The Shadow
Welcome back, Shadowers! Over the course of our lives, most everyone at some point or another has experienced one unsavory side of human nature — like folks so fired up over a cause that even after it’s all said and done, they still keep swinging. Like a man who keeps chopping a tree that’s already fallen. Or a shell-shocked soldier who stands on the empty battlefield long after the last cannon has fallen silent, still swinging at the smoke.
Somewhere along the way, the mission quietly twisted into a habit of just throwing punches. They forgot how to live in the peace they fought so hard to earn. Instead of planting a victory flag or accepting they got bested, they dig another trench, trying to fill the hollow spot where happiness used to live, and stuffing it with whatever noise and bitterness they can find.
I once knew a feller years ago — let’s call him Sam — who fought a bitter campaign to save an old bridge in a town. He rallied signatures, stormed council meetings, even dragged news crews (including me) out on stormy afternoons to film its crumbling supports.
And miracle of miracles, he won. The council voted to restore the bridge. The funds were allocated. The workers did their thing. But Sam? It was a bridge too far. Long after the project was completed, you’d still find him pacing its newly poured sidewalks, clipboard in hand, squinting suspiciously at perfectly good bolts. He wrote letters about imagined cracks, lobbied to replace the metalwork that had just been installed, and held meetings attended only by himself and a tray of stale cookies. In the end, people stopped seeing him as the hero who saved the bridge and started seeing him as a ghost haunting it — a man who won the prize, but forgot how to enjoy the fair.
There’s actually a name for this: perseveration (pr-seh-vr-ay-shn). But around here, folks just say, “Bless his or her heart, they just can’t let it go.”
Lately, I’ve started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, The Shadow has found himself in Sam’s perseveration-filled boots. The first clue? Well, the always cheerful voice in my head, the one that normally sounds like a cross between Andy Griffith and a golden retriever, started wearing a spiked collar. Then my better half, my boss, and a handful of good folks, some kind, some sharper than a fencepost splinter, pointed out that The Shadow might just be out there still swinging at the smoke. So, in the spirit of good investigative journalism, let’s see if this puppy really has treed a coon, or if he’s just barking at his shadow in the moonlight.
But first, I want to swat a buzzing rumor that’s been flitting around town like a June bug on a screen door: The Shadow does not hate the Highlands. Lord, if I hated it, I’d be Zach Brown sitting on a beach with “My toes in the water, a** in the sand…” and not digging through FOIA documents with the enthusiasm of a man chewing tinfoil.
Secondly, while you might sharpen your sword for something you hate, you sharpen your pencil for the things you love enough to defend, even if it means painting a target on your own back. I fight because the Highlands are worth fighting for — its hills, hollers, and the good people stubborn enough to believe that morals, ethics, and truth still matter. If you think I’ve been tough just to be spiteful and destructive, you’re wrong. You don’t bother fixing a barn you plan to walk away from. You fix it because you’re planning to stay.
The Shadow’s job is to do what every investigative journalist and independent newspaper worth its salt is supposed to do: stand guard like an old hound on the porch, sniffing out mischief and other shenanigans before those groundhogs burrow in. And for a good long while around the Highlands, we seem to have had a bad case of Groundhog Day.
But now? With the recent elections, fresh administrations, and new faces elected and appointed into key roles, it begs a fair question: Is there still a need to bark, or have we started barking at the mailman just out of habit? Why not pause for a second, wag our tails a little, and see if the mailman’s actually bringing us a treat? After all, not every visitor at the gate is a trespasser — some just might be delivering something full of wholesome goodness.
Or at least your weekly Amazon retail therapy package.
So, my fellow Shadowers, let’s do an experiment. Less barking and more tail wagging. Let’s focus on what makes this place worth fighting for in the first place — the quiet heroes, the small-town miracles, the neighborly goodness that too often goes unseen. Yes, every town’s got its warts, but we don’t all have to spend all day croaking like frogs about it. There’s a lot to love here, and not every pot needs stirring — some just need Grandma’s secret seasonings.
Now here’s your part in the experiment. See, it’s easy to spot the rough patches. It’s harder, yet braver, to plant a flower right in the middle of ‘em. So next time you’re walking down the street and see someone who once ruffled your feathers, don’t cross your arms and rehearse an old grudge. Unfold ‘em. Smile. Tip your hat. Wave and say hello like you’re passing a neighbor, not an enemy. Mend a fence or two while you’re at it. A kind word, a simple wave, even just a nod — it might feel small, but it’s the small things that rebuild trust faster than any speech or column ever could. If we want the Highlands to shine, we can’t just talk about it — we have to live it.
And, if you’ve got a story of kindness, an unsung hero, a celebration, or just a reason to brag on this fine place we call home, send it to me (shadow at virginianreview dot com). Or stop by the Virginian Review Offices on Main St. They’d love to see you and hear your story, and more importantly, we want to share it with the folks who need a reminder now and again of what’s good in our community.
In that spirit, I’m also making a small change. To give these columns the time and care they deserve — and to keep the research from swallowing the whole calendar, The Shadow will now publish twice a month, still delivering the facts and figures, but focusing more on the inspirations and stories that make us proud to be a Highlander. Of course, if something particularly juicy pops up, I might have to sneak in an extra dispatch — old habits die hard.
I’m out of time and out of coffee, but I’ll leave you with this: You don’t measure a town by how many potholes it’s got or how many politicians it elects — you measure it by how many folks still wave at each other from behind the wheel or smile as they pass on main street.
(Photo: USDA Forest Service federal fire management specialists conducted a prescribed burn on 1,300 acres at Fore Mountain, Alleghany County, George Washington and Jefferson National Forest, James River and Warm Springs Ranger District. Photo Courtesy Milton Mays)
