Folks

By Charles Houston

Do you like living in western Loudoun? I think you do, and I bet that question conjures images of virgin mountains, rolling pastures and quaint villages. Horses and cows. Corn and soybeans. Dogs and other pets. 

That’s just the visual appeal. Something else is more important – the people here truly form a wonderful community. In Atlanta my friends were just like me, adequately educated and ambitious. Later on, in Arlington it seemed that I knew only three or four people; it was an unfriendly place. Here, though, sometimes I think I know everybody! I’ll use pseudonyms to mention some.

Robert and Albert at the Exxon station, Shontelle the postmistress, Bobby who gets the rubbish, Stan the mechanic, Will and Luis who tend neighbors’ farms, Stacie and Cal who sell tires, Chip the postman, Oscar and Mike with a trove of batteries, Jon and Lee the drive-through tellers, Jack at the pharmacy. James at the wayside stand. You get the picture – good folk in an egalitarian setting. I know and like many others – neighbors, social friends, conservationists, horse people, car guys, folks who work for government and the folks who run government. They all help make western Loudoun a special place.

I know and value more people in western Loudoun than I ever knew in a big city. Most are just plain nice while a few are “interesting.” Like Gary Shifflet.

Gary used to be my main man, helping with our farm. Jug ears, a pug nose, receding brown hair, a bushy brown muttonchop sideburns, a pallor to his white skin. He’s just under six feet, thin to the point of being scrawny and sporting a variety of faded t-shirts. Gary could fix small engines, grease the tractor, change the truck’s oil, bushhog a pasture. Gary, though, was not the sharpest tack in the box, as these actual casual conversations confirmed:

Charlie: “How far did you get in school?”

Gary: “My family wrote me out in the six-and-a-half grade.”

Charlie: “How old were you in the six-and-a-half grade?’

Gary: “Seventeen.”

Gary amused me. If I was lord of my manor, he was my court jester.

Charlie: “Gary, you’re supposed to be raking the walnuts, not talking to them!”

Gary: “It’s okay if they don’t talk back.”

Another day I asked him, “What’s up, Gary?”

Gary: “I need to get me a fat woman.”

Charlie: “Why on earth do you want a fat woman?”

Gary: “’cause the regular ones won’t have nothing to do with me.”

I was not surprised. Later I had another question. 

 Charlie: “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

 Gary: “Six or seven.”

I pondered that imprecision as the normally reticent man prattled on agitatedly. When he slowed to reload his machine-gun chatter, I interrupted to ask how he felt.

Gary: “Sometimes I ain’t right in the head.”

Charlie: “What do you mean?”

Gary: “They tell me I got mental thinking confusion disorder.”

I was not surprised at that. On the other hand, Gary seemed empathic to a problem I had with a particular neighbor. 

Gary: “That lady next door is like my mama.”

Charlie: “What did your mother do?”

Gary: “Smoked cigarettes and talked to the skillet”

The next morning Gary still had cookware on his mind.

Gary: “You know what happened to my mama when she got like that?”

Charlie: “What happened to your mama?”

Gary: “Daddy conked her on the head with a skillet.”

A few days later, Gary ventured a desire for another sort of social activity.

Gary: “I’m getting me a girlfriend.”

Charlie: “What’s her name?”

Gary: “Mary.”

Charlie: “And?”

Gary: “She sells crack but she’s a nice lady.”

He also had my nasty-neighbor-lady on his mind.

Gary: “That woman is crazy and she don’t like you.”

Charlie: “Yep.”

Gary: “Why don’t you do something about her?”

Charlie: “Like what?”

Gary: “Ain’t you got a skillet?”

I didn’t have a skillet but life settled down, at least for me. Gary, though, needed to rest his mind and was institutionalized at Western State Hospital in Staunton. Six months later he was discharged, and on a sleeting February day I drove down Interstate 81 to pick him up. Gary was much better, though his mental thinking confusion disorder was only in remission. That was why we parted ways a few months later. 

Peculiarities aside, Gary was part of the fabric and spice of life here, as were Robert, Albert, Shontelle, Bobby, Stan, Will and Luis, Stacie, Cal, Chip, Oscar and Mike, Jon and Lee and James. We should all feel richer for knowing such folks and calling them friends.

Houston developed office buildings in Atlanta. He lives in Paeonian Springs.