Returning to Glen Alpine from my home in Florida the summer of 1999, to gather childhood memories, I turned off Highway 70, curved around where the depot had once stood, and made my way across the railroad tracks and up past Hennessee's Store. As I turned right onto Davis Street, I noticed the August day lilies that once swayed in a line dance with the crepe myrtles opposite them were as absent this morning as the hums of the buzz saws at Papa Pitts' lumber plant, or the chatter of daily gossip out the street. The town seemed on canvas, like the frozen moment between symphonic movements, when the conductor's baton pivots precisely between sound and silence. For that second or two, the past hung, fog- like in a haunting quietness, as if the raucous '50's music or Willie Smith's blaring loud speakers admonishing us for the sins of wearing short shorts were only a downbeat beyond the mute button and would, at any moment, lift. At first the memories came in a whisper, then suddenly, with deafening exuberance. This once burgeoning, bustling village, this slice of Blue Ridge Mountain country, seemed to beg for a resurrection of the glory days of her past… with my memories and boxes full of Daddy's photos in my attic, I felt obliged.