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I’ve often wondered about Robert Frost’s famous line, “I’d as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.” I know he was making fun of free verse, which he saw as a lawless waste of his time. But wouldn’t playing without a net actually be harder in some ways than the familiar version of the game? And if that is so, doesn’t it follow that writing a truly memorable free verse poem might be more challenging than writing one in traditional meter and rhyme?

Henry Hart

Henry Hart

For thoughts on this matter and insights into the marvelously crustaceous Frost, I turned to poet and scholar Henry Hart, whose new biography, The Life of Robert Frost, is just out from Wiley Blackwell. “Frost was constantly making wisecracks about free verse poets playing tennis with the net down,” said Hart, a professor of English at the College of William and Mary.

Why did Frost act like free verse was so ridiculous? According to Hart, it was the poet’s way of  thumbing his nose at his rivals Ezra Pound and Carl Sandburg, who in their different ways were expert writers of free verse. Frost “tried writing free verse when he was close to Pound in London, and it was prosaic.  He knew writing good free verse was difficult—just as writing good formal poetry was difficult.  He preferred writing formal poetry because he was a conventional guy, but he also felt he needed the restraint and challenge of form.”

As for Frost the tennis player, I learned that the author of A Boy’s Will and North of Boston had taken up the game as a teenager while working one summer in Maine. It became one of his favorite activities–so long as he won. Hart said, “He was certainly passionate about tennis, but he wasn’t all that good and, as in most things, he was almost pathologically competitive.”

Frost was so competitive that he became furious when his daughter Lesley beat him at the game. According to Hart, the Pulitzer Prize winner stormed off the court shouting, “My children think that because they’re the children of a poet, that gives them license!  But what they don’t know or understand or appreciate [is] … I know more about the English language than any man alive.”

I couldn’t resist asking Hart, a longtime tennis player, his thoughts on tennis without a net. It turns out he agrees with Frost: “I suppose playing tennis with the net down or without the net would just be silly.” Still, he reminded me that the subject of his new biography was more concerned with poetry than tennis when making his remark: “Frost was emoting when he used the metaphor to mock free verse; he was just trash talking.”

Not quite done rallying back and forth on this topic, I decided to lob a few questions to several other tennis-playing writers in various genres.

In the case of William Pritchard, the eminent critic and author of Frost: A Literary Life Reconsidered, I wasn’t sure he played tennis, but something told me that the English professor emeritus at Amherst College had hit a few overhead smashes in his time. He was quick to write back that yes, indeed, he played tennis “until Old Age, etc.” As for playing the game without a net: “I can’t imagine what it would be like to play without a net. No fun, no restriction, what the hell can’t lose!”

Wm Pritchard

William Pritchard

Invited to contemplate net-free tennis, Boston-based novelist and short story writer Jessica Treadway responded an hour before she was scheduled to play a match–very much in keeping with her literary flair for timing and suspense. “I don’t think I’ve ever played without a net, but my immediate reaction to the idea of doing so has not to do with whether it’s harder or easier, but with whether I’d want to do it, and the answer is no. The analogy that came to mind was no-ad scoring, which I dislike. To my mind, it is not ‘real’ tennis.”

Jessica Treadway

Jessica Treadway

The author of Lacy Eye and How Will I Know You added, “I also wouldn’t want to do it because I’m used to having a net, and I like the game the way it is. I wonder if someone never having written poetry would prefer free verse because it does seem that it would be easier?”

Keith Clark, professor of English and African & African-American Studies at George Mason University, likewise nixed the idea of playing tennis without a net. Compared to the game he knows and loves, the netless version would be “infinitely dumber and less interesting, mind-numbingly less interesting, in fact.” The author of The Radical Fiction of Ann Petry and Black Manhood in James Baldwin, Ernest J. Gaines, and August Wilson makes time for tennis even during the busiest weeks of the semester at GMU.

Keith Clark

Keith Clark

As for Frost’s remark, the ever-erudite Professor Clark noted, “I think Frost’s comment speaks to his classical approach to the art of poetry, which eschews radical approaches to form. Not to say that he wasn’t aesthetically daring, but free verse to him seemed a bridge too far.”

