Friday Flash Fiction Returns!

I took a little break from Friday Flash Fiction last week to do a Veterans Day tribute, though I had some great ideas for the inspiration photo of a budding corpse flower.

Today’s inspiration photo is a subject close to my own heart. The picture evoked great memories of idling summer Saturdays away on horseback or riding the farm with my Dad. So, here’s the photo:

And here’s the 100-word (exactly!) story, which I call, “Constancy.”
Her loyalty had no end. It would transcend death. Always at my side, ready when I’m ready, rests when I need it, offers kindness. We complete each other. We are extensions of each other by choice not demand.
We can have companionable silence, or we can communicate without words, with a touch, a nudge. And, oh, how we’ve traveled. Uncountable miles, over stream and hedge. Fences do not stop us. We love the open field best. Speed, and the desire for it, is the gift we share.
Still, I can’t help wonder how she manages on just two, spindly legs.
———
Questions, comments? To read more 100-word stories, go to Madison Woods blog,http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/flash-fiction/the-lonely-path/

11/11/11

Sgt. First Class Frederick W. Duncan

I can’t remember if I ever thanked my father for being one of the people who saved the world from Adolph Hitler. If I didn’t, I should have, even though he was the type of person, when I was a child, who didn’t want the extra attention. Had he lived longer, now he might have enjoyed the World War II memorial, might have liked being called one of The Greatest Generation, and might have told the real stories instead of the funny ones my brother and I heard.

Though he survived World War II, I always think of him on Remembrance Day–yes, in the U.S. it’s Veterans Day, but my grandmother and parents always called it Remembrance Day. Any soldier back through history to the first gives up their everyday life to go fight for concepts that are sometimes nebulous. I believe that wasn’t so in World War II. I think it was very clear that if we hadn’t stopped the Nazis, there would not be a human race today. Or if there were, we would be unrecognizable as human beings.

As I studied World War II in high school and college and learned about the battles my father was in, I thought he would be my personal resource. He continually turned me back to the books instead. When I learned that an Allied victory wasn’t the sure thing the history books made it out to be, I understood how very close I came to not being born. Even then, he would say it was his job, it had to be done.

He returned home with physical wounds that healed and psychological ones that didn’t, just like soldiers today. When he was in the Battle of the Bulge, he was 18 and a half years old, had been a soldier for almost two years, and was one of the youngest sergeants in the U.S. Army at the time. He loved being an NCO (he eventually became a master sergeant) and turned down all offers to go to officer candidate school. He would wink and say, “The sergeants run the Army anyway. Why would I want to be an officer?”

If I didn’t thank him, I do it now, as I thank everyone who served, who protected us and gave us the freedom to be who we are, and who continue to do so–whether I agree with the reasons or not. Veterans, especially wounded veterans deserve everything we can give them. They don’t deserve elected officials like Sen. Jim DeMint (R-SC) to argue against a veterans employment bill by saying it creates a separate class of individuals, that it’s not egalitarian. Sen. DeMint clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and the rest of us know that we don’t casually call them heroes–because they are.

I’ll close with my favorite poem about the inhumanity of war and what it can do to soldiers, Seamus Heaney’s “Requiem for the Croppies.”

The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley,
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp,
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people hardly marching, on the hike,
We found new tactics happening each day:
We’d cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until, on Vinegar Hill, the final conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August the barley grew up out of our grave.

Friday Fiction Rolls Around Again!

We had an interesting picture for today’s Friday Fictioneers, but it took all day for some inspiration to hit me. Here’s the picture, of a long-buried stick of dynamite one hopes is inert.
I call this 100-word fiction, “Homeland Security”
“9-1-1. State your emergency.”
“My husband brought a stick of dynamite into the house.”
“Dynamite? Are you certain?”
“Well, that’s what he says it is. Can you send the bomb squad here or something? I mean, it’s old and corroded. Harmless, right?”
“Ma’am, what is your husband doing with dynamite?”
“What? It’s not his dynamite. He found it. If you just send the bomb squad to get it…”
“Just a moment, ma’am.”
“Hello? Hello?”
The front door crashed open. A bright flash and loud bang. Men with guns. Shouting and confusion.
“Hands up!”
Her husband was so in trouble.
—–
Questions, comments? To read more 100-word fiction, go to http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/flash-fiction/dynamite/

My Interview at Writing.com

Here is the text of an interview with me on Writing.com concerning the upcoming National Novel Writing Month.

