The streets of Lynchburg

You think you know a place, you've got the general lay of the land - and then something comes along and throws it all into a new light. Take Lynchburg, for instance. Over the past decade, I've been there at least half a dozen times, and I thought I had a decent sense of the city: I've eaten in a number of its restaurants, played a few rounds of golf, tracked down a Starbucks coffee - heck, I've even tried the local vineyard. But just a week ago, L., Cleo and I sat down on the deck just visible to the left of this photo, and saw this: a reminder that the city also has complex, and meaningful, musical traditions. As Wikipedia puts it, in a memorable phrasing, Jordan "was an American blues guitarist and vocalist of some renown." And yet, his very existence was unknown to me, until I stumbled across this marker.

But why speak in parables? What I mean to say, Cleo, is that I had a false security in my knowledge of the world at large, before you came along. I thought I knew the contours, the general outlines - but in five years you've showed me that there is always more to learn. With you, through you, I've learned what onesies are. I've learned to tell the difference between Aurora and Cinderella - and I've (almost) learned the difference between blue and purple. I know, now, how to make soup in a hot tub, and that a functional variant of myths is mythis. I've met Steve, from Blues Clues, but I've also met Jasper, and Fred, and Eve, and dozens of other children and parents. And I've learned, too, that that house that I'd seen on various occasions when I walked through Bolton Hill

is not merely a house: it's a hive, a world, a place where real friendships and networks (and finger paintings) take shape. Yes, it's a school of some renown - but it's also a reminder, in short (as are you) that the world is always richer than we might initially imagine.