Carol Henderson, author of Losing Malcolm and Farther Along: The Writing Journey of Thirteen Bereaved Mothers, made it clear that tennis without a net is not high on her to-do list. “You need the net to gauge distance, height, depth,” said this dedicated tennis player and writing workshop instructor, who secludes herself at home in Chapel Hill, N.C., to watch Grand Slam matches on a large-screen TV. “Playing or watching tennis without a net would be a waste of time.” What about Frost’s quip echoing in English classes across the land? “It’s not an apt metaphor.”

Carol Henderson

Carol Henderson

Finally, I turned to Philip Holland of Boston, novelist and author of one of my all-time favorite short stories, “Mentor,” about a club tennis pro trying to teach a singularly unpromising young boy how to play the game. He wrote, “Believe it or not, I have played a few times without a net, in those New England springs in my hometown before the nets went up and our team could officially practice. Here’s what I remember: without a net, the game is much easier on the person hitting the shot, and

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Philip Holland

much harder on the person receiving the shot. Perhaps you experienced the same, if you ever tried? The person hitting the shot, being much less constrained, could hit it lower and harder, and with all kind of crazy angles, or even lower and softer–and the person receiving had to deal with all that additional variability.”

With the philosophical turn of mind that makes his fiction so engaging, he continued, “I might say this, in response to Mr. Frost. Perhaps like tennis without a net, free verse too might be a bit easier for the author, as it is for the ‘author’ of the shot, but more difficult for the reader, as it is for the receiver of the shot, in that by removing the ‘constraints’ of form, rhyme, meter, etc., not unlike the net, it might free up the poet but make it more difficult on the other end to process his or her offering.”

Weighing all these observations, I suspect a tennis player of the caliber of Serena Williams would see a kind of “ghost net” even if no tangible net were there to guide her shots. She would know when she or her opponent hit the ball even an inch below the ghost net, and she would use her knowledge of the net, even in its absence, to play her best game. On a parallel note, various critics have written about the ghost of meter lurking within exemplary free verse. Truly expert free verse–for instance, the later poems by Adrienne Rich and just about everything by Lucille Clifton–makes use of meter (and rhyme) when it suits the needs of the poem. In short, Frost’s famous comment may say more than he realized about the subtle skills and awareness involved in writing free verse. Deuce point, Mr. Frost!

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Robert Frost

One evening, not long after I graduated from college, my father and I paid a social call on a new acquaintance of his, a  tall, talkative man probably in his sixties. At the end of the visit, I shook our host’s hand. To my surprise, he began lecturing me on the virtues of an assertive handshake.  He knew I’d just started a career as a newspaper reporter, and he thought I needed a good firm grip to make the right impression on people. We stood there and practiced for a few moments.

After that unexpected schooling, I resolved to do better. For a while, I proffered an aggressively strong handshake to one and all. It was not always returned in kind, and I sensed that some people would have preferred the passive grip I’d disavowed. Eventually, after trying out handshakes of varying lengths and pressures, I settled on a fairly brief, medium-light clasp that no one would mistake for performance art. I’m not sure my long-ago handshake tutor would have liked it, but at least it hasn’t provoked any further lectures.

What is the best type of handshake? What is the creepiest? Here are my thoughts and ratings on a scale of one to five shakes:

The Crunch. You’ve met Crunchers. They have hearty smiles and alarmingly good eye contact. The Cruncher says,”Nice to meet you!” and you say (to yourself), “Ow!” Not a great start for friendship or business, but Crunchers are trying so hard to make a favorable impression that I cut them some handshake slack.

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The Lady Shake. You don’t have to be a lady to do the lady shake. All you have to do is offer the tips of your fingers to the other person as if you were feeding a cricket to a python. Is it the height of politesse?  Having reach that height at first meeting, is there anywhere to go but down?

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The Shake-and-Kiss. I first encountered the Shake-and-Kiss in New England. Let’s say I’m at a party, and I run into the husband of a friend from work. In the midst of the hello-again handshake, this very proper fellow kisses me on the cheek. In contrast to a joyously unwieldy hug and kiss, the Shake-and-Kiss is a marvel of platonic precision: the kiss lands where it should without schmooshing one’s hair or violating an ear. Better still, after a properly executed Shake-and-Kiss, both parties can head straight for the chips and dip: one good combo deserves another.

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The Long Shake. Have you ever shaken hands with someone who won’t let go? Sometimes your hand gets repeatedly pumped, sometimes just gently but unyieldingly held. If the person’s left hand gets involved, make no mistake: you’re in a hostage situation. When you get trapped like that, you want to scream, “Give me my hand back, now!” And yet if you were to scream and yank your hand away, that would mean abandoning all attempts at the Friendly Clasp ….

