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The smell of autumn rises from Ann DeMaury's basement.

It's the scent of cinnamon, cloves, sugar, apples and a little something special cooking in DeMaury's 40-gallon copper kettle during apple butter season at Ann's Apple Butter in Botetourt County.

"Of course you have to wait until the apples are ripe, so usually about mid-September we'll get started and I'll stay busy, six days a week, right up through January," she said. "Well, I'll finish by January if I'm lucky," she added.

An apple butter-making day starts with labeling jars from the previous day's canning, then a pallet of apples is brought in by tractor and the chopping, ricing (making apple sauce), cooking and spicing begins.

At 4 p.m., the apple butter has been cooking for hours and is ready for canning. Family members and kids from DeMaury's church form an assembly line to pour, top, wash, dry and assemble jar after jar of apple butter in a spicy steam cloud.

"It gets a little warm in there early on," said DeMaury, "but by January you're thankful for the warmth.

She'll eventually can around 13,000 quarts, many of which will go to local restaurants and food shops.

DeMaury is a second-generation commercial apple butter producer. Her father engineered machine-powered apple peelers and sauce churners when he began in the early 1970s. She took over in 1997 and has vendors from Northern Virginia to Georgia.

She has had desperate customers from as far away as Arizona call trying to find her apple butter.

"If they'll pay the shipping, I'll box it and send it to them."

Video and story by Sam Dean/The Roanoke Times

Eager to snatch-up bargains, Holly Hinshelwood, 18,( left) and Amber Bennington, 15, queue up outside the Bride's House & Formals in Roanoke. The Northside High School PTA and the shop organized the event for girls to take part in dress recycling.

Last Saturday I photographed an event in which young ladies from around the Roanoke area and beyond sold and purchased recycled prom and homecoming gowns.

I wasn't sure what to expect.

I assumed that many girls would insist their parents buy the latest and greatest in prom fashions, but to my surprise many girls seemed to understand that memories are about moments, not consumption.

I'm not a girl, I only have a son and confess I really don't understand the importance of all that girl stuff, but I'm glad there are some young ladies out there setting an example we can all follow.

America, we can have fun without having to pay retail.

Ahhh.  Another campaign season.  I've been doing this long enough now that it seems like we're always following some sort of campaign.

This is an outtake from a project I'm currently pursuing on Creigh Deeds, the Democratic candidate for governor here in the Commonwealth.  It most likely won't make the final edit, but I'm into the contrasting colors and the random hand.  (Why do we young photographers like random hands in our photos?)  It was captured at the one-and-only Texas Tavern.

Folks working there said, "We just thought he was coming by.  We didn't know there was going to be all this media here."

Three TV cameras and me.

I informed them that a candidate never does anything that random.  It's all part of a script to win.

A Creigh Deeds supporter hangs signs in the Texas Tavern in Roanoke.

His shaggy hair and T-shirt fall on his frame as if on a hanger.

Her big eyes take him in. She giggles more than speaks.

Brandon Handy pedaled his bike 16 miles over the mountain from Paint Bank to the carnival in New Castle, just to be with Madison Paxton.

"I'm going to marry this woman," Brandon says. "I want to be with her the rest of my life."

They're two high school kids in love, stealing an embrace under the tangerine glow of Tilt-A-Whirl lights at the Craig County Carnival.

But a carnival is always about a momentary temptation. A brief indulgence. A passing fling.

Some might say there was more than a little temptation the last time the carnival rolled into New Castle. Back then, it wasn't much more than a girly show and some dice tables. So the city fathers (and mothers) shut it down.

Tonight, they sheepishly chuckle, recalling the bygone days while watching children and grandchildren float through the fairgrounds like fireflies. It must be 20 years ago since the last die was thrown.

Now, grandmas, single moms and laid-off dads toss down dollars some don't really have for cotton candy, funnel cake and soda to fuel their youngsters spinning in neon tea cups, barely able to keep down the sugary blend.

The young couple sneaks another long kiss, this time by the midway, as the carnival workers try to lure them to the ball toss or balloon pop.

Brandon pushes his hair back from a face smooth as hers, save a few hairs in the tip of his chin. Madison giggles again, then spots a group of friends.

It's one last peck and she's off.

--  Sam Dean | The Roanoke Times