In June, 1969, the New River's only serious canoe livery was on Highway 321, east of Boone. One of its boats rode atop my car while Ron and I searched for a place to put in. Our map's boat-launch notations failed twice, but the third was workable. As we unloaded the canoe, an elderly man left his gardening across the road and ambled toward us, using the hoe's handle like a cane.

"Mind if we put our canoe in the river here?” Ron asked.

"Nope. I s'pose it'd be alright,” he replied.

As we fiddled with paddles and stuff, he broke the silence.

"Y'all goin' all the way to Virginia?”

"Yes, sir,” I said. "That's what we've got planned.”

"Ever done that before?”

Ron spoke first.

"Is there anything special we need to watch out for?”

In minutes we'd been warned of a natural dam and swirling rapids that hooked like a sickle a couple of miles beyond the 221 bridge. We thanked him for his cautions and dragged the canoe toward the river's edge. He hobbled along behind us.

"Know how old I be?”

I glanced at Ron, concerned about guessing too high.

"I'd say about 75,” he replied cautiously.

"I'll be 91 year old next month!”

We mentioned how spry he was and that he didn't look a day over 80.

"Know how I come to be this old?”

His unanswerable question was met with silence, certain he'd tell us anyway.

"I takes me a dram of a mornin' an' I takes me a dram of a evenin! A feller up the holler makes a little whiskey.”

Our brief meeting with a genuine mountaineer was over and we paddled on, totally ignorant of a man's life through the first automobiles, several wars, and the Great Depression. Scattered fragments of his stories are all that remain. The rest has slipped away like a wandering cat.

The afternoon beat down as shallow water made it clear that our Virginia take-out would be an evening exercise. We beached the canoe at a low-water bridge and flopped onto the grass.

"Would y'all like some lemonade?” came a lady's invitation from a house across the road. Two hot and tired canoe-paddlers were on her front porch in no time! A plate of homemade cookies and a half-hour's worth of pleasant conversation came with the drinks. Our feeble reasons for not finishing off the cookies were quickly brushed aside, so we put them in our shirt pockets and paddled away, encouraged, rested, and comfortably full.

But again, we'd missed stories she could have told of the world's second-oldest river, and its groaning beneath blocks of ice jammed from shore to shore; or when heavy rains made the water buck and snort, stacking tree trunks like giant toothpicks.

Last year, Joann and I took Mildred Torney to the Alleghany Cares volunteer dinner. The ride there was pleasant as we chatted about assorted things and happenings. On the way back I mentioned the canoe trip of 35 years before. Mildred was intrigued by the description of a simple white house and dear lady who fed and watered a pair of dirty, smelly canoeists.

"That would have been my sister, Maude,” she replied, not at all surprised at her willingness to help two strangers.

Apparently, the late Mary Harless was much like Maude, and shared the dream of an Alleghany Historical and Genealogy Society museum. In fact, Mary wanted it so badly that she bequeathed her home to the society, hoping its sale would raise enough money for a permanent museum. While waiting for Mary's dream to come true, the group publishes fascinating books like "Alleghany Architecture: A Pictorial Survey.” Scores of pictures show interesting old homes, stores, hotels, and schools. Grouped by area, each photo includes a brief history of the building's significance. The library's Alleghany Heritage Books — also Historical Society products — connect folks to their Alleghany ancestors.

The implements of time tell stories, too. Old tools still bear the sheen of sweltering days and sweaty hands. A heavy iron block has two precisely-shaped recesses on opposite sides. Molten steel was poured in, and a pair of rough scissors came out. The steel rims of wood-spoked wagon wheels rust away slowly inside an ancient log barn. A fading photograph shows an old ferryboat being poled slowly across the New River, delivering Mouth of Wilson passengers to Alleghany's shore. Time forgotten is history gone to waste. Will your children's children ask questions, but get no answers?

Our county's alive with history, but those who tell it best are setting with the sun, erasing colorful recollections of days gone by. Mildred and several others are gathering those fading memories to share with generations yet unborn. Alleghany's past is part of its future. Doesn't it deserve a home of its own?

History matters. It's a matter of time.