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The Friendly Clasp. Not crunchy, not noodley. Neither sweaty-hot nor Morticia Addams-cold. Not too pumpy and not wax-museum still. As incisive and assured as Michelle Obama, the Friendly Clasp gets job offers and lunch dates. It never malingers. A model of dignity and good humor, it is an upstanding citizen in the nation of body language. Give it up for the Friendly Clasp!

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During times of upheaval, art of all kinds can offer solace and refuge. As an antidote to the horrors we are all grappling with these days, I recommend to you the life and writing of Harold Norse (1916-2009),  an out gay man who grew up in the 1920s and 1930s. In this, his centennial year, let’s have a look at who he was and what he was all about.

The Brooklyn native was a smart, sexy guy with a winning smile. He graduated from Brooklyn College in 1938 and later earned an M.A. from New York University. His elegant lyric poems received high praise from William Carlos Williams, who called him the best poet of his generation. First in Europe and then in San Francisco, Norse found his milieu among the Beat writers. His numerous books of poetry, his experimental novel, The Beat Hotel, and his memoir were published by both mainstream and small presses beginning in 1953.

Here’s Norse writing in Memoirs of a Bastard Angel (Morrow, 1989) about a letter he received from W.H. Auden:

Wystan had repeatedly said, and had written in a letter to me, ‘Live every moment as if it were thy last,’ quoting an Anglican hymn he had sung in childhood. And although the context of this line was religious, I could believe the thought without the religion. There was no other way to live. Certainly not if you were in your twenties and the most devastating war in history had just ended. I was lucky to be alive. I was lucky the government did not have room in its military machine for young men designated 4-F because of ‘feminine reactions.’

But Norse did fight during World War II–in New York City. One day on Eighth Street, between Fifth and Sixth avenues, he encountered a drunk beating up a peddler and hollering anti-Semitic epithets:

Nobody made a move to help the old man. The crowd’s passiveness and the helplessness of the old peddler at a time when millions of innocent Jews were being terminated in the gas chambers of Europe proved too much for me. I pushed my way forward through the throng and hovered a moment indecisively. Then, almost without my knowing it, my fist shot out of the crowd and the drunk went down, flat on his back, his head thudding on the asphalt. A cheer rose from the crowd, which began to disperse, many thanking me warmly, shaking my hand.

Norse was a man of many talents. In the late 1950s he arrived in  Paris and soon began experimenting with cut-up writing, a technique that William Burroughs made famous. Norse was also painting:

I had begun painting at a suggestion from Julia Laurin. I threw colored Pelican inks at random on Bristol paper and washed them off in the bidet with startling results: a series of maplike drawings of outer and inner space in the most vivid colors and minutely precise details, as if they had been meticulously drawn by a master hand. Yet my hand never touched them. I allowed everything to happen, letting the laws of chance take over, acting as a medium through whom these colors, shapes, and designs would flow, dictated by whatever forces reside in the unconscious. With the feeling that I was charting new territory in the visual arts I worked compulsively, calling the results ‘Cosmographs’–cosmic writings. I was no draftsman, but I was an artist. When I showed them to Burroughs [… ] he was so enthusiastic that he wrote the introduction to my first one-man show, which opened a year later in March 1961 at the English Bookshop, 42, rue de Seine.

These are just a few glimpses of Norse, someone I knew little about until I became friends with Todd and Tate Swindell of San Francisco. The Swindell brothers have done a great deal to promote Norse and other San Francisco Beats who haven’t gotten the attention they deserve.

A writer and activist, Todd Swindell had admired Norse’s poetry for a long time before he began helping Norse around the house near the end of the poet’s life. After Norse died, Todd compiled his archives. He also took on the enormous task of editing I Am Going to Fly Through Glass: The Selected Poems of Harold Norse (Talisman House, 2014). Later this month, he will be presenting a talk, “Cut Out of the Cut Ups: Harold Norse at the Beat Hotel,” at the European Beat Studies Conference in Manchester, England. In July, Todd and Tate Swindell will host and participate in a series of discussion panels commemorating the centennial of Norse’s birth. For more info on these panels (two in San Francisco and one in Los Angeles), go to the Events page at haroldnorse.com.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Todd Swindell by email. Here’s what he had to say about his old friend Harold Norse.

