Just What Is It About Polkville?

My daughter has a minor obsession with Polkville, N.C.

I’ve been driving through Polkville most of my life, and never really thought that much about it—until now. Polkville really isn’t much of a town. The 2010 census pegged the population at 544—a huge increase of nine people since 2000.

The tiny town has just one stop light where N.C. 226 and N.C 182 intersect. Just to the north of the stoplight, N.C. 10 forks off from 226, heading toward the even smaller town of Casar. I have been going up and down 226 about as long as I can remember. The highway is one of the nicest and most scenic drives in all of North Carolina as the road rolls and dips across the western edge of the Piedmont between Shelby and Marion.

To me, Polkville has always been where I was forced to slow down after driving through what always feels like a fluid and rapid dance through the undulating Golden Valley and past the sweeping curves and bluish haze of the South Mountains.

Heading south from Marion, Polkville rises up to greet you just past the eastern shoulder of Cherry Mountain. The highway flies up out of the narrow defile of Duncan’s Creek curves slightly to the right and straightens out on the broad flat plain that marks the point where mountainous Western N.C. ends and the Piedmont begins.

Polkville has the requisite Methodist and Baptist churches that nestle up close to the highway. The Methodist church looks a bit older with architecture, weathered bricks and spindly boxwoods that clearly date back to the 1920s—maybe even earlier. The Baptist Church was built later and possesses a late 50s or mid-60s ranch house feel to it.

All this fascinates my daughter. She looks at Polkville as the prototypical small town. But what puzzles her to no end is the apparent lack of a school or even a grocery store. I do believe Polkville has an elementary school tucked away off of N.C. 226, but retail is definitely limited to the two … maybe three combination gas station/convenience stores.

Houses are scattered haphazardly and sometimes sit at odd angles to 226—the main drag of Polkville. Some of the homes are well kept, while others look decrepit and weedy. Large rolling fields of winter wheat press against the tiny town from the south and east. To the north, freshly planted White Pine saplings stand in straight rows as the progressively older pines of the tree farm finger their way toward the base of Cherry Mountain.

Polkville has its own roller skating rink, but I’m not sure it’s actually even open for business. Broad red and white stripes painted in wavy lines across the corrugated tin building are fading from too many years sitting in the N.C. sun. Typically a lone pickup truck is parked in a parking lot of broken pavement and stagnating puddles.

I always pass through Polkville either thinking of the promise of barbecue and sweet tea in Shelby, which lies 15 miles further to the south and east, or the promise of the cool nights and rushing mountain streams of the Blue Ridge, which hover quietly on the northern and western horizons.

My daughter has other thoughts about Polkville though. She wonders who these people are and how they can sustain such a tiny town. She has asked me why did they ever build such a nice fire station, which is all gleaming steel and glass and close to a city block in length.

Her questions have led me to wonder about places that are so familiar to me, but I know so very little about.