With the stride of a Bolivian llama herder, I marched resolutely up the hill towards the summit. Well, maybe it wasn't quite as firm as the stride of a llama herder, but it was pretty good for a guy who spends most of his time in front of a computer screen.

And likely there's never been a Bolivian llama herder in downtown Boone. Then again, if such a person existed and lived in this area, Boone would be my first guess for a residence. There are all kinds of folks there, from the mundane to the very odd, from the city slicker to the yokel, farmers and college students, hillbillies and heartbreakers; all rubbing elbows in a little high country metropolis.

I've always liked Boone; in fact, I've admired the little city with the winding streets and shops that show eclectic interests in every possible direction. However, I've never had the desire to stay there very long. One day has always satisfied my traveling bone more than amply. I do relish the choices in restaurants and shopping, the music venues, the college campus with its indoor and outdoor events, possibilities that seem endless to an outsider like myself. However, I relish quiet serenity and that I find here, "Where a traffic jam is three cars behind a tractor." It's nice to live in an area where there are nearly as many cows as people. In fact, I prefer it that way at least 80 percent of the time. Besides, cows are much more useful than many of the humans I know.

At any rate, I had planned to travel a round and about route to get to Boone: along the Blue Ridge Parkway at a relatively slow pace. I still find myself gazing out the windows as I ride on the Parkway for a view of these blue-kissed mountains that remain a wonder despite the fact that I've seen them nearly every day of my life. I sometimes marvel at the sheer human effort that it took to make such a thing. It is a road hacked and hewn over and around mountains, mostly by hand, moving huge rocks and laying the culverts so perfectly that they often needed no mortar. These were artisans, some imported from Europe to do the stone work, who helped make a way for us to transverse these high hills without completely taming the landscape.

At the same time, I also try to remember that simultaneously driving an automobile while staring at the scenery can be a risky proposition, a fact that is not lost on those who are riding with me. "Be careful. Watch where you're going. You're about to run off the road!" That's when I usually suggest that we all do what we're best at. "I'll drive and you complain," I suggested Saturday, a statement that likely cost me several popularity points. As it turned out, I ended up taking another route because of being short on time. It doesn't seem to matter where I need to go, there's always some reason that I can't go without being in a rush. I'll stop before I lose more popularity points, especially considering the fact that I might be running low on them right now.

After making a stop at a nice Japanese restaurant, I left my vehicle and rode with my friends to the arena-the Holmes Convocation Center that usually plays host to Appalachian State University basketball games. My friend's wife is disabled from a serious car accident, so she has a little bit of difficulty making it on long walks, but to a final walk we had come-up a long high ramp in the sweltering heat, the earth pushing the sun's rays back upward with equal force to the heat coming down from above. By the time we made the door, I was overheating. My friend's wife was overheating in a serious way. She doesn't usually even stand for very long, so it was difficult for her, especially since my friend is chronically early and wanted to make sure we made the door at least half an hour before it opened. The tickets were general admission, so we ended up in the very center of the very front row-the best seats I've ever had. I guess I should further explain what I was doing-we were there to see "Blood, Sweat and Tears." All week I had been humming the songs, "Spinning Wheel" and "You Made Me So Very Happy."

Somehow in our communications, I was told that the show was instead "Earth, Wind and Fire," an idea that I did not relish. After the tickets arrived, I was definitely happy to find out that they were indeed for B,S&T.

One of my other friends called to ask if the group came out on walkers and canes. "No," I replied, "But a good portion of the audience did." I was only partially kidding. The group got its start in 1968, so some of the people who were in their mid 30s then are in their late 70s now. A fellow in front of me at the concession stand had an oxygen tank on his back and I only saw about 10 people under the age of 50. Speaking of older people (there go my popularity points again), I could definitely remember the group from my sisters' record collections. You see, I always got the leftover 45s and 33s when those songs were no longer ‘the latest thing.' I was at the mercy of the eclectic tastes of female teenagers in the mid 1970s: Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show, Carly Simon, Kiss, the Eagles and many, many more.

I would sit by the little turntable and play one after another, watching the labels spin around in a colorful swirl of red and black. As often as not, I would scratch them, abuse them and break them, but not really on purpose. Hence they gave me only the records they had already grown tired of. I remember going to look at eight tracks and them being inside a glass case with round holes cut around it. Your hand would fit inside and you could pick up the eight track, but it was slightly too big to fit back through the hole. I suppose it was a primitive theft prevention measure. After all, theft wasn't a big problem with really big records. It doesn't really seem like it was that long ago, does it? After all, I can still hear some those records crackling in my mind as I stretched out on the black and red yarn carpet, my sister's blood red velveteen bedspread in the background.

As it turned out, the concert was a welcome diversion from all the things that go on in regular life. I don't get enough of that sort of thing. Maybe not a concert every weekend, but leisure is always good for the mind.
 

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