What does Harold Norse add to the Beat Movement? 

Harold adds a strong connection to Modernism to the Beat Movement. He was publishing in magazines like Poetry in the 1940s. When W.H. Auden arrived in the States, Harold was among the first Americans to connect with him, and he became Auden’s secretary. Harold also got to know Anaïs Nin, Dylan Thomas, and James Baldwin.

Without Harold, the Beats would not have such a rich international dimension. He lived in Paris in the late 1950s and traveled widely. We read often of New York City and San Francisco, but a great deal of the Beats’ influence came out of what happened in Paris, Tangier, and the Greek Islands, and Harold was part of that scene. Nor would we have had Harold’s magazine Bastard Angel, from the early 1970s, publishing a new generation of writers such as Andrei Codrescu and Neeli Cherkovski in the same pages as Bob Kaufman and Diane di Prima.

Where was Harold living when he was editing and producing Bastard Angel, and how long did it last? Where is it archived?

Bastard Angel magazine began shortly after Harold moved to San Francisco in 1971, inspired by the city’s poetry scene and its mixture of younger and older poets. Issue #3, the last one, came out in the fall of 1974. The mock-ups and other production material are archived at the Lilly Library at Indiana University. Harold sold them a part of his archives in the early 1980s. Most of his papers are housed at the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley.

How did Harold get along with Allen Ginsberg? Did they have much contact?

Harold met Allen in the winter of 1944, a week before Ginsberg met Kerouac. It was on a subway train, very early in the morning heading to Greenwich Village, when Allen entered the empty car wearing a red bandana around his neck, taking a seat opposite Harold. When the train’s rumble would quiet at each stop, Harold could hear the 18-year-old mumbling to himself while his head bobbed as if he were in a trance. Eventually he recognized “The Drunken Boat” being recited in French. “Rimbaud!” Harold shouted. “You’re a poet!” Allen replied. They went back to Harold’s apartment on Horatio Street and compared poems. The pair would have likely met later at parties or bars in the Village, but they were acquaintances more than friends, similar to Harold’s connection with Frank O’Hara.

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Allen Ginsberg and Harold Norse (photo by Gerard Malanga, 1973)

There was a subtle rivalry between Norse and Ginsberg. In Harold’s Memoirs of a Bastard Angel, he mentions the time Ginsberg and his lover Peter Orlovsky arrived in Paris in 1961 on their way to India. At a party filled with champagne and hashish, Peter pestered Harold to disrobe. After swigging and toking, he complied, but then Peter disappeared into the bathroom. Eventually most of the guests ended up in their birthday suits, as Allen sternly guarded the bathroom door. The whole story is well worth reading.

When I was gathering Harold’s archives, I found correspondence to Allen asking him for a letter of recommendation. Harold was trying to obtain a paid teaching position. Ginsberg replied he didn’t have time to comply and ultimately such a letter would not make a difference. In his defense, Ginsberg was inundated with such requests.

In Harold’s archives at Indiana University, there is a series of photographs by Gerard Malanga taken in 1973 at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art during a poetry reading by John Ashbery. Allen and Harold were both in attendance wearing the colorful hippie garb of the day. You can see their bright smiles. As you know, Ginsberg was a talented photographer and he photographed Harold in the kitchen of his Mission District apartment in 1988. It is one of the most beautiful photos taken of Harold.

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Photo by Allen Ginsberg, 1988

Did Harold have a workaday job, or was he able to earn a living as a writer? 

Harold’s paid employment varied throughout his life. In New York City, he taught at colleges like Cooper Union. When he left for Italy in ’53, his finances were very strained. At first he worked dubbing English films into Italian and then taught English, on and off, for a couple years. During his years abroad, Harold was supported by a couple of patrons who were from wealthy families but lived frugally. This support was usually a vacant apartment or money for food—but only the bare necessities.

When Harold repatriated to California in 1969, he tried to obtain a regular teaching position but was systematically rejected by petty professors jealous of his time abroad. There was an image projected of Harold being too wild because of his poetry. In the 1980s he had some stints at a college in San Jose and at San Francisco’s New College. Harold scraped by his whole life, but of course he’d been doing that since he was a child. His parents were always leaving furnished rooms under cloak of night because they couldn’t pay the rent.

I read that he rearranged the letters in his surname, Rosen, to come up with Norse. Why did he do that? What was his attitude toward his Jewish heritage?

