REFLECTIONS on Snapshots…a memoir

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.

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