Lil Brushy draft 3

They’ll tell you Little Brushy Mountain don’t sleep. Never has. You can hear it in the way the trees shift when the air is still, and in the way the ground feels soft underfoot where it ought to be solid. Old folks say mountains got bellies same as any living thing, and when they feed, they keep what they’ve taken. Blood, fire, sorrow. Nothing goes back.

When that plane came down in ’71, some say the fog wasn’t weather at all but the mountain drawing breath. Pulled the craft low, cracked its wings, swallowed the men whole. Audie Murphy among them, a man who’d walked out of battlefields bristling with iron and lead but couldn’t walk out of the ridge’s hunger. The stone they set up there is just a marker. The true memorial is the hush that comes over the clearing.

Holler folk whisper different pieces of it. One tale says a hunter heard the sputter of a plane when no sky was moving, then saw sparks drift through the trees though the night was clear. Another claims a woman saw soldiers in the fog, marching single file across the slope, vanishing where the brush grew thick. Children dared each other to spend a night up by the stone, but none ever did. They say the ground up there is too restless to sleep on.

There’s an old saying in these parts: “A sudden death makes a shadow that never fades.” Little Brushy Mountain has more than one, and Murphy’s is the heaviest. Some hikers leave coins, some leave toys, some whisper a prayer. It ain’t for him so much as for themselves, a bargain to pass through without stirring whatever watches.

I set my coin at the base of the granite, the way you might set bread at the door for a wandering spirit, and turned back before night proper came on. I did not hear footsteps, but I felt them. I did not see soldiers, but I walked as though I were being counted among them. Down in the valley, porch lights glowed like watchfires. Up on the ridge, the mountain had its dead, and the mountain kept its feast.

Little Brushy Mountain is not merely a rise of stone and tree, but a thing alive and watching. The Audie Murphy Memorial rests upon its ridge like a wound stitched shut but never healed. The plaque tells the story of a soldier who walked through fire in Europe, lived to carry medals heavy as curses, then fell from the sky in 1971 when his plane struck the ridge in fog and flame. None left that day but smoke, and the mountain drank it all.

The old people say mountains remember. Some claim they are older than time, older than the rivers they cradle, and that when blood or fire touches their skin, they keep it forever. Brush Mountain is one of those. The air near the monument is heavy, thick as molasses, and the silence comes sudden and sharp, the way it does before a storm. Birds fall quiet, cicadas hush, even the trees seem to stop their creak. It is then the mountain listens.

Hikers tell of bootsteps pacing just behind them, though the trail lies empty. A figure in uniform sometimes appears at the treeline, cap low, face unreadable. Others whisper of the sound of an engine coughing above the canopy, followed by a splintering crash that never comes, the moment of death repeating again and again as the mountain replays what it swallowed.

I stood by the stone at dusk, and the woods pressed in. The leaves rattled though there was no wind, and the taste of iron filled my mouth. For a moment I thought I saw him—no, not him exactly, but a shadow of him—resting one hand on the granite, eyes distant as if peering through me. The mountain shifted then, a long groan from its roots, and he was gone.

It is said in the hollers that when a man dies violent, his spirit does not pass on quick. It sinks down into the soil, joining the memory of the place that claimed him. Brush Mountain has its share of such ghosts, and now it holds Murphy too, not as a man, but as a story it tells when the air grows still.

I left a coin at the base of the marker, the way you do when you bargain with the hills, and I turned back down the trail. Even then, I knew the mountain was awake behind me, watching with the eyes of all it has kept, whispering that what it takes, it never gives back.

Restless night, drifting in and out, half dream currents slipping away before I could catch them. Morning came slow, heavier than usual. The farmers market was already over by the time we stirred. Instead, the Kroger lot, trunk open, bags appearing as if by magic, groceries delivered through the summer air. Breakfast followed, simple, grounding, like stepping back into our own rhythm.

A pause at Sycamore Station, just to look, to wander. Got a couple of scones,  and the place had its own hush, like it was waiting for something. Then back home, where the hours stretch soft and unhurried. A book in my lap, chores weaving in and out of the quiet. The cat sleeps on the chair across from me, a perfect shape, like a thought curled tight, dreaming her own small worlds.

Tuesday lingers ahead. In-laws returning if the road is kind. Their anniversary, his birthday, a double celebration, already glowing faintly on the horizon. Candles, cake, maybe laughter looping late into the night.

For now, the house hums low, late light sliding across the floorboards, shadows lengthening. The day feels suspended, neither rushing nor standing still, only breathing.

