I meet with a man who runs a program that guarantees to take a troubled child and get them through college. He does good work, but I feel his methods are very specific to American culture and to the mountains. I am glad to have come here and I will report on the work that he does, but it is a dead end is as far as my work. In the evening the town becomes even more busy as people move in for the 4th of July celebrations. The park at the front of the Buncome County Courthouse slopes toward a stage and I estimate that 10,000 people fill the area. Don't let the name fool you. The Courthouse fills a city block and stands 12 stories high. Made in sturdy mountain granite, it imposes itself on the surrounding buildings who all seem to lean away slightly, as it afraid. The crowd is made up of families for the most part, but young people too. There is no drinking, children play around flowerbeds and the elderly are made way for by everyone else. It is done automatically, without thought or in expectation and unexpectedly, the gentle grace of these people touches me deeply. The show starts, the compare asks if there is anyone in the park from outside the continental US of A. About six hands go up including mine. We are welcomed by the entire park. Appelatchian music is played, bluegrass and blues. I feel in it the rhythm of the old country and the vibrancy of the new. But then a clog dancing troupe are introduced - average age about 12. Their energy and skills amaze and hypnotise me but some part of my brain ticks off the styles that have gone into the mix that has made up this art form. I saw clog dancers in Lancashire once who would easily recognise the foot shuffle that starts the dance and brings the dancer to the music, Scottish girls at any highland show today could easily join with these, their lost cousins and know by instinct the steps and jigs that complicate and stylise their movements around the stage. And as each dancer exited they turned and kicked one foot in a exact replication of the rearing horse movement that makes Irish dancing so distinctive.
The crowd are appreciative, young people dance along and as it ends the crowd move off to watch fireworks. I talk to a knowledgeable, educated man and woman who have come up from Georgia for the holiday. They are passionate about their roots in Ulster, but they know nothing of how their people came to this place, of Queen Annes Test Act of 1703, of the two great migrations of presbyterians in the 18th Century. They don't think it matters, I think they are wrong, but I do not say so. They are good people and I do not want to be hectoring or lecturing them. We part with mutual respect. The park is empty, as is usual there is no litter and delicate flowers and plants jounce in the gentle breeze as they did before.
I meet a man who is playing a strange instrument the next morning, at a street market. It looks a little like a small, thin lute and sounds like a dulcimer and although he is playing wonderful, original bluegrass music, I hear in its tones that it yearns to do more. It yearns to learn of the music of the Moors, and of the Desert. The man makes these from mountain oak, cherry and maple. I buy one for my boy as I know it will respect him and he will teach it well and that together they will shape the wood into a form of rare beauty and sophia in time.
I drive back down the mountains to Charlotte in the afternoon. The temperature rises steadily to 100 F by the time I arrive at my hotel. The car must go back in the morning, so I check in and go to sit by the pool to read my notes and make sense of my schedule over the next few days. The receptionist is a woman with a thick New Jersey accent and she helps me with many small but important tasks, like printing out my Amtrack ticket for the next day. She gives me a voucher for the steakhouse next door and I walk to the car to retrieve the last of my bags. Someone has scraped their car right up the side of my rental. It is badly damaged. The receptionist goes into mother mode (she is 67) and the police arrive. I make the reports and phone the rental company. It is late before I get to eat and my mood is low. To bed, but sleep eludes me. I lie awake for a long time listening to the cycads and I think much of my life and of the lives of others.
The next morning I give the receptionist a bottle of wine I bought in Laurel Grey. She is happy and I get a hug, so I am too. To the Amtrack station and to Raleigh. But first a little more about Charlotte and the vagaries and inconsistencies of history, and even that Zaika must wait until tomorrow.
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