Welcome to A NaNoWriMist in the Spotlight, a series of interviews introducing a selection of group members. This week we have a great interview from Maggie Duncan, a full-time writer of fiction and published author.

Hi, Maggie, thanks for agreeing to be interviewed! This year will be your fourth NaNoWriMo – what are you writing?

This year I’m going a little off my usual genre, which is Suspense/Thriller. I’m going to try a piece on a dystopian America in the not-so-far future after a domestic terrorist act, so I’d call it Speculative Fiction. The plot centers around people in a small town trying to survive after a domestic terrorist group destroys the Federal government. I’ve located it in the small city in the Shenandoah Valley where I now live, and the villains are a right-wing, ultra-conservative movement we’ll all recognize.

It’s clear who has inspired your antagonists – what about the protagonists?

The protagonists will be O.D. James, Mallory James, (brother and sister), John-Patrick Yardman, (these three are based on my grandkids), and Anne Donnachy, a retired government worker who writes thriller novels and who is based on me.

So you used to work for the government? How did that fit with your writing?

I’m a former government tech writer and have written stories since I was old enough to write. I retired two years ago to focus on my fiction full-time and just had a short story published. I first tried NaNoWriMo in 2008, while I was still working full time. Because of work travel requirements, I only had seventeen days out of the thirty to produce those 50,000 words. I had chosen to write a semi-autobiographical piece about my life and the recent breakup of a long-term relationship, so when I did have the time to write, the words were all there. It was very cathartic. I decided not to pursue publishing it–mainly because I’d like what’s left of my family to continue to speak to me–but I pick it up on occasion (I got a proof copy from CreateSpace.) to further that healing. After that, I was hooked on NaNoWriMo.

You’re obviously a fan of NaNoWriMo – what do you love about it?

I love the work NaNoWriMo does with kids to get them to use writing as expression or, as it was for me, an escape from a harsh reality. It’s also the best thing around to get me to write something completely new at least once a year. I have literary fiction friends who recoil in horror when I mention NaNoWriMo, but I tell them what they’re missing–a creative exercise that focuses on that one aspect that makes us writers: creativity.

From what I hear, you don’t lack for creativity! Tell us your favourite writing memory.

When I was eight or nine, someone gave me a set of alphabet rubber stamps. I would listen to my mother and her friends gossiping around the kitchen table, then I’d “produce” a newspaper with the rubber stamps with their gossip items as front page stories. I stayed up all night making a dozen or so copies (one letter at a time) and distributed them the next morning–when the you-know-what hit the fan. Needless to say, my rubber stamps got confiscated, and that was the end of my fledgling career in journalism. It was pretty devastating at the time to a nine-year old, but I look back at the memory and laugh at how indignant my mother and her friends were about my writing the truth.

What hints and tips do you have for the rest of the group this November?

Because I was a non-fiction editor before I retired, I tend to get too focused on getting it “right.” I find that if I let go and just let words flow, I’ll increase my daily word count dramatically. If you’ve got people in your household, you have to be adamant about your writing time being sacrosanct. I usually promise my friends and family something chocolate if they just pretend I don’t exist during my writing hours. They’ll do almost anything for chocolate.

I think I would too! Or for hot chocolate. What’s your writing beverage of choice?

If I’m writing in the morning, it’s my second cup of green tea. Afternoons mean Sobe Life Water, and nighttime is Diet Coke. I have been known to give in to my Irish side and sip Jameson’s in the evenings.

Where do you do your writing and tea drinking?

My favorite place is my office/writing room. It’s in the back of my house, and I have an incredible view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. However, when that is distracting, I go to a second writing space in my bedroom–away from the window–so I can focus 100% on writing.

What books or authors inspire you?

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood; anything by Jane Austen; The Mote in God’s Eye by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle; The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver; anything by Sharyn McCrumb; and The Stand by Stephen King (plus his non-fiction work On Writing). Several authors inspire me, but I’d have to say the predominant one is Margaret Atwood because she can tell such a good story and surround it with a political viewpoint that I can relate to. If I had the talent she has in her little finger, I’d be a happy camper.

How will you celebrate finishing NaNoWriMo? 

With a self-congratulatory pat on the back, followed by a post on Facebook and a Tweet to let my friends know I’m still alive.

Well, best of luck! Thanks again to Maggie for a great interview. 

TGIFriday Fictioneers!

Friday rolls around every week–imagine that. When I worked 60 or 70 hours a week at a “real” job, Friday always seemed unreachable, there but just beyond my grasp. Now, in retirement, it can’t wait to get here and leave me totally uninspired for Friday Fictioneers.