Little Brushy Mountain keeps its silence, but the Audie Murphy Memorial sits right where the wreckage came down in 1971. The story goes that Murphy, the most decorated soldier of World War II, survived battlefields in Europe, wrote his life into books and films, and then lost it all here in the Blue Ridge when a small plane struck the trees on a fog-heavy May morning. No survivors.

The monument marks the place. A granite block with a bronze plaque, circled by flags and tokens that strangers bring. Pennies, toy soldiers, weather-worn notes. I reached it near dusk, the shadows already climbing the trees. The woods seemed to press in, hushed, as though they were still carrying the weight of the crash.

Some hikers say that on thick summer evenings you can hear the splinter of branches and the roar of an engine cut short. Others speak of a soldier in uniform, watching quietly from the treeline, fading when you draw close. They say the air sometimes grows dense and muffled, as if the mountain itself is remembering the smoke and fire that once tore through its silence.

I felt it too. As I stood there, the cicadas ceased all at once, and the air tightened around me. My ears rang. For a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of a figure resting one hand on the stone, cap pulled low, eyes distant. I blinked and the place was empty again, only the bronze plaque catching the last light.

When the wind stirred, the woods rushed back to life, but I left a coin at the base of the monument before starting down the trail. I turned back more than once, half expecting to see a shadow on the ridge, patient and unmovable, keeping watch where the mountain still remembers.

Evening tea with a round of Belatro. Cards slid across the table like small ships, ferrying my plans to either fortune or folly. I told myself it was not about winning, it was about the way the hands felt in motion, the quiet tension before the reveal.

Pearl wandered by mid-round, curious, flicking her tail against my knee as if she was trying to tap into my strategy. She might have been more interested in my water bottle nearby, but I liked to think she was rooting for me.

The AI in this game is trickier than it looks, bluffs like a fox, folds like a monk. Twice I thought I had the match sewn up, only to watch my points trickle away like rain into a thirsty garden. Still, there is a thrill in the swing of it.

When the last round ended, I leaned back, stretched, and watched the cards fade back into digital nothingness. Just me again, the quiet of the room, and the kettle starting to sing its second chorus.

Maybe tomorrow I will win. Or maybe I will just play for the rhythm of shuffling and dealing, the way a poet writes lines they do not plan to show anyone, just for the joy of the shapes.

Postscript: Pearl eventually claimed the water bottle as her own, proof that victory takes many forms.

Morning began with the soft sound of the cat’s impatient paws on the floor, reminding me that her kingdom runs on both wet and dry provisions. Once the queen was fed, I crowned myself with breakfast, leftover pizza with field roast faux pepperoni, red bell pepper, and jalapeño, the kind of breakfast that makes the day feel like it already has a story to tell.

I slept in later than planned, but the phone rang, my doctor’s office calling with a friendly voice to pin a future date for next month. Time marked in the calendar, then off to the gym.

I gave the machines their due, the quiet clank and hum of effort, before making my way to the pool. The water greeted me like an old friend, warm and welcoming. No one else in sight. Just me, ripples, and the echo of each stroke in the stillness.

Sometimes the best part of the day is the part where you are the only one in it.

Morning breakfast in hand, sky just starting to blush. Thought drifted to an old episode of Little House on the Prairie, the one where Mr. Edwards comes striding in with that half grin, a little twinkle of mischief in his eyes, and starts into “Old Dan Tucker.” Banjoless but somehow you hear the pluck and stomp in the air. Pa tapping a boot, Laura’s eyes bright, the room warmer than the fire makes it.

It is not about the words themselves, “Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man,” but about the cadence, the rolling river of syllables that makes you smile even before you catch the meaning. The way Edwards’ voice carries, a little gravel, a little laughter, like he is sharing an inside joke with the whole room.

I have always liked that in songs, the sense that they are not just being sung to you, but with you, across a long table lit by lamplight. The melody and the memory blend, and suddenly I am not in my home, I am in a prairie cabin, with woodsmoke in my clothes and the winter scratching at the walls outside.

The episode fades, but the rhythm lingers. Foot tapping still, coffee cooling, and a smile you cannot quite explain to anyone who was not there in that room, even if that room only ever existed on a soundstage in the 1970s.

Last weekend’s making table began with a scatter of blank package tags — plain white, each with a little hole at the top — and ended in a drift of color and string. We turned them into bookmarks, passing paints, markers, and brushes back and forth.

