nation in history, but we are well on our way to becoming one of the most reviled. The past eight years has shown an America that is vulnerable to attack. It has exposed an underbelly of cruelty and greed in our government and institutions that has brought us to the brink. What has worked for generations has been replaced with whatever works for the moment. Me first has replaced country first. We are a nation divided by fear and mistrust.

But…… there is hope.

We have elected a man who seems to recognize the value of this old house we call America, and he is bent on restoration. But he desperately needs our help. We must recognize that our focus has to be on restoration rather than abandonment. We must put aside our fear and mistrust and roll up our sleeves. Our foundation is strong, but the remodeling effort is going to be long and costly. I have faith in this country. Together we can do it. Yes we can.

So far, it’s showered about 3 inches worth, and the shower is supposed to last all day. I could take a couple of shots at the folks at the National Weather Service, but that would be like picking on a cripple. Despite all the science, and Viper Radars, and the voodoo hoodoo, weather forecasting is still basically a crapshoot. The most accurate forecast I can recall was from George Carlin as Al Sleet, the hippy-dippy weatherman. It went something like, “light… followed by increasing darkness…”

In case you’ve forgotten, we’re only two-thirds of the way thru fall. Technically, winter is still 5 and 1/2 weeks away. By the time spring rolls around, we may be about as entertained by cold and snow as we care to be, but for today at least, I plan to bundle up at some point and go outside and enjoy the scenery. I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to get a photo of the 6-point buck that strolled across the ridge 20 feet from the back door at 5:30 am.

Yesterday, I set out to do a little toodling around the backroads and take a few pictures. I slapped Bernie Coveney’s Whispering Pines CD into the player and drove down Red Hollow Road to see what I could see. The weather was turning out to be much better than had been predicted and I was in good spirits. I found some great photo ops and began mentally composing another puff piece about the beauty of Wythe County one can find off the beaten path. I took pictures of an old mill stream, some wonderful derelict buildings, and some beautiful farmscapes. Nice, huh? But, by the time I got home, I was sad and angry.

What was it that ruined what had otherwise been a terrific day?

LITTER.

Waste that is UNLAWFULLY disposed of on our roadsides. And folks, for the most part, it’s not the tourists who are doing this; it is the residents of this county.

Here is a photo I took of a swinging bridge across a creek that runs alongside Crockett’s Crossing, a backroad off a backroad off a backroad. Crockett’s Crossing is a narrow, gravel road barely wide enough for a single car to travel. For the last mile or so, there are no houses.

Directly across from this charming scene I found this:

It’s a little hard to tell from this picture, but the items you see include a glass jar, a plastic water bottle, an aluminum can, and a fast food carton. There were other items around that I could not include in the frame: a cardboard beer carton, beer bottles, a plastic bag, and more fastfood containers. Here are a few statistics for you to ponder on types of litter and how long they stay in our environment:

Cigarette Butts 1-5 years
Aluminum Cans 80-100 years
Orange Peels Up to 2 years
Plastic Bags 10-20 years
Tin Cans 50 years
Wool Socks 1-5 years
Glass Bottles 1,000,000 years
Styrofoam Undetermined
Plastic Bottles FOREVER

Francis McAndrews in his widely used textbook, Environmental Psychology, states that the most prolific litter offenders include women, youth, men under 25, rural dwellers, hunters, fishermen, truck drivers, and construction workers. I include myself in this list. I am a smoker. Until about six months ago, I thought nothing of tossing a cigarette butt out the window, but no more. My cigarette butts now stay where they belong–in the ashtray. Outside the car, I knock the fire off when I’m finished and put the butt either in a trash receptacle or my pocket. I have never thrown other trash out the window and never will.

Litter is not just unsightly, it causes real problems. A lot of litter in this area, particularly styrofoam, eventually ends up in our waterways, killing fish and wildlife who injest it thinking it is food. Paper cups and plastic bottles retain water that serves as a breeding ground for disease-causing mosquitoes. Piles of trash attract rodents. Litter begets litter. If we throw our trash along the roadside, it tells tourists and others passing thru our county that we don’t give a damn, so why should they? It is a fact that some businesses take into consideration the amount of litter in an area before deciding wheter to locate there. People who don’t care enough to keep up the place where they live, will not care enough to make good employees.

We live in a time when most of us feel that the majority of the problems we face as a society are beyond our control. Gas prices, global warming, a crashing economy, growing unemployment - these are all things that we as individuals feel powerless to control. But litter is a growing problem we can do something about.

It’s very simple. To begin with, make this pledge:

I WILL NOT LITTER, NOR WILL I ALLOW THOSE UNDER MY INFLUENCE TO LITTER.

In the weeks and months to come as I become more knowledgeable on the subject, I will have more to say. In the meantime, please let me hear from you. I welcome your opinions and suggestions.

The Jackson’s Ferry area is about 2 miles south of our humble little cottage, less than that as the crow flies. It is one of the more historic areas in SW Virginia dating to pre-Colonial days. It is also one of the most scenic. The view from the bridge than spans the New River where the ferry once ran is breathtakingly beautiful. I posted a picture I took from the bridge a few months ago. The area around the bridge is rife with postcard photo opportunities. Here are a few for your perusal.

