On June sixth, after a night in a hillside motel in the foot hills just west of Winston Salem, we continued the ascent the next day until by early afternoon we arrived in the new hometown, a main street nestled away in a hidden valley, a flat patch of green surrounded by towering mountains, rounded by age and softened by thick green forests. This was a place no one knew about.
The town’s 1,800 residents knew who we were, that we were one of the new families when they saw us drive in. New families were a relatively recent phenomenon. The textile plant would be hiring about 300 people, but the initial management team would be brought in. My father was a member of that team. We were one of a dozen new families.
As the summer worn on and the whole world outside the valley seemed to be a little overheated, the valley stayed cool, removed from the center, removed from the source of the heat. This valley was on the edge of the world. Anything coming from the center would take a long time to the valley and the valley would be its last destination.
And yet from this valley I saw the moon landing and I saw deer grazing along the tree line across the creek; I saw photos of Woodstock and My Lai and Kent State, and I took long walks on deserted snow covered streets in the quiet of the night; I heard stories and watched video of what was occurring beyond the Iron Mountain Ridge and Butler Mountain, but the valley remained untouched.
I was removed.
The Blue Ridge has offered shelter for many people from many places who for many reasons have needed a safe place. Even though I did not choose the retreat, the time between the deaths of Bobby Kennedy and Jimmy Hendrix, the valley gave me shelter from the cultural storm that engulfed the world, allowing me to watch from a safe distance.