One was a joint creation: I drew the bee, she added the honeycomb, a soft watercolor wash, and the words, this hive shall thrive. Another held a wizard mid-spell, coaxing a tree to grow. When the ink dried, we tied red-and-white twine through each tag, threading on bright beads so they’d swing at the ends.

We bundled them up and drove to the little free art museum. As we began placing the bookmarks inside, a visitor leaned in, watching the new pieces find their places. The bee never even made it to the gallery shelf — the person smiled, claimed it instantly, and slipped it away. First flight.

Hey there, dear journal. Today was one of those unremarkable magic days: simple, grounded, and oddly satisfying.

It was a mild, mostly pleasant day in Sale – nothing dramatic, just that calm kind of weather that makes you want to open all the windows and hear the world doing its thing. (See weather widget above.)

Cue my go-to headphone playlist, and what comes on, but “Harvest Moon” by Neil Young – its gentle guitar and soft vocals perfectly matched the pace of the day. It’s the kind of song that feels like a conversation with a good friend, somehow warm and timeless.

The day was stitched together by chores. First up: taking out the recycling. I stacked the bins, loaded up the car, and made my way to the center, listening to the distant hum of passing cars and the rustle of leaves. It felt oddly meditative – like a small, quiet triumph.

Then it was back inside to tackle the usual: stacking dishes, wiping counters, sorting the mail, and letting my mind drift in that empty space between tasks. There’s something peaceful in the routine—those little mundane bits that keep the place ticking.

Evening rolled around and I made taco salad—crisp lettuce, seasoned ground impossible beef,  beans, olives, lettuce, a scattering of cheese, and a dollop of sour cream. It’s not haute cuisine, but it’s reliable and satisfying in its crunchy, savory way. I piled it high, brought it to the table, and sat down with that Neil Young playing low in the background. It was just right.


There’s beauty in the ordinary, you know? Yesterday didn’t bring fireworks, but it brought that gentle sense of everything being handled: chores done, dinner made, music playing, and the world quietly moving outside.

Hope your day had a few of these subtle wins too, dear journal.

Warm afternoon in Roanoke, the sky doing that hazy watercolor thing, blue bleeding into gold like someone tipped a jar. The air smelled faintly of creosote from the rail yard, cut with the sweetness of honeysuckle climbing the chain-link fences, green tendrils writing in cursive on the metal.

Downtown, the brick walls carried their ghosts well — fading ads for biscuits and soda, a recently repainted mishmash of colors and textures. Market Square dozed in the heat: a man tuning his guitar under the shade awning, the notes weaving into the lazy air like dragonflies; two teenagers hunched over a chessboard that might have remembered other games in other summers. Somewhere, a train lumbered past, each car a rolling chapter in a book that never ends.

Then the sky cracked open — a short, silver rain burst. Pavement and brick drank deep, and the air filled with steam. Streetlights flickered on early, humming. The world smelled like wet stone and coffee from the café on Campbell Ave. For a moment, the sidewalk shimmered, and I thought I saw koi swimming in the rain puddles.

Walking home, I found the heron in the creek again, unmoving, waiting for something only it knew. Behind it, the water ran smooth and black, carrying the last bits of daylight away like loose change in a current.

Late start – sun already high and warm enough to soften the edges of the morning. Wandered to the farmers market, where the air smelled like basil and raw onions. Stopped for an iced tea and an egg sandwich from Dunkin’ Donuts, the kind of breakfast that feels like a little hand-held anchor before drifting further into the day.

On the way back, a street-side vendor under a shade umbrella had tables crowded with treasures – plastic tubs of plums the color of bruised twilight, small yellow cherries that glowed like marbles in the sun, and some other nameless fruits that looked like they belonged in another climate. I left with coconut and mango, the vendor’s machete flashing in quick, practiced motions on another coconut. 

Lunch came from the morning’s shopping: a “turkey” and muenster cheese sandwich on spelt bread from Ritual Breads, brightened with sweet peppers from Thornfield Farmer, and a generous splash of Fermented Fire’s tangy hot sauce. Summer’s bounty compressed between slices.

Weather: Mostly sunny, 77°F, light breeze from the west. A few lazy clouds drifting like unhurried passengers.
Mood: Slow and pleasantly unmoored.
Found Object: A mango that smells like a whole day at the beach.

Old Southwest free art gallery stop today by the fountain, tentacle benches in stone. Warm air, sound of water carrying down a quiet street. Glass-front little library of tiny art. Left a space cat and spider-legged 3D printed bowl (looked like it might scuttle off if I turned away), took handmade paper with soft edges, flecks of color pressed in. Quiet art barter, no words. Visit it, and share your art, and take some!

