I, Transplant

Once I was a Yankee. The first 40-plus years of my life were in Brooklyn, then Queens. That was my childhood, adolescence and most of where I thought a person lives when they become an adult, though I really didn’t grow up until I returned to being the child who began the whole thing, seeing as how I’ve never changed all that much since the beginning. The next 13 years were in California; Santa Cruz and Silicon Valley. And now, finally, Front Royal. See, I made it.

My daughter, who settled in McLean, made me do it. She used my granddaughters as the incentive, adorable, much cuter than any of the children on the West Coast. And they’re mine. I own them, or vice versa. And the valleys and green, green mountains of Virginia and West Virginia are lusher and more alive than the mountains of the far West, the undergrowth thicker, though no one can deny the spectacular peaks and ranges that abound in the Sierras and Rockies, but they don’t have the Blue Ridge or my granddaughters and they don’t have me, not anymore.

Years ago, I fished a great deal in upstate New York in very, very famous trout rivers: the Beaverkill, the Willowemoc. Everyone who’s ever picked up a fly rod has heard of them, which is why legendary Junction Pool in Roscoe, NY is a Mecca for those who require the camaraderie of a mob. There are sunny days when you can count 10 or 15 flies being whipped onto the quiet, mirrored surface of the deep pool, all landing within a yard or two of one another, a hatch of man-made flies given birth by as many fishermen, elbow to elbow, catching absolutely nothing. The few trout left in the pool, hiding under rocks, probably laughing, must conclude that the day is clouded for there are enough artificials to block the sun: coachmen, nymphs, bi-visibles, you name it. The only sights fish can see in any direction are expensive signature waders, 10/20 sets.

Now, drive, bike or hike up or down the ancient Blue Ridge mountains that watch over the Shenandoah Valley. At the deepest part of each and any hollow you’ll come across a stream or brook you never heard of and you’ll be there all alone, just you and the brook, not even footprints (the last thing an explorer wants to discover.) Think of it, abundant, nameless water just chock full of native brookies, holdover browns and rainbows, and even a few planted goldens here and there, all of this framed by untouched banks dressed in fresh moss and ferns waiting for you. Don’t have to worry that the trout will be scarred from being beaten by floating and sinking fly lines, nor has anyone in waders stepped on their fins. The fish never even heard of Orvis, not a legend in sight. This is what I came for. This is where I now live. But I stopped fishing to take pictures instead. I catch more that way.

You should see my album of bears, hummingbirds (very territorial), fawns, turkeys and owls. The bears are like cattle around my home in the mountains. Big, little, medium, fast, slow, lumbering, prancing, up trees, curious, indifferent. Every flavor you can imagine, but all black, black-black. Don’t know why but each and every sighting is a thrill that has to be recollected (I no longer remember or recall anything – I only recollect), to any pair of captive ears I can attract and hold.

How many fawns have you counted in a single day west of the Appalachians? C’mon, the truth … the most in a single hour … the most in the same place at the same time? I counted two, altogether, same season but different months. Now, there are days when I see eight, ten, maybe a few more, one day, same time, a herd. Triplets are rare but there are still a number of them. I suspect they’re actually a pair of twins joined by a lonely single. I see them every year not long after the fawns are dropped around the last week of May, first of June. I drive really slow then, no faster than a wobbly fawn can jump out of my way.

Listen to this. One day I spotted a small family of stag, doe and fawn on the grassy hillside I borrow from the Gods next to my small chalet, which is also on loan. After all, we leave with exactly what we arrive with, nothing. None of it’s mine, not for long. So, the doe and fawn are nosing the grasses for morsels of something. The stag is lying on the grass, upright, with his legs kind of folded under him, very regal like. The doe, being the maternal decision maker of location, location, location, figures it’s time to move on and starts walking up the hillside. The fawn, in the middle of the two, looks at mom and then at pop. Pop isn’t moving. Mom just keeps going and pop stays right where he is as though stuck watching the Super Bowl. The fawn again looks at one, then the other. The fawn then walks over to the stag and kicks him in the back with the front foot repeatedly until the stag stands up, gets with the program and joins mom on the march up the hill. Now they’re a real family. Sound familiar? You don’t see that in Flatbush. There, you can kick dad again and again, nothing. And if it’s football season you just might get kicked back.

No stranger that I encountered on the West Coast ever took an instant liking to me and asked that I come back and visit, not one. Could’ve met in a library, gym, maybe a restaurant, didn’t matter – on no occasion did I come across a single, sincere, insistent voice demanding that I come back and visit again, only stay longer. The Valley’s different, very different. Time and again, twinkling blue eyes and warm brown ones have asked that I return to the very same place that we met as strangers, a kind of reunion solely for the purpose of more good company, a genuine desire to again share a few of the brief moments we have on the planet together, for just a spell. People I’d never met accepting me as I was, Brooklyn accent and all. No hidden agenda, selling nothing, buying nothing. They liked me, invited me into their life. A great way to pass the day don’t you think, with bighearted souls simply enjoying the hours. Say hello and mean it and you’re treated like family. Yes, sir! Yes, ma’am!

I’ve heard rumors that the arrival of transplants in the Valley increased the cost of houses so high that ‘locals’ can no longer afford to buy or rent a home in their hometown. Me, being one of the transplants, I figure it’s my fault. I felt guilty about this for the first few days after I heard about what I did. But I’m just one person and I asked myself, “How can this be? Am I that influential? Am I a real estate market unto myself?” To cut to the chase, the price of housing has skyrocketed all over the country, not only in the Shenandoah Valley, a kind of inflation that no one wants and it has nothing to do with me unless you can demonstrate a clear connection between me and the price of a duplex in Oklahoma City, one with a health club, near the freeway. But I didn’t do it so find someone else to blame. The government is my personal choice. I blame them for most everything that goes bad. When things are good, I take the credit.

Why Transplants Belong

Folks who can trace their family to the first settlers as well as others who discovered this fabulous Valley before me may consider my arrival several years ago as that of a newcomer, with the complete package of negative, upscale connotations that go with the stereotype. I have a different point of view, one that doesn’t defend my journey or justify why I’m here because we’re all transplants, except of course Native Americans, whose harmony with the natural order is a way of life to which I continually aspire. The way I see it I belong the same as any other transplanted American, and that’s that.

There’s so much to see, though doing nothing is also very enjoyable. You don’t need a map, perhaps use the sun for a compass and go in a direction. That’ll work. Maybe try Winchester on the first Friday evening of the month, like I did. Or check out the food in Charlottesville. Join other Civil War buffs and descendants of the great conflict and drive along history that demands to be remembered as though it happened just yesterday. Or grab a camera and picture the brown, red and yellow autumn. Then, too, there are gorgeous horses behind immaculately kept white-painted fences, and my son-in-law being coaxed up a hillside speckled with wild flowers by one of my granddaughters. So, I just sort of transplant here and there to my heart’s content, and enjoy. I suspect that’s what most transplants do. Locals can join us and get in on the action too. We’re all welcome. I love Front Royal. It’s where nature meets welcome.

Jay Buckner
Warren County, VA