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Earl Swift - The Tangiermans Lament: and Other Tales of Virginia

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Go where the story is--thats one tenet of journalism Earl Swift has had little trouble living up to. In two decades of covering the commonwealth, Swift has hiked, canoed--even spelunked--a singular path through Virginia. He has also stopped and listened. This collection brings together some twenty Virginia tales wherein hardship is revealed as tragedy, and humor appears as uncanny, illuminating strangeness.


The Pulitzer-nominated title story takes us to the Chesapeake island of Tangier, home to a Methodist enclave over two hundred years old, with an economy almost wholly dependent on the blue crab. The gradual exodus of the islands young people and the dwindling crab hauls point to an inevitable extinction that finds a dramatic metaphor in the erosion of the island itself, which is literally disappearing beneath its inhabitants feet.

An epic piece of reporting, When the Rain Came revisits the August night in 1969 when Hurricane Camille descended on Nelson and Rockbridge counties, bringing with it a deluge of nearly Biblical proportions that killed 151 people. It was later characterized by the Department of the Interior as one of the all-time meteorological anomalies in the United States. Swift looks beyond the extraordinary numbers to find the individual stories, told to him by the people who still remember the trembling floorboards and rain too heavy to see, or even breathe, through.

Other stories include a nerve-wracking inside look at the Pentagon on the morning of 9/11, the travails of a failed novelist turned folk-art demigod, an account of a 1929 Scott County tornado (deemed the deadliest in Virginia history), and a profile of Nelson County swami Master Charles, who boasts a corps of meditative followers, a mountain retreat in Nellysford, and an incomplete resume. Each piece reconfirms Virginia as a land uncommonly rich in stories--and Earl Swift as one of its most perceptive and tireless chroniclers.