(Note to Earlene L. and Georgia H. - I received your comments, but they were garbled. Please resend them, and thanks for visiting my blog.)

There’s an old expression I’m sure you’ve heard, “I’d rather be lucky than good.” When it comes to photography, I’m not all that good, but sometimes I’m pretty lucky. I took this photo on my way back from Floyd Saturday afternoon just as the sun was dipping behind the mountain. For just a few seconds, there was an explosion of color. Compare this picture with the one from the previous post, and you can see I’ve been pretty lucky with sunsets twice in a row.

The theory of genetic memory describes a variety of processes by which genetic material confers an individual’s past history. This theory would suggest that we are born with memories imprinted on us by our ancestors. Maybe this theory explains the tranquility that settles within me when I watch the sunset over the New River. And why I felt like after a lifetime of yearning for a distant place, I was finally returning home when I moved here to these mountains.

I grew up in the North Carolina Piedmont on the edge of the area known as the Sandhills. My boyhood home is as different from my current home as night is from day. However, I feel more at home here than I ever did in the place where I grew up. Genetic memory is the only thing that makes any sense.

My European ancestors where mostly from Scotland. They were a fiercely independent bunch who lived along the River Dee in the Scottish Highlands. They lived in isolation much like the people of Appalachia did for centuries, many of whom are also of Scottish descent. There are numerous parallels between the two. Both areas possess great scenic beauty. Highlanders were rebels and outlaws who refused to bend to the will of the English government until forced. Even then, the remoteness of the region made foreign governance difficult. To this day, they remain critical of government and powerful institutions. The same stubborn blood that cources thru their veins, courses thru the veins of the people of Appalachia. There is a feeling of pride and independence in these hills unlike any I’ve experienced anyplace else.

I’ve never been to my ancestoral home, though I hope to one day. If I don’t make it though, this place will do just fine.

                                                             OBAMA!

Our (cough) high speed internet service is provided by a company called Wild Blue. At least it does when the moon is in the right congress, and the weather co-operates, and the wind doesn’t blow the pine trees too far to the left. Needless to say, the “service” has been pretty iffy lately. For 95 bucks, a technician came out to look at things after we had been without a connection for 5 days. He made a few adjustments and gave me two options: cut down my favorite white pine, or spend $150 for a pole on which to move the dish. Nevermind that it has only been a year since it was installed, and the rocket scientist who did the initial installation (at a cost of $300) put it behind the tree in the first place. See where this is going?

To say that we’re not happy with our options is to put it mildly. If we can actually speak to someone who can gives us a definitive answer, we hope to switch to Citizen’s Cable. According to several friends, that may be like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. I’m told Citizen’s has their own problems, but at least they have an office in Floyd where I can go postal with any complaints if necessary.

That said, things have been interesting here on the Creek lately. Anne is in DC for her week in the office this month, leaving me here with our 14 year old dog, Tasha, and 4 year old cat, Sassy.

Tasha is part Keeshon and part psychotic. She requires a great deal of human contact which is standard for her breed. That’s not too difficult when there are two of us around to provide it, but when it’s just me, having a senile, arthritic canine follow (literally) your every move can be a challenge. And the cat? Well, Sassy has been in a snit and refuses to have anything to do with either me or the dog.

Domestic animals like routine. In fact, they demand routine. Any interruption in their routine leads to unhappiness. When you leave a dog alone, even for an afternoon, they think you’re gone for good. It can lead to anxiety which can lead to the destruction of some of your most favored possessions. That’s why they’re so happy when you return. Jumping all over you and peeing on the rug is just their way of saying, “I’m glad you’re not dead, now feed me.” And cats? Who knows what the hell the cat is thinking. Sassy just seems to tolerate me. Thankfully, Anne will be back Saturday.

The strictist definition of family is a group of people affiliated by consanguinity. That is, they are related by blood.

Last month I went back to my hometown in North Carolina for a family reunion.  This was an extended family reunion, the 55th year in a row that it has been held and the first time I’ve attended in more than forty-five years. My great-grandfather was named Gentry Dees. Folks called him Gent, or “The” Gent. He had two brothers named Franklin and Malachi, and the hundred or so attendees at this year’s event were the descendents of those three brothers. Except for my particular branch, I have not seen most of these people since I was a child. There were a great many that I have never met. It was sort of strange walking into a room full of 2nd and 3rd cousins. When I initially arrived, I only knew 4 or 5 people in the room, yet the strong family genes made a lot of folks look familiar.

The next couple of hours were a lot of fun. There were relatives from 5 states at the gathering. I could sit down at a table full of strangers and within a matter of seconds establish my bonifides and relationship to them. I sat down with strangers but ended up conversing with family. We had a pot luck lunch and it was cool seeing how “old family” recipes were interpreted by other branches of the family. There was a bulletin board of old family photos, some dating back nearly a hundred years. I could see part of myself, the consanguinious affiliation, in those old photographs.

There was an unexpected kind of warmth that emanated from the room that day. It’s not often that one receives instant love and acceptance from a room full of strangers. I came away feeling somehow more grounded with a greater sense of who I am and where I came from. There is an old expression that goes something like “family are the people who will take you in when no one else will” or words to that effect. It certainly seems to be the case with my family anyway.

My 2nd cousin Eddie Dees, the mayor of Hope Mills, NC