Tag Archives: Americana

Video-Main Street in Woodstock, Virginia during the Forties

This is another in a series of short home movies that I’ve been editing (while learning how to edit:).  It’s from a collection filmed by the late (uncle) Sam Smith of Woodstock, Virginia , my hometown. Continue reading Video-Main Street in Woodstock, Virginia during the Forties

Aunt B’s Pictures

I was working in Aunt B’s basement yesterday, and she followed me down the stairs and began rummaging through some boxes, looking at old pictures.  The more that I looked, the more that I was amazed. Continue reading Aunt B’s Pictures

House Painter for Hire

Back before the days of OSHA, on a 32-foot extension ladder far, far away, a young man took his first steps up the ladder for a short career as a house painter.

I was in-between jobs, to the point of being desperate for gas money.  Not Mad Max desperate, but pretty close.  A friend told me of a friend who had his own little painting business and that he was looking for some temporary help during the summertime. Continue reading House Painter for Hire

Self Medication

I was sitting at a bar one afternoon, hanging out with the regulars, just sipping on a beer and shooting the breeze.  I hadn’t been born or raised in the area, but had morphed into a bar fly through osmosis, averaging four or five visits a week, and talking a good game while possessing the ability to drink to an unhealthy level while still working a job for 60 hours a week. That made you normal, just one of the guys. Continue reading Self Medication

You Know You’re in a Small Town if…

This is to be read at a Henny Youngman/Groucho Marx tempo.

So my Mom’s living in South Carolina and buys a retirement home up in the hills of the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia.  As is often the case, I’m not working and volunteer to live in the house while freeloading as I paint and remodel the new home.

Mom sends me a book to be delivered at the local Post Office.  She has a small P.O. Box at the office, but it’s not big enough to hold a book.

I walk in for the first time ever.

“Hi.  Yeeeah.  My Mom sent a book for me from South Carolina”

The lone Post Office employee tells me to wait for a moment and surveys a pile of packages behind her.  Then she grabs one.

“Here you go!”

“Thanks”

I went back to my car with the package, strapped-up with my seat belt, and started the engine.  And then it dawned on me.  I never mentioned my name or my Mom’s.  Never a P.O. number.  Just that my Mom had sent me a packaged book.

And it was the right package!

You know you’re in a small town if…