Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Building, a mystery...




This is the building I've been researching. It's a simple painted brick business duplex. It has housed candy shops, boot stores, lunch counters.... it has been a lot of things. In 1993 one of the owners was murdered in the store and the whole place torched. It has been sitting empty since. The city is about to move in on it and slap the current holder with fines. Boarded up abandoned buildings in the middle of the county judicial seat (Rockville, Md.) does not make folks happy.


But before they tear it down, before the current owner remakes it into a shoe store, a cafe, a dojo.... there needs to be a pause and some reflection. Just by looking at that burnt out brick shell you wouldn't know its historical value, but it is one of Rockville's last-standing buildings from the 19th century.


I traced the deed back to the family who built the store, the Dawson family. According to the papers, the lot was purchased from the widowed Rebecca G. Fields in 1891. But there's something very curious. I found old Montgomery County Sentinel articles that refer to the construction of the convenience store happening on that lot... in 1870.


In addition, I tracked down store ledgers that were kept by the Dawsons listing things like 10 yrds calico, 1 pound sugar, a dozen eggs, etc. Names of reputable town-folk also appear in the log, indicating they frequented the Dawson's establishment. The three existing ledgers are from 1870, 1876, and 1880.... all before the deed signed by Thomas Dawson.

It seems like Dawson's store was well in business.... 21 years prior to the drafting of their official deed on the land.


What a jumbled paper trail.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Banjo God.

The gods gather every Friday night in Floyd, Virginia, for a jamboree.

While a band or two plays in the back of the Country store, 4 or so musical circles spring forth in the one road running through town. There's food, drink, dancing, and some of the purest Old Time around. I'm talking about 90 yr old ladies standing in their granny boots with autoharps under their chins, their voices wavering through "Wildwood Flower." I'm talkin' knobley kneed grandfathers with lighter feet (for clogging) than you'd see on a yearling. And, of course, The Banjo God himself.

Banjo Boy tugged excitedly at my sleeve and pointed across the street at a man who was chatting with two lovely banjo-goddesses under a street light.

He came from Galilee with a banjo on his knee. Hair down to his waist, long and flowing, and a mountain man beard that would shame even Whitman's whiskers. "That's my banjo mentor..."

I was introduced. We talked. I like the man and hope to find him again. According to Banjo Boy he's strangely mysterious and lives on some distant mountain. By day he carries a mop at a local school, but by night he's the best banjo and flatpicker for counties. I found him humble, warm, and outgoing. But I might just feel special affection because he gave me chocolate.

We watched as the ladies launched into Fire on the Mountain, throwing in all kinds of melodic harmonies and extra goodies. Banjo-God looked interested. Amused, even. He ran off to his truck, returning with his own banjar and ready to play.

He launched into Flint Hill Special. There would come a time when he'd hit the note with one hand and RETUNE THE STRING with the other, and RETUNE IT BACK in time to hit the fingerboard for the very next note.

And the light shone upon us and we were blessed by his picking.