Waverly can play a reel fast and pure enough to make your heart spin. He is not shy, neither is he a braggart nor a show-off. He likes to play his fiddle while his daddy plays guitar, and he did not mind one bit playing his reels at my daughter's (his first cousin's)wedding, first on the beach and then later at the reception. His eyes are dark brown with depth, almost black, like shadows in the Blue Ridge, and when he looks at you, his face is open and unguarded. He asks questions from his heart.
Waverly likes to read. Alot. His daddy read all of Lee Smith's novels before I could get my hands on them, and if I didn't watch it, in his enthusiasm he would tell too many secrets from the plot before I could get him to stop. His mother's taste leans more toward Jane Austen.
When Waverly speaks, I hear the clear Midwestern of media announcers. But then I listen more deeply, to the o's and u's. Virginia. The Upper South. Unmistakable.
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