ABINGDON, Va.—The morning started off with rain and cool weather. This was followed by oppressive sunshine; the kind of heat that causes one to recall a Sunday school tale involving three Hebrew children.
“Is the weather always this unpredictable?” I asked an older lady on the sidewalk.
“Welcome to Virginny,” she said.
Her accent was more Tennessee than Virginny. Her hair was white. She wore a pink visor, Velcro shoes, and was eating an ice cream cone.
“Everybody always cusses the weather,” she said, licking her cone, “but nobody ever does anything about it.”
Abingdon is 15 miles from the Tennessee border. Nestled in the Appalachian Mountains. The lady has lived here all her life. I know this because she told me all about herself as ice cream dripped all over her shirt.
“Your ice cream is dripping on your chest,” I pointed out.
“Why are you looking at my chest?” she said, taking another lick.
We stood on Main Street. It was like entering the 1920s. Brick sidewalks. Old street lights. Antique houses. Hanging ferns. Church spires.
There are no chain restaurants on Main, everything is independently owned. In a way, it is almost jarring to see no Hardee’s. No Starbucks. No Dunkin’.
“We have more restaurants per capita than New York, San Francisco, or New Orleans,” the lady said. “We are proud of that.”
Abingdon doesn’t have many capita. About 8,000 live here. So it only took 34 restaurants to earn this culinary distinction. But still.
“We’ve worked so hard to keep this town frozen in time. We have a lot of people who move here because Abingdon is the way our country used to be.”
Her shirt now looked like a fresh Jackson Pollock painting.
The town does look and feel like a snapshot of Americana. The way all small towns once were before Walmart came onto the scene. In this city, one gets the feeling that stuff is actually going on.
Last week, for example, Abingdon had the Virginia Highlands Festival. It was almost two weeks of live music, stages, booths, tents, painters, woodworkers, craftspeople, food, face painting, and pure fun. People came from all over the nation.
“The festival is like Woodstock except we kept our clothes on.” She smiles. “Mostly.”
It’s hard not to be impressed with this place. Namely, because Abingdon is the kind of America I miss. The kind with small shops, hardware stores, barbershops, general stores, and—most importantly—actual people walking around.
“Look at all these people,” the older woman said, a thin trail of vanilla leaking down her chin. “We have real people here. Real customers. And guess what? Most of them are locals.”
The locals eat, they shop, they hang out, and support their small businesses. They are young. They are old. They are middle-aged. They are young marrieds. They wear Velcro shoes.
“And it’s always like this,” the woman said. “That’s why this town is thriving. Because we don’t just buy everything on Amazon. We support our merchants. Because we care about each other.”
She licked her sticky forearm then used a napkin to wipe her shirt. The ice cream had carved a vanilla trail all the way into her armpit.
“There ain’t many small towns like ours left,” she said.
The same, of course, could be said of the older woman.
3 comments
stephenpe - August 10, 2024 7:06 pm
Sound like you found Shangri-la…..small towns are wonderful. I grew up in one and now live in one.
Kathy Singleton - August 11, 2024 2:19 am
I just came from your show at the Paramount and LOVED it!! You told stories about folks I knew, described the church my husband grew up in & sang all the songs I love. Then I came home to this story about Abingdon…my home..my heart. Thank you for the joy you brought tonight and for the light you shed on out beautiful little town. By the way, I’m glad you finally figured out you were in Tennessee.
Phillip Townsend - August 11, 2024 4:37 am
Just came through Abingdon on our way home from your show at the Paramount Bristol. Abingdon…Damascus…Mountain City…then Zionville, NC. Thanks for a great evening.