My childhood was spent in the central part of Virginia and North Carolina around many wonderful older relatives and friends. John Buchanan, my grandfather owned a gas station in Longhurst, NC, a tiny mill community, and somewhat isolated tobacco town close to the Virginia border. 

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Call me easy to please but I love these - the less eventful - locations where life could slow to a Zen like crawl. Many older retired mill workers and farmers would sit in my granddad’s store like part of the furniture. These gentlemen would sit on cold winter days by the wood stove, drink honor system cokes, smoke pipes and discuss life. 

I was always drawn to the way the light fell on the older people. One glance from these guys and I was filled with a sense of wonder and comfort . . . and at other times with uncertainty and apprehension. At these genuine moments their faces expressed the toil and long hours spent at the mills. The harshness of life in the mill contrasted with the mild nature that typified people in this small tobacco belt town. Life moved slow like the layer of tobacco smoke that waved like a blanket flowing in the wind in extreme slow motion.

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