Like his hairpiece, Harold’s name change was something he never spoke of. According to his memoirs, Harold’s new name came from childhood readings in Norse mythology and because his mother’s family were Nordic Jews, blue-eyed blondes from Lithuania. Though his mother was suspicious of religions (and people), her siblings converted when they married spouses who were Catholic.

Harold embraced his Jewish heritage when the Nazis rose to power. Also, he saw how prejudice arose from baseless stereotypes whether it was blacks, queers, or Jews. For instance, Harold—muscular, hairy, butch—was never suspected of being queer. His swarthy complexion and upturned nose could have him pegged as anything from Italian to English to German.

What are some of the poems you especially admire in I Am Going to Fly Through Glass?

A selection of my favorite poems can change from day-to-day. For now…“Piccolo Paradiso” is a love poem for the ages. “Believing in the Absurd” is a snapshot of Harold’s time at the Beat Hotel. “California Will Sink” is a prophetic lamentation about global warming. “Remembering Paul Goodman” encapsulates the queer poetic geniuses of 1940’s Manhattan. “Let Go and Feel Your Nakedness” merges the lusty odes of Catullus with the liberating playfulness of James Broughton.

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What were some of the challenges of compiling and editing this edition of selected poems?

 My original idea was to photocopy a chapbook of Harold’s poetry and circulate it amongst friends, a stoking of the fire, as it were. I’d self-published a memorial chapbook of poetry from Harold’s friends like Ira Cohen, Mel Clay and Eddie Woods after he died in 2009. (Readers can email me at poet@haroldnorse.com to purchase a copy.) It wasn’t until Neeli Cherkovski suggested a full-length collection that I set my sights higher, which meant going back and reading all the poems again.

The 2003 edition of Harold’s collected poems is comprehensive but poorly organized and needlessly repetitive. I wanted to illustrate the development of Harold’s poetic voice, mirrored by his world travels. Including photographs from Harold’s archives accented this progression. Neeli contributed a brilliant introductory essay that motivated me to include additional poems.

It was hard not to give up when publishers repeatedly turned down the manuscript. I was on the verge of self-publishing when Ed Foster from Talisman House came in with a wonderful offer to print 700 copies­—considerably larger than the usual small-press poetry print runs.

Tell me a story about Harold Norse that only you would know.

Harold’s last years living alone in his cottage apartment in San Francisco were fraught with loneliness, compounded by lack of restful sleep. Though social by nature, he had become increasingly isolated. There was an element within his psyche which could often sabotage an opportunity.

Many folks who knew Harold longer than I have remarked on how he would perpetually kvetch about his work not being recognized. I was in my twenties when we first met and naively unaware of Harold’s role in that situation. I could only be supportive and enthusiastic. As far as I was concerned, the value of his work obviated Harold’s shortcomings.

One day, venting his woes, Harold expressed concern that he sounded paranoid. His complaint wasn’t specific to his poetry not getting the attention it deserved but more about the difficulty of not getting enough sleep and lacking money and companionship. The day before, I had been reading his City Lights collection Hotel Nirvana, which contains the poem “These Fears Are Real Not Paranoid.” I blurted out the title and Harold looked at me wide-eyed as I explained it was the title of one of his poems.

He was not convinced. I had him locate a copy of the book so I could read the poem aloud. When I was done, Harold had tears in his eyes. “I’m hearing this poem for the first time,” he said. “What do you mean?” I asked. “We are unable to see ourselves,” he replied, “That’s why I write poetry–for the reflection that comes from the reader.” It was then I begin to appreciate what my friendship offered Harold beyond housecleaning and conversation.

To read a selection of Norse’s poems published in Poetry magazine, click here.

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Harold Norse and Todd Swindell, 2008 (Photo by Tate Swindell)

 

My summer travels brought me to the small town of Marion, tucked in the mountains of southwestern Virginia. My partner, Roberta, was doing genealogical research and we had some old family sites, the library, and a cemetery to visit.

The town holds literary interest, because it was here that  Sherwood Anderson, author of Winesburg, Ohio (1919), lived while working as a newspaper publisher and editor during his later years. But the evening we arrived, we were weary. Our only order of business before dinner was touring Main Street, not doing research of any kind.