Drove over to Nakhon Thai, the table outside under just enough shade to make the sun friendly. Cloverdale traffic hum, a light breeze threading between cars. Door opening now and then, letting out a gust of lemongrass and curry like someone cracked a window into summer. Spring rolls crisply hot and cool dips.  Fried tofu, gold shell over soft middle. Pad prik king,  beans still-crisp, slow red curry heat. Drunken noodles with basil bright, trace of wok char. Cold drinks sweating in time with me, so glad August was being gentle. Second visit, just as good as the first. Will return.

Bakery stop for a sweet before heading home. More on that later.

We started the evening at the free little art gallery in Old Southwest, the one by the fountain with the tentacle-wrapped benches carved from limestone and marble. Quiet street, water sound carrying in the warm air. The glass-fronted box was full of tiny works. We left a 3D printed bowl on spider legs and took a packet of homemade paper, soft-edged with flecks of color pressed in. A quiet trade between strangers.

From there we headed to Nakhon Thai Cuisine and sat at the little table out front, shaded just enough to keep the sun gentle. The steady hum of Cloverdale traffic, and now and then the door opening to let a wave of lemongrass and curry drift out. We started with spring rolls, crisp and fresh with a cool dipping sauce, and fried tofu with a soft middle and golden shell.

Pad prik king came out rich with red curry, green beans still crisp, the heat slow to build. Drunken noodles on the other plate, wide and tender with that hint of char from the wok, basil bright in the mix. Cold drinks kept pace with the spice. It was our second visit, and the food was equally excellent both times. The value was very good for both the quality and the quantity, the sort of meal that feels worth coming back for.

Afterward, we continued on to the bakery for a little sweet treat before heading home. There will be more on that later.

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Edited revision

Here’s the updated Scottobear-style entry with your cooler August weather detail worked in so it feels natural to the scene.


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2025-08-08 21:37
Mood: content, lightly sun-warmed
Weather: 77°F, comfortably cool for August, whisper of a breeze, fountain splash soundtrack

We drove to the Old Southwest free art gallery by the fountain, where stone tentacle benches curled in lazy spirals. The mild air carried the sound of water spilling into a basin, drifting down the quiet street. A glass-front little art library held shelves of tiny treasures. I left a spider-legged 3D printed bowl that looked like it might scuttle off if you blinked, and in return I took handmade paper with soft deckled edges, flecks of color suspended like tiny petals. It was a silent trade, understood without words.

From there we headed over to Nakhon Thai and found a small table out front, shaded just enough to make the sun feel friendly. The Cloverdale traffic hummed in the background while a light breeze moved between the parked cars. Each time the door opened, a rush of lemongrass and curry spilled into the street, like someone had briefly opened a window into summer.

The spring rolls were crisp and cool, the fried tofu wore a gold shell over a cloud-soft middle, and the pad prik king arrived with beans that still had a snap and a slow-building red curry heat. Drunken noodles came fragrant with bright basil and carried a trace of wok char. Cold drinks sweated on the table at the same pace I did. This was our second visit, and it was every bit as good as the first. We will be back.


Before heading home we stopped at the bakery for something sweet, but that is a story for later.

When the moon hits your knees
And you mispronounce trees
Sycamore

Sycamore Station on Dutch Oven Road — a place of gentle wonder, where a door opens into something more than retail. I wandered in one morning when the air still held dew, and found myself in a light-splashed space where food smells like home, curiosity lingers on every shelf, and time tilts just a fraction slower.

The blueberry grilled cheese was a whisper of pastel heaven: jam and goat cheese, basil’s quiet hum, jalapeño offering a gentle nudge. I sipped a cold brew, deep and rich, and let the warmth from the wood-floored room settle in my chest.

Around me—pottery that feels hand-warmed by the artist’s fingers, candles that glow like hidden geodes, bowls carved from wood that once lived in forest twilight. The air carried the memory of markets past, of vendors setting up under suns that only half-remembered themselves.

In the back, a community room awaited: its tables folding into stillness or gathering space for readers and painters and dreamers. Soon I discovered — it was all of us, drawn there to breathe.

This is more than a stop. It’s a threshold between trail and table, quiet and connection. I left with a sticker in my pocket, a card for a sign‑making class in my bag, and the feeling that someone had saved a corner of Roanoke for moments like this.

I’ll be back. Maybe next time I’ll bring a friend, or linger over books and floated root beer. Sycamore Station isn’t just a place to pause — it’s one to return to.