They call it “the stoplight” up in Floyd County.

The reason they call it The Stoplight in Floyd County is because that…?  That stoplight you see right there?

It’s the only one in the entire county.

You can be several towns away, I found, and ask directions to anywhere in the town of Floyd, and they will give you directions based on that light.  Go south from the stoplight about two blocks, take a left, and you’re there.

Oddly enough, people don’t miss them a bit.

*  *  *

My plans have been abbreviated a bit.  (There’s a stray dog named Wilford that might play into that abbreviation, but the legend of the Stray Magnet in my forehead has been largely understated.)  Because I only have one weekend instead of two, today was all about exploring Floyd for most of the day, hit the first few acts at the Country Store (south from the light by about a block), and then zipping off to Galax for the night to see the live radio broadcast at the Rex Theater.

There’s too much to do in these two towns for just one day.  The people here are in no hurry — probably from the lack of stoplights to mark the time — and it’s rubbing off on me today.

I don’t mind a bit.

*  *  *

Floyd, VA is in Floyd County, which is largely punctuated by the Blue Ridge Parkway’s presence, running through the blue-and-green hills on the backbone of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  It’s fantastically beautiful, to the point where, at times, the vistas cease to feel real.  It looks like a painting, or an imaginary CGI landscape, or something you dreamed once when you were much younger and much more optimistic.  Rocky Knob, for instance, is literally at the crest of the mountains, and from its overlooks you can see nearly a full-circle view as if you’re standing on the very top of the world.

About ten miles outside of the town of Floyd (and also south from the stoplight on highway 8), the Mabry Mill is a historic site on the Blue Ridge Parkway, maintained by the US Department of the Interior (or so the signs say).    The signs also say that it’s the most photographed site on the entire parkway, and I can see why:

What the signs don’t tell you, at first, is that it’s also a living historical park, with all kinds of exhibits about colonial life in Appalachia — with a working blacksmith shop, a residence of the time (complete with spinning wheels and looms — no kidding…), and the mill itself functions as a mill, so you can buy cornmeal and buckwheat flour and such, made right there on the premises.

I might have gone a little nuts in the gift shop.  I barely resisted buying a ton of alpaca yarn from a local farm (alpaca, sadly, sometimes makes me sneeze a little, but it was so soft that I nearly overlooked that whole allergy thing.), but gave in and bought every Foxfire book they had.  (If you haven’t seen these, they’re books with little how-tos on just about every topic pertaining to mountain/self-sufficient living.  They’ve been around for a long time; I remember getting them from the library when I was a kid.  Volumes 1-4 were out then, I believe, and now they’re up past #12.  Swoonworthy, for sure.)

The ladies behind the counter at the Mill were chatting happily when I thunked down the eight zillion pounds of Foxfire books.  The cashier, Jenn, checked to see if they were all the same price, and surprisingly, they weren’t.  The two thinner volumes (which weren’t even the newest ones), were a dollar more for no discernible reason.

Faye, the other lady, checked to see if the prices were right.  They were.

Jenn raised an eyebrow.  “They’re the thin ones.  Why would they be more?”

“Because,” Faye told us conspiratorially, “those are the good ones.”

*  *  *

Every Friday night, the destination of choice for Crooked Road travellers and Floyd locals is the Floyd Country Store’s Friday Jamboree.  Several old-time and mountain music bands play in the store, and local musicians gather outside for an impromptu (but regular — it’s a paradox.) jam session to entertain the overflow.

And overflow, it does.  I bought my ticket at four p.m., with the show starting at six-thirty, and the seats were almost all taken.  I ended up standing in the back  (after buying what could only be called a metric ton of CDs and some black raspberry ice cream that they hand-dip from the bakery side of the store.) and talking to groups of people,  most of whom were locals, but some were from as far away as Spain.

Yes, Spain.  The country.

The stage is small and wooden.  Traditional instruments are scattered around it on display — the mandolin on the wall, an upright bass gleaming in the stagelights, a dobro on a stand edged in chrome and ornately carved.  Four microphones, modern and black, look almost out of place.

The Lord is my shepherd,
The Lord walks beside me
as I walk upon my way.

Bluegrass Inspirations open with banjo-accompanied gospel tunes as old as the hills surrounding the town.  An old man with a guitar, grey-haired and passionate, with an amazing drawl-filled voice opens with a prayer.  Everyone says Amen.

He tells me
Keep your eyes upon Me
and you will not stray…

People mill by me in tap shoes, ready to dance.  They jingle and ring, announcing their intentions.

The man next to me leans in to tell me that most nights, by the second band, you can’t walk through the store because everyone is dancing.  He says it spills out into the street and that, on a good night, there are nearly four hundred dancers, and as many outside as in.

He asks me to dance.  I tell him I have the rhythm of a trout out of water.  He tells me it won’t matter by the third song.

I believe him.

*  *  *

The road from Floyd to Galax winds through the hills.  You pay attention to speed limits here.  As one person put it, there are places along the road where, if you were to careen off the side, you’d die of starvation before you’d hit the ground.  The mountains aren’t for the faint of heart.

Shadows are stretching long and wide across the road, but there’s time to linger before the sun goes down. Every hill you come over has a view more spectacular than the last.  It sounds like lip service, but it’s true — if you think you’d get tired seeing hill after hill, or that your eyes would eventually get jaded to it all…well, the road won’t let that happen.

It literally took my breath away a few times.  I had to remind myself to breathe.

*  *  *

Every Friday night for the past decade, listeners to WBRF (98.1 FM, for those localish) have been invited to come listen to the live broadcast of Blue Ridge Backroads at the Rex Theater in Galax.  It’s a 400-seat theater just down the road from the Galax Smokehouse (which is, apparently, amazing, but sadly, was in the middle of a street fair that made for a long wait for seats, so I had to skip it for now.), with a painted mountain backdrop on its small stage.  There’s a place up front for dancers, and when I got there (late), TrueGrass was already playing and a dozen or so dancers were stomping and playing the spoons.

The music of the mountains moves people.  Even though the dancers at the front aren’t many in number, no one in the theater is still.  Feet tap, heads bob, some stand and dance at their seats in a hybridized clogging two-step style.

Everyone is humming along, whether or not they know the tune.

I am not immune.

Two young girls are running the aisles.  Nobody bats a lash.  Here, we are all family, dancing to a common tune.

Down the road
Down the road,
Got a pretty little girl waiting
down the road.

*  *  *

Tomorrow’s a long day of driving.  I’m going to try to make it to Hiltons, to be at the Carter Family Fold for the big Saturday night show, stay the night, and see Cumberland Gap before hitting the rest of the things I want to see on the way back on Sunday.

Just make a right at The Stoplight and head straight on ’til the coalfields…

*  *  *

(two small administrative p.s.es.)

1.  My scanner’s back in North Carolina, since it weighs more than a baby elephant.  Drawings will be posted when I get there.  I’m making them, but have no way to really show you yet.  Hang tight.

2.  Three sock patterns have come from today — Moonshiners, for Franklin County’s reputation as the moonshine capitol of the country during Prohibition, which they’re still proud of to this day.  One unnamed pattern that mimics the splitwood fences of the Blue Ridge.  And one lacy toe-up pattern named after the New River, which, ironically, is one of the oldest rivers in the country, and the only one that flows from south to north.  Another’s in design, named for Rocky Knob.  Pictures when the prototypes are done.