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Earl Swift
The Tangermans Lament
and Other Tales of Virginia University of Virginia Press Charlottesville and - photo 1
and Other Tales of Virginia
University of Virginia Press | Charlottesville and London
University of Virginia Press
2007 by Earl Swift
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
First published 2007
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Swift, Earl, 1958
The Tangiermans lament, and other tales of Virginia / Earl Swift.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN-13: 978-0-8139-2622-3 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. VirginiaHistoryAnecdotes. 2. VirginiaSocial life and customsAnecdotes. 3. VirginiaBiographyAnecdotes. 4. VirginiaHistory, LocalAnecdotes. I. Title.
F226.6.S94 2007
975.5dc22
2007007630
Lyrics from Cyclone of Rye Cove by A. P. Carter 1930 by Peer International Corporation; copyright renewed; international copyright secured; used by permission; all rights reserved.
For my mom
Contents
Introduction
The Appalachians are slump-shouldered and low by alpine standards dwarfed by - photo 2
The Appalachians are slump-shouldered and low by alpine standards, dwarfed by the Rockies, mere hills next to the raw and knife-edged heights of the Andes or Alaska Range. Used to be, its said, that these Virginia mountains towered highest of any on earth; theyve dwindled to their present size simply because theyve had the time tobeing, as they are, among the oldest mountains around.
Over the eons, their bones have been worn to sand by wind and rain, swept downhill into passing rivers, and carried hundreds of miles to the Atlantic. So nourished, the coastal plain has grown to two thousand feet thick; when I leave my house I thus walk and drive on those ancient peaks. Every foot of stature the highlands have lost has brought a deposit of sediment downstream, a small square of dry land, a new and higher coastline.
Somewhere in there is a hint to what I love about Virginia and telling its stories. I wasnt born here; I am not descended from anyone who ever made a home here; I cant say that any of my ancestors so much as visited. Nor can I claim that my arrival fulfilled some longstanding desire; I was a newspaperman, a wanderer, and after three winters in Alaska merely sought a sunny coast on which to thawand so, in the spring of 1987, found my way to Norfolk.
With each foray from the office in pursuit of the news, I encountered evidence that the past lived all aroundin the worn brick of the buildings that surrounded me, and riverbanks studded with ancient shark teeth, and place-names that harkened to tribes long vanished. Stories were arrayed vertically as well as horizontally; more than anyplace Id ever lived, I sensed that I was walking ground trod by generations passed. Human experience, like the coasts geology, was layered deep.
It might have taken years to calibrate my senses to Virginias nuanced charms. Happily, my work accelerated that process. In short order I hiked across the state, canoed its longest river from start to finish, climbed its highest peak and belly-crawled in its deepest cave. I slept in half of its counties. I stood vigil up top of a lighthouse, camped on desert islands, shared a summers night with millions of crawling cicada nymphs.
I paddled a great circle around the Chesapeake Bay. At an abandoned coal pier in Newport News, I spent a years worth of weekends spelunking the innards of a derelict ocean liner. I walked the halls of the Pentagon, Jeff Daviss presidential mansion, and a railroad tunnel through the heart of the Blue Ridge.
I spent long, breezy winters days on the Eastern Shore, meditating on the rustle of spartina grass, and sipped campsite coffee while admiring the misty cool of blue-gray dawns over the Shenandoah. I noticed the shadows of clouds racing across Southside peanut fields.
I went native. Twenty years on, I call myself a Virginian and view the time before my arrival as a separate and far less fortunate life. And Ive experienced enough of the state to know that I know practically nothing. Virginias breadth, in topography alone, defies intimacy with the whole.
So the collection that follows is by no means a comprehensive portrait; its an album of snapshots. The two longest piecesOut of Nowhere and When the Rain Cameare about disasters, the former detailing the experiences of a handful of soldiers and sailors at the Pentagon on September 11, 2001, the latter those of a half-dozen families in central Virginia during a freak rainstorm in 1969, one of the most destructive such events in American history.
The title piece is set on Tangier Island, a low lump of mud and marsh grass in the middle of the Chesapeake Bayamong the most eccentric small towns in the East, and one almost surely doomed to undergo terrible change.
Hardly representative, these stories, of life in Virginia on most days. The familiars absent, as well, in the profiles Ive included: In place of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and the other usual suspects, youll meet a man who devoted his life to writing simply awful novels set in Norfolk; the suburban drummer for a famed heavy-metal rock band; a mysterious swami living in the Blue Ridge.
Most of the historical pieces detail small events forgotten by pretty much everybody. Ever heard of Rye Cove? Most modern maps dont even include it, but it was the epicenter of another disaster that achieved immortality in song... immortality, at least, to those whove heard the song.
Its probably wise to view this sampling as a chronicle of specific moments, as witnessed from particular and narrow angles, arranged not by subject or type of story but to provide an easy transit from beginning to end (Ive resisted the temptation to lump all the disasters together, for instance; best to offer some relief in between).
Some might find in it an insight or two into the entire state and its people at the turn of the twenty-first century, in the same way that describing the circumference of a circle suggests something of its interior. Id like to think thatll be the casethat by defining the boundaries of Virginia experience, Ive helped you better understand it. Im not counting on it, though. You shouldnt, either.
If theres any theme that binds most of these stories, beyond the geographical, its impermanenceour struggle, as a species, to leave a mark, to combat the overwhelming forces of nature and time that conspire to erase us. Its a theme thats interested me since my arrival in Norfolk.
Because even here, in a place so mindful of its past, nothing lasts but our stories.
Not even mountains.
The Immortal Dismalites
Deep deep deep in the Great Dismal Swamp we paused to gather our wits The - photo 3
Deep, deep, deep in the Great Dismal Swamp, we paused to gather our wits.
The sky was low, its light weak, and we sat in a dusky gloom. The only sounds were our panting and the steady plink of rain on the prison of flesh-hungry brier around us. I think, George Ramsey said as he fiddled with his global positioning receiver, that were getting just a little taste of what Byrds people went through.
Probably so, said Bill Trout, who sat beside me on a fallen tree, chewing a cookie. Only they carried all that heavy surveying equipment. Imagine that.
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