Nostalgia’s on sale in waist high barrels,
for 8.99 a pound at the Floyd Country Store.
It sprawls on shelving too. Towers of speckled
enamelware teeter alongside stacks of linen
dishtowels and handcrafted jewelry. Marled
Woolrich sweaters and Carhartt cargo pants
dangle from carousels. At the counter
there’s scoops and toppings and homemade
sandwiches on country white, wrapped
against bees in brown butcher paper.
On the weekends, doors open wide for
musicians to share the spartan stage
at the back of the store, surrounded by
patchwork quilts to hem in the sound.
They play old time music from Appalachia
and sing songs of love and lamentation.
Missy Raines is here tonight, fair-haired
sprite dressed in black except for her red
boot clad feet. She embraces her 1937 upright
bass from Kalamazoo, painted plywood,
not carved, engraved tuners and real purfling,
black notes tattooed on its chest.
When Missy leans into the beat, flat down
fingers round the three-piece neck pressing
then vibrating strong. Her other hand alternates
between pizzicato and open palm slaps.
The fat warm tone and her high lonesome
voice transport me down a road to a past
I never knew, but recognize, composing
a memory I will dream about tonight.
Lone Mountain Literary Society: The Nature of Things– Sacred Spaces 2024
Elise Chadwick 