Most of the people who stop at Carroll Harper's place are tourists from up North or from over on the other side of the Blue Ridge, in the District of Columbia's westward-creeping suburbs. But the two men standing out front next to a pickup truck, wearing overalls and visored caps, are obviously locals. "My brother got me a statue here last week. He thought I'd like it," says one, the soft twang of his western Virginia accent confirming the visual evidence. "I don't. Can I trade it in on something else?" Harper, a stocky man of medium height, thinks a moment,...
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