Here’s today’s inspiration photo from Friday Fictioneers’ maven Madison Woods:

The caption for this picture reads, “This is an artifact marble, once used as a game-piece by early Native Americans who inhabited this area of the Ozarks, known as the Bluff-Dwellers.” Totally fascinating and way beyond my expertise so I’ll just go with the first thing that came into my head when I first woke up this morning–obviously I went to sleep last night with Friday Fictioneers on my mind.

I think I’ll call this one, “Never Judge a Rock.”

“Hey, Honey, come look at this.”

“I’ve got something on the stove.”
“Well, turn it off, ‘cause you gotta see this.”
If a screen door can slam open, she managed it. “What?” The frown on her face made him step back.
“Look at this.” He pointed to a small, round object on the top step of the porch.
She studied it then regarded him with disdain. “It’s a rock.”
“Yeah, but where did it come from?”
“It’s a rock.”
He reached for it.
“No!”
He looked at her and saw terror. He smiled, smug and superior. “It’s just a rock.”
———-
Questions? Comments? Go read some more 100 word flash fiction at http://madisonwoods.wordpress.com/flash-fiction/the-marble-100-words/ 

Thank You, Steve Jobs

I was a late-comer to Apple. I was a PC fan and scoffed at the faintly elitist Apple nerds, but I eventually got tired of constant virus infestations on my PC, despite the fact I had the best virus protection money could buy. I also got tired of carrying a cell phone, a PDA, an MP3 player, and a camera in the same purse. Still, I wasn’t sure about going completely Apple.

Like an addiction it started with something small–the red iPod Nano (center of the picture above). I justified its purchase as being part of the Bono Red project, but never had it been so easy to download music. However, that didn’t eliminate anything from the purse, just swapped the iPod for the MP3 player.

The Nano was soon full to its 8gb capacity, so I upgraded to the iPod Touch, not pictured because I gave it to a friend when I bought the iPhone3 (to the right of the Nano above). Finally, the expiration of a cell phone contract coincided with the release of a new iPhone, and in 2009 I now had merged all my electronic devices into a single device. That wasn’t a leap of faith by Steve Jobs in my mind. Merely, it was the brainchild of a Trekkie like me who couldn’t wait for the day to hold Capt. Kirk’s communicator. To me, it was just natural.

After the 2008 virus-induced crash of my last PC and somewhere between the Nano and the iPhone3, I purchased a MacBook Pro (the laptop on the right of the picture) and gave away all my PC–towers and laptops. I was in love with computers again. When the iPhone4 (far right of the Nano above) came out I was almost first in line. For Christmas of 2010 I gave myself an iMac (background in the picture above), followed a few months later by the iPad1 (not pictured). The iPad1 went to my goddaughter when I bought the iPad2 (on the left of the desk in the picture above). The MacBook Air is on this year’s Christmas list.

As innovative as Windows was in the day, Apple succeeded because of Jobs’ concept of minimalism. Even the first MacIntosh was sleek and futuristic compared to the PCs of the day. The Apple OS was easier to use, more intuitive than Windows’ innumerable iterations. Jobs took an idea for his own personal user needs and made it accessible to the rest of us. You didn’t have to verge on being a programmer to operate Apple products.

Yes, I’m now an Apple geek, thanks to Steve Jobs. So, thank you, Steve Jobs, for making our Star Trek dreams come true, and thank you for the face of courage against that horrid enemy, cancer. Rest in peace, though I’d like to think of you as just plugged into cyperspace forever.

You Say You Want a Revolution?

Some people have said they miss my political commentary. Well, you get what you ask for.

If you’re a fan of the mainstream media (and I used to be), you’ll be surprised to find out that a group of people (upwards of several thousand) have been “occupying” Wall Street (well, Liberty Park). They are now into their third week. You didn’t know that? Not surprising. The MSM (and, yes, I have been tempted to call it the “lamestream” media, but I don’t want the association) have been noticeable in their absence of coverage. Oh, when the arrests started they were quick to point out that the police were handling the “disruptive protesters.” Only Democracy Now!, Free Speech TV, and Current TV have devoted any time to what is motivating this true grassroots movement, as opposed to the various Tea Parties who have been bankrolled by the Koch Brothers.

So, what is motivating the people who call themselves “Occupy Wall Street?”

For one thing, the Wall Street Robber Barons came close to tanking the economy by taking advantage of an almost regulation-free financial environment and got bailed out and not one of them has spent a single minute being held accountable for that.

