Today I headed to Danbury to visit my Aunt Dean and her roommate at LifeBrite.

And of course, you can’t head to Danbury without making a couple stops along the way.

First stop was the Red Top Cafe.

I picked up four hot dogs all the way for Aunt Dean and her roommate. Now whether anybody at LifeBrite needed four hot dogs is beside the point.

Some traditions don’t require much explanation.

From there, I stopped by Priddy’s General Store.

If you grew up around Stokes County, you already know Priddy’s is more than just a store. It’s part grocery store, part gathering place, part time machine.

Jane was there like always. These days she’s the proprietor, carrying on what her family has done there for generations. Jane graduated with my brother Reggie at North Stokes and later from Appalachian State. These days when I stop in, I usually try to buy a little something local.

Maybe some Stokes County honey.

Maybe one of those fried apple pies that’ll make you forget every diet plan you ever had.

Jane told me my dad, Joe, had stopped by a few days earlier. Evidently he’s developed quite an affinity for some particular root beer or ginger ale she carries up there.

That led us into talking about church.

I told her Dad’s church—Sandy Ridge Primitive Baptist—meets on second Sunday. She laughed and said her mama’s Primitive Baptist church used to be second Sunday too, but now they meet on third Sunday.

That little exchange probably doesn’t mean much to a lot of people.

But if you grew up around country churches, you understand.

I shared with her how some white Primitive Baptists from West Virginia visit Dad’s district from time to time, and how some of Dad’s fellow members travel up there to worship with them.

We didn’t stand there making some grand speech about it.

Didn’t need to.

There was a lot understood in that little conversation.

Especially these days.

Standing there in an old country store in Stokes County, talking about people crossing mountains and old divisions just to worship together, it struck me how the world you see on television isn’t always the world most people are actually living in.

Then I got to thinking about my grandfather, Papa Lee.

Back when I was a teenager, I used to drive Papa Lee to Priddy’s. He’d go in and buy sliced pork from one of Jane’s people working there back then.

Same store.

Different generation.

Somehow still connected.

That’s the thing about places like that.

They hold pieces of people long after the years move on.

From there I headed to LifeBrite.

And Lord have mercy, Aunt Dean was in rare form.

Smiling.

Laughing.

Carrying on.

I don’t know how a woman confined to a bed can still somehow know more family news than everybody else put together, but she does.

Before long I’d been updated on cousins, church folks, sicknesses, recoveries, weddings, rumors, and probably a few stories that may have improved slightly in the retelling.

And honestly?

I didn’t much care if every detail was accurate.

Because somewhere in the middle of all that laughing and carrying on, I realized something.

I always leave feeling lighter than when I arrived.

Like somehow those old roads, old stores, old churches, and old people still know how to steady you a little.

The world moves fast now.

Too fast most days.

But over there in Danbury, you can still find places where folks remember your daddy, ask about your family, feed you hot dogs, and send you home carrying a little more than what you came with.

I swear…

The visits probably do me more good than they do her.

At least, that’s how I remember it.

As Best As I Remember It.