A drive up and down through thick green foothills, twists and turns as the sun lowers. Orlean Market and Restaurant. Crabcakes. Reubens. Genuine hand cut French fries. Stillness of the coming evening fills the patio. From inside we hear the Bluegrass sounds of five, no six, guitars and one banjo. The music draws us in. The restaurant threads us through this old home, more twists and turns. Nooks and crannies. A cozy room to tuck us in for dessert and coffee as we soak in the music and find ourselves giving in to the urge to sing along. No one can hear us anyway. Feet are tapping, who could resist? I remember my Poppy and wonder if he played these same tunes on his fiddle. The sun drops low over the Blue Ridge Mountains and disappears, leaving artistry in creamy rose and cerulean blue, lingering in the twilight. Was it a dream?