For another thing, the top one to two percent of this country have decided that they need to keep their wealth–not spend it on job creation, what an effing myth that is–so they can live higher on the hog, and the middle class, which they disdain and have decimated, and the poor–who got that way through all fault of their own–can wallow in the gutter of American Exceptionalism.

For yet another thing…no, I think those two things about cover it.

The minute I saw an NYPD white shirt named Anthony Bologna pepper-spray women who were committing the crime of standing on a sidewalk, I wanted to grab my kaffiyeh and head up there. When I saw a twelve year old girl in handcuffs, I wanted to set fire to the barricades and shut the effing place down. When I watched the police trick demonstrators onto the causeway of the Brooklyn Bridge then arrest 700 of them for blocking traffic, I was ready to tear the place down.

Fortunately, with age, I’ve been able to temper those urges. Forty years ago, I marched in some of the greatest demonstrations in the history of this country, and we turned the opinion of the country on a war, and we brought down a lying, corrupt president. Then, we moved on. We got jobs and houses and mortgages, swelled the middle class, and we let others–though not many of them–do the demonstrating thing.

Now, we find our place in that great middle class has come under attack from people with scads of money who have decided we need to pay for everything–their tax cuts, their wars, their third or fourth house, their new yacht–and we also need to give up our benefits and our rights to collectively bargain because they don’t like those concepts. They want to get rid of Social Security and Medicare because people should pay for their own retirement and health care–that’s what they’d have you believe. The truth is they don’t like letting anyone who really works for a living into the upper class. Only they get to live the high life and how dare we mere peons aspire to emulate them and live comfortably?

I agree that in some ways we need a revolution, but it has to be a revolution of the ninety-nine percent, not that envisioned by the Tea Baggers, who, in their ignorance, believe that the Koch Brothers aren’t using them for their own political ends. We have lost our compassion in this country. We blame the poor and the dwindling middle class for the woes rampant, unregulated capitalism has created. We hate anyone who is not rich, white, male, Christian, and born here. This is the America the Koch Brothers, Rush Limbaugh, Bill O’Reilly, et. al., have made and want to enshrine.

Support Occupy Wall Street by joining them in person or virtually. Wake up and smell the revolution or be crushed by the top one percent’s Humvee.

Learning to Be “Write-Brained”

I posted recently in an on-line writers forum about a class I was taking on how to get published. Someone commented, “Honey, one of these days you need to stop taking classes and just write.”

Well, duh. Except that I can do both at the same time. (And, by the way, a month after finishing that class, one of my short stories got published.)

You can continue to sharpen your writing by writing, but it sometimes helps to get refreshers along the way. I was an editor for eleven years, but I took a grammar or copyediting refresher every couple of years just to sharpen my skills.

So, when I saw The Write-Brained Network’s information on “A One-Stop Workshop for the Serious Writer: A Roadmap from “How-To” through “I Did!” I couldn’t resist. Add in the fact that it was twenty minutes away in my old college town, how could I not go? The deal-sealer was one of my favorite authors, David Robbins, on the bill. His War of the Rats, about the siege of Stalingrad, was so historically accurate and vivid, you felt as if you were there. The End of the War, told from the Russian soldier’s point of view as the Red Army entered Berlin in 1945, was particularly meaningful to me because my Dad was in on that from the American side.

The workshop began with tips on redlining your writing given by Robbins. He’s a very engaging speaker, and the redlining tips he gave are what we’ve heard before but need to remember—watch your POV, “Show, Don’t Tell,” don’t use redundancies, cut the modifiers, etc. He provided his unique perspective, however, and gave specific examples to bring the points home. When he said, “Write what you know is a lie,” he had me. The story and the telling of it, Robbins emphasized, are separate. You can take a great story in your head then ruin it by the poor telling. I think he should have stopped there because he went on to diss several contemporary writers, some in his genre. I think that’s called “biting the hand…” I mean, perhaps at his next conference, David Baldacci or Dan Brown will point out what he dislikes about David Robbins’ writing. Just sayin’.

The next session made me glad I hadn’t sent in a first page to be critiqued. When I saw that offered, I figured you’d send in a page and you’d get it back marked up. Oh, no. The page got read aloud, followed by an instant critique by Robbins and Tiffany Trent, who writes young adult fiction. Granted, the writer’s name wasn’t read aloud, but you could tell by the squirming when someone was on the grill. Critiquing is always a helpful exercise, but I think this could have been improved by separating the first pages by genre, then having someone familiar with the genre provide the critique. A colleague with me at the workshop was braver than I and submitted a first page. This author, who’s sold two books, writes in a genre where the reader expects flowery words and setting a sense of place and time before delving into the story. Of course, the two panelists skewered it, but neither was familiar with the genre. I also think this would have been better one-on-one, rather than in public. Yes, yes, I know others can learn from a colleague’s critique, but the whole exercise left me queasy.