We emerged from the General Francis Marion Hotel and ventured across the street to a quirky looking shop called Appalachian Mountain Spirits. Although it was closing time, co-owner Scott Schumaker, a large man with a gentle demeanor, said we could look around while he took care of some paperwork. Roberta wandered off. I got no further than the cages of kittens near the front door.

Kittens at Appalachian Mountain Spirits

Kittens at Appalachian Mountain Spirits

They were all up for adoption, and I was transfixed. A couple of black and white kittens and a solid black one were vying for my attention. A beautiful gray cat lay fast asleep. In another cage, a tiny silver tabby tucked her chin into her chest and dozed. She was the one I had to hold, and Scott Schumaker obligingly unlatched the cage and placed her in my hands. I wanted to slip her in my pocket and take her with me everywhere.

That was what I wanted but not what I did. The store was closing, and Roberta and I left, murmuring our goodbyes to Scott as we headed outside and down a couple of doors to a nice, down-home restaurant called the Wooden Pickle.

Although Roberta and I had never been out of each other’s earshot during our visit to Appalachian Mountain Spirits, it turned out we’d had completely different experiences there. After learning what she had discovered while I was cooing over kittens, I resolved to return the next evening and conduct a mini-interview for this blog.

So here’s my conversation with Dana Schumaker, co-owner, with her husband, of Appalachian Mountain Spirits, 112 E. Main St., Marion, Va. As you read this, imagine kittens mewing in the background:

HH: How long have you been here?

Dana: Two and a half years.

HH: What is the purpose of the store?

Dana: We are a distillery with an ABC store and a whiskey tasting room, so we have locally made artisan wares in the front, the ABC store is in the middle, and our still is in the back.

HH: Tell me about these cats up front. What’s going on with all the kittens?

Dana: Well, I have been an animal rescuer for 20+ years. When we opened this store in Marion, I decided that I wanted to support the local shelter, since it is a very high-kill shelter, and I have [found homes for] kittens and adult cats since last September, and we are approaching about 300 adoptions.

Dana Schumaker, co-owner of Appalachian Mountain Spirits

Dana Schumaker, co-owner of Appalachian Mountain Spirits

HH: Who’s adopting all these kittens and cats?

Dana: A lot of locals. And believe it or not, I’ve actually had someone from as far away as Ohio adopt a cat, so even people who are traveling are getting them as well.

HH: Do people come in for the whiskey and stay for the cats, or vice versa?

Dana: It goes both ways. We have people come because they heard that I have cats and they end up going to the back and trying the whiskey. Some people come in for the whiskey and fall in love with the cats.

HH: Where are you from?

Dana: Originally from Orlando, Florida.

HH: What drew you to the little town of Marion?

Dana: The mountains. My husband and I knew that we wanted to move to the mountains, and we especially wanted to be close to the AT [Appalachian Trail]. We hadn’t decided where, and someone directed us to southwest Virginia, and we fell in love with Marion and moved here.

HH: What was this building before it became your business?

Appalachian Mountain Spirits, Marion, Va.

Appalachian Mountain Spirits, Marion, Va.

Dana: It was an Amish goods store and prior to that, I’ve been told, it was a bookstore, a photography studio, a jewelry store, and a Rose’s department store.

HH: Wow, that’s lots of different things. Do you have plans for things you might add to what you sell here or other things you might do?

Dana: We want to do something with the upstairs. We just haven’t decided what yet. We’ve thought about having a cigar bar or a private whiskey club. We don’t know.

HH: But, plans in the works?

Dana: Yeah!

After the interview, I went to the back of the store, past several shelves of moonshine and the whiskey tasting bar, in search of Roberta. She was talking to Scott, who had hooked up a guitar made from a cigar box to an amplifier. It took a little doing, but he got it to work and the sound was lovely.

Scott Schumaker, co-owner of Appalachian Mountain Spirits

Scott Schumaker, co-owner of Appalachian Mountain Spirits

Roberta bought that guitar. When she plays it, now that we’re back home in our corner of Virginia, I’m sure I’ll think about the Schumakers and the whiskey and the cats.

I’ll think about the new kitten, a tall black and white one, that had arrived just an hour before our second visit to the shop. He’d been found behind an old factory where they used to make Buster Brown shoes.

When Dana Schumaker let me hold him, he stood completely still in my arms. Hoping. Waiting. If I could’ve taken him home, I would’ve named him Sherwood and given him my whole front lawn.

A kitten in Marion, Va.

A kitten in Marion, Va.

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