Monday, July 26, 2010

Virginia man

Richmond

I look at pictures and I am puzzled that I was the one behind the camera. It has already become a blur, which means several things -- it was fun, it was fast, and it was foreign.

The boyfriend and I were cozy, so it was hard to leave. And it's already a bit of a stomach drop to leave on a Greyhound at midnight. It got worse in Baltimore at 4 am. That's when I start to doubt my own self. The supposed identity of, at least, someone who loves to travel. But then I transferred to a comfier bus where I got two seats. I fell asleep staring out the window and when I woke up the Virginia sun was on my face.

I arrived at 8:30 in the morning. I asked a cabby where More Street was, since I was deathly in need of coffee (and, for reasons hard to explain, I wanted to feel like I was my own traveler before being fetched by S.T.) I shouldered my big old backpack just like I have always pictured and walked. The buildings were old and lovely. The streets were empty and more industrial than commercial. Some guy walked behind me (which always prickles my neck) and said something. I kept walking somewhat nervously. He just wanted to know if it was hot enough for me.

I sat at the More Street Cafe. I ordered bacon, eggs, coffee and pancakes. The waitress and the woman behind the counter were friendly. I overheard Southern and other accents. On the television the horrible news suggested calling a tip line if I spotted the pictured woman. She apparently grew a lot of weed plants.

S.T. and T.R. (not the president, thankfully) arrived. I felt shy, but not like I was suddenly over my head in anything. Going to visit people you don't know is strange. On the bus, and the days before, it had become some impossible thing. I'm a girl, I can't be trusting strange men to not cut me into little pieces.

But I trust my mama's instincts and to a lesser extent my own. If I learn to separate my anxiety and paranoia from my instincts, I might be okay with this stuff.

Anyway. I was steered into the infamous Old Crow wagon which S.T. bought some years ago. It was a friendly van, worthy of its impressive legacy. Not a creeper van. When I got inside, possibly because I sharing the backseat with Willie Watson's signature, I decided this couldn't have been a bad plan. If I was in the back of a van with a stranger and a man I was meeting for the third time and I didn't feel unsafe, I was powerful.

As the temperature rose to dance in the early triple digits, I was steered around Richmond. We saw Monument Row, with its grandiose General Lee, Washington, and other heroes. We saw the Confederate congress. The grave of Jefferson Davis. S.T. bent down in one graveyard to rip grass off the grave of a fellow (I've lost track of him already) he's fond of. I had a moment of wanting to help, but figured that might have been disrespectful. I do like anybody who will bend down to clean off a grave.

Throughout the day there was weed and chicken. We passed the James River and it was just beautiful. There were railroad track beside it and lovely trees. My camera finger itched. There were Southern trees I couldn't identify, antebellum houses... It all came together and said, this is not home. You, Lucy, are in a foreign place. Is it any wonder I didn't call my mother and boyfriend?

We saw Civil War photos, Confederate currency (always a great way to make it real, at least for me), and -- though I'm conflicted on the conflict - a truly nauseating statue of Lincoln playing around with a little kid. (Rule of thumb, president plus child is always creepy.)

Eventually we went back to S.T.'s place to meet J.K., who plays fiddle while S.T. plays guitar. They busk a lot. I have never found a busker as good as they are. We drank some amazing iced tea and ate our chicken. J.K. and S.T. started playing tunes. Moonshine in a mason jar (yes some things are that perfect) was brought out. I looked at S.T.'s photos and his stuffed mink/weasel perched angrily on the mantel. Other people's homes, particularly those belonging to rather mythic characters, are always interesting to be in. It was a nice, comfortable place. I marveled that I didn't feel more out of place. I was a bit of a tag-a-long, still. Though an officially invited one. Maybe that's the youngest kid syndrome. Both literal, and me feeling like I'm always chasing after folks who know something I don't. Or they're different somehow.

Or just the obvious things in common that the three older folks had with each other cannot be escaped. Which is just fine. T.R. was a darling, however. She's a mom and she was motherly enough to make me feel safe, but was plenty girlfriendy so that I felt in on the adventure.

We went to Maymount a few hours early. We smoked in the party lot and drank more moonshine. It was impossibly hot so even after we started drinking melted cooler ice, it was even better than the shine. S.T. and J.K. played "Ruben's Train" and "Big Sciota" and "Fall on My Knees" until the sweat stung their eyes, then played more. I saw on the grass, talked to T.R. and took a few hundred pictures.

I was just glad to sit there, sweating away with these people. Things feel perfect and all things possible when you're drinking moonshine from a jar in 103 degree Richmond while your friend plays "Sally Anne" for spare bills.

We almost missed the start of Old Crow, as the boys played right through Ben Kweller's opening act. We sneaked through the crowd. The other folks got beers, I stuck with overpriced water. And Old Crow brought their magic.

It was a blistering night in Richmond, my favorite band was sweating and looking and sounding like angels. I was with friends, or at least good folks.

There's always somebody drunk punching you to get a better look at "Wagon Wheel." Your feet always go numb and you might faint from heat. But this is my religion. No fear, everything's possible and not the everyday. That's what Old Crow's given me more than any other musicians so far. And they've already given me poetry and aching for things and history and what's new around the next bend.

And Richmond says, old time still exists. I haven't slept on a haystack yet, but it's possible.