“Getting Noticed, Getting Paid: How to Build a Platform and Freelance Your Way to an Audience,” was a panel consisting of a writer friend of mine, Cliff Garstang, and Bridgid Gallagher, a freelance and young adult writer, who has a web site, Inky Fresh Press, for new writers to learn the business. Both Garstang and Gallagher emphasized the importance of social media in developing your brand and in increasing your sales. Garstang in particular emphasized the importance of separating personal social media and the social media platform for your work. This was a very meaningful panel—showing how Facebook and Twitter friends who aren’t writers can still help in publicizing your work by mentioning it to their followers. Very practical and down to earth.

After lunch we had a “Query Clinic.” Similar to the first page critiques in the morning, you sent in a query letter, which was again read aloud and publically critiqued by two literary agents, Dawn Dowdle of the Blue Ridge Literary Agency and Lauren MacLeod of Strothman Agency. Again, I think this was an exercise better done one-on-one. However, both this and the first page critiques show that getting published and/or getting an agent to represent you is highly subjective. In particular, trying to find the right agent using a reference list is almost impossible. You have to click, as was proved in a later session.

Two authors—Trent and David Kazzie—and two agents—Dowdle and MacLeod—were the panelists for “Traditional Publishing, Self-Publishing, and E-Publishing.” Kazzie self-published an e-book at the same time he got an agent for a traditionally published work. The consensus of this group was a resounding “no” to self-publishing. The exception was Kazzie, who emphasized, quite rightly, that if you are going to self-publish, you need to adapt some of the aspects of traditional publishing—a copy editor, an editor, a good graphics designer. When one of the panelists said, “I don’t really know much about self-publishing,” but then went on to pontificate against it, I wondered why that person was on the panel to begin with. One of the things not covered was the difference between self-publishing and e-publishing, which most of the panel considered the same. Stephen King has e-published—meaning his work is available for reading on a Kindle or a Nook—but that’s different from self-publishing.

The final panel was MacLeod and Jodi Meadows, one of McLeod’s newest clients, talking about the Author/Agent Relationship. This was an excellent panel, demonstrating just how important it is to have the proper representation. MacLeod and Meadows obviously clicked and just as obviously like each other. MacLeod is enthusiastic about Meadows’ work, and they seem to have the perfect agent/author relationship. That alone gives hope and a better understanding of the process of acquiring the right representation.

With the exception of Robbins and Garstang, most of the talent (on the stage or in the audience) at this workshop was from the YA genre. I have nothing against YA, and I know my path is not that way; but a better mixture from other genres would have made an excellent workshop perfect.

I know I may seem critical of some of the elements of this workshop, but I’m, at least, constructive. Overall, it was money and time well-spent. I love being around other writers, people who understand just what it is to be a writer. The Write-Brained Network understands as well and provided a top-notch workshop with a lot to absorb in a day. Kudos to Write-Brained Network Coordinator Ricki Schultz and her team for a worthwhile day.

September 11, 2001

My first attempt to acknowledge this significant anniversary of an horrific event was far too self-indulgent to post. However, the emotions I had suppressed from September 11, 2001, began to come to the fore in the past two weeks. I wrote them down and will deal with them. Just not here. That would trivialize the deaths of thousands.

The closest I was to anything that happened on 9/11/01 was three miles–the Pentagon was just across the Potomac River from Washington, DC, where I worked for the Federal Aviation Administration. My actions that day and in the weeks after were those of support, and perhaps later I can tell that story.

People often remark that 9/11/01 was such a beautiful day–bright, sunny, cloudless–and that something so horrible shouldn’t have happened on such a glorious day. The fact is, the hijackers kept an eye on the weather; the horrible terror they perpetrated was easier on a visual flight rules day. How might things have changed had that day dawned cloudy and dreary.

The scenario the terrorists opted for could have cost tens of thousands of lives, and some have sighed in relief that it was only 3,000 or so. That is survivor guilt, that is the expostulation of someone relieved they were no where near New York City, Arlington, VA, or Shanksville, PA, that day.

I know the emotion of ten years without a loved one, and it heals; it gets better; but the hole never closes. I was an adult when I lost my parents nearly thirty years ago, so I can’t relate to losing a parent when you’re ten or fifteen or two. The lost opportunities to see school plays, sports events, weddings, births of grandchildren are weights hard to bear.

I hated the fact that religious zealots used as an instrument of destruction the industry I’d given most of my life to preserve, and yet, as I reviewed the pilot records for each of the hijackers, I saw typical men who trained typically as pilots. Nothing jumped off the page to shout “Terrorist!” Life is never that simple.

“Why?” is the question still asked about 9/11/01. As with other acts of terrorism, like, say 4/19/95, we take the easy, un-intellectual route–the perpetrators were evil. We never look beyond, into the black box of the psyche of terrorism so we can stop the next 9/11/01. We react. Restricting the carriage of liquids on board an aircraft, taking your shoes off at the TSA checkpoint, getting groped by perfect strangers doesn’t really prevent anything. It’s a false security. To me it’s a bitter reminder that we gave up freedoms to feel safe. Not be safe. Just to feel as if we are protected. We never once, as a nation, as a government, stopped to reflect on which of our policies or actions contributed to this.

You see, terrorism doesn’t happen in a vacuum. We like the neat package of “Oh, they were evil! That’s why they did it.” We know how and who and where. We’ll never know, nor do we want to, why.

If we want to honor those who died ten years ago today–from the people on Flight 93 who took their destinies into their own hands to the first responders who gave full dedication to their duty to those who died merely because they came to work that day–let’s re-dedicate ourselves to public service, to re-creating a nation of the people, by the people, for the people.

Staunton Jams

There are many positives to living in a small city, chiefly you have all the amenities you had in a larger one, just on a more manageable scale. I loved living in Alexandria, VA, where I was minutes away from all the dining and activities in Old Town and, when the traffic wasn’t a bitch, twenty minutes away from work and the Capital of the United States. Washington, DC, always invigorated me–still does–but the years of mismanaging traffic and growth made me seek something less complex for retirement.

Staunton, VA, fit the bill: a relatively stable population, a good local economy, magnificent views of the mountains, farmers markets where the food really is local, and plenty of cultural amenities. Several weeks ago, I decided on a whim one Thursday to go see “Hamlet” at the American Shakespeare Theatre right in downtown Staunton. I got a remarkable seat, within arm’s reach of the stage, which would not have been the case had I attempted the same at the Kennedy Center or even Arena Stage.

The area is also proud of its “roots music,” in fact, music of any kind. Staunton’s “main” street, which is really Beverly St., boasts many restaurants that feature excellent music. One restaurant has an outdoor concert area, which backs on condominiums in the old YMCA building. A few residents have complained, but I say they need to lighten up and enjoy the music. (Interestingly, the people complaining about the music, which is mostly bluegrass or folk, are “immigrants” to the area like myself. The difference is, I like loud music.) In the summer, in an area of the city called “The Wharf” because, I believe, there used to be a somewhat navigable river there, Staunton hosts “Shakin'” on Thursday evenings. These are all local bands or from nearby, and they always draw a crowd. Why, there are even carriage rides around Staunton–just like Old Town.

The unofficial end of the outside music scene in Staunton is “Staunton Jams.” Local officials cordon off a block of Beverly street, and from noon until ten at night bands rock the downtown. They range from headbangers (yes!) to new age to cover bands, and they are all good. Imagine blocking off a similar space in Old Town. When that is done for parades in Alexandria, the gridlock backs up miles on the Capital Beltway. In Staunton, that block was easy to circumnavigate, and there was no gridlock. I was able to park a block away, which wouldn’t have been the case in Old Town or DC.

I love my new city, and I hope I don’t turn into an anti-growth NIMBY, but all the things that appealed to me about living in Alexandria and near DC are here, but I can actually enjoy them without battling traffic and crowds. I’d just like it to stay that way, so if that makes me a NIMBY, I’ll deal.

Here are some pictures from Staunton Jams.

This is the extent of blocking off the street. In Old Town or DC
this would mean saw horses, jersey barriers, police tape,
and SWAT.
The stage is ground level, easy for the acts to move in and
out, but also great for interacting with the bands, who didn’t
mind if you shouted requests at them.
Yes, you could get this close to the stage, and in
this picture you can see some of the great downtown architecture.
The children had fun with sidewalk chalk, in this case,
road chalk. The children had lots of activities, and in
addition to taking a seat on the curb, you could bring your
own chairs to sit on–that would never go over in security-
conscious DC.