Month: January 2026

Parker film aids in revitalization award nomination for Downtown Wytheville

January 26, 2026 Zach Cooley No Comments

When I heard that my good friend Cory Parker had released a new film in partnership with Downtown Wytheville, I couldn’t wait to see the finished product. Through his company, MountainCAP Media, Parker has delivered yet another visual triumph with the 25-minute documentary Downtown Wytheville: A Story of Revitalization. The film chronicles the rise of Downtown Wytheville, Inc. and its pivotal role in rejuvenating the town’s historic core—most notably the Millwald Theatre, now a true crown jewel of the community. Founded a dozen years ago, the organization has become a model for grassroots, trust-based civic transformation. Executive Director Todd Wolford, who is featured prominently throughout the film, spoke with me about the project and the milestone it commemorates. Wytheville has been selected as a Great American Main Street Award semifinalist, chosen by a national jury of industry professionals and community leaders. Out of more than 2,000 applicants, the town was narrowed down to the top eight. The ultimate winner will be announced in April. Once a bustling hub along the Great Wagon Road, downtown Wytheville saw its vitality wane in the late 20th century as new interstates redirected commerce to strip malls on the outskirts of town. Determined to reclaim the community’s civic heart, local residents formed Downtown Wytheville, Inc. in 2014. In just over a decade, the transformation has been remarkable. The district is now a thriving destination filled with breweries, restaurants, small businesses, public art, a boutique hotel, and a restored historic theater. More than $23 million in private downtown investment has been generated, alongside $10 million in public improvements, breathing new life into once-condemned buildings and turning them into active centers of community life. If Parker’s film is any indication, Wytheville stands as strong a contender as any town in the nation for the Great American Main Street Award. After watching it, I knew I wanted to be part of the campaign. “There are extensive volunteer opportunities for anyone wanting to work with Downtown Wytheville,” Wolford told me. “We’re also occasionally looking for new board members.” One especially compelling moment in our conversation came when Wolford shared that his grandfather once ran a soda shop on Main Street in the 1950s. As much as I would love a place to have a malt or old-fashioned Coke, those kinds of businesses are hard to keep afloat in the local economy. Though he added that reopening his grandfather’s shop isn’t in his plans, he urged the community to bring its business to downtown in order to keep them alive. “Small-town businesses are hard to sustain unless the community supports them regularly,” he said. “We must make them a routine part of our patronage.” That observation underscores a critical reality. With long-standing businesses like Kincer Miller Hardware, Wytheville Office Supply, and Gwynn Furniture now gone from Main Street, supporting newer establishments—such as Burger Express, The Eclectic Pearl, and The Turquoise Junkie boutique—is more important than ever. Much of downtown’s revival can be traced to the reopening of the historic George Wythe Hotel as the Bolling Wilson Hotel in 2014, which directly sparked the formation of Downtown Wytheville, Inc. “We had this beautiful hotel for people to stay in,” Wolford recalled. “Then we realized we needed things for people to do when they came to town. We knew we couldn’t leave an abandoned theater sitting in the middle of Main Street.” That theater reopened in November 2022 as a performing arts center and has since hosted national acts including The Drifters, The Coasters, Jim Messina, and Pam Tillis. Downtown Wytheville’s success is also rooted in strong leadership and collaboration. Charlie Jones, a former youth ambassador, went on to become the assistant director of Downtown Wytheville, Inc. Deb King, a longtime creative artist and marketing professional, has also played an essential role. “I can’t say enough about the people and how well we work together,” Wolford said. “Without them, Downtown Wytheville would never be what it is today.” If I could afford it, I would book a week in the Bolling Wilson Hotel, where my family and I would stay, then take in all the shows at the Millwald Theatre, have dinner at Moon Dog Brick Oven Pizza, one of the first businesses to open in the newly-resurrected Main Street, and hit all the other downtown spots as though I were a tourist. I think it would be a great lesson in that, sometimes, in order to have the best adventures, we need look no further than our own backyard.

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Wytheville native keynote speaker at MLK ceremony

January 20, 2026 Zach Cooley No Comments

Returning to a place that shaped his earliest memories, Sterling Crockett stood on the stage of the Millwald Theatre Sunday afternoon and offered a keynote address that blended hometown reflection with a sober warning about economic neglect, division, and the unfinished legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Crockett, a writer, community strategist, builder, and Wytheville native who has spent recent years living in Florida, was the featured speaker at the town’s Martin Luther King Jr. Day celebration. He opened with a simple declaration that set the tone for the afternoon. “It is good to be home,” he said. The Millwald Theatre, Crockett noted, was once a central gathering place for families and friends. He recalled attending movies there as a child, including Star Wars in 1977, a time when imagination felt boundless and the future seemed full of promise. For Crockett, the building symbolized shared experience and community—an idea that would echo throughout his remarks. “Most of you didn’t know me as Sterling back then,” he told the audience. “You knew me as Chris.” Crockett reflected on growing up in Wytheville, playing ball, and being encouraged by a town that watched him chase opportunities beyond its borders. Yet he was careful to stress that his return was not an act of judgment. “I am not standing here today as someone who came back to lecture his hometown,” Crockett said. “I am standing here as someone who was shaped by it—by the people, by the opportunities, and by the limits too.” Throughout the address, Crockett drew a sharp distinction between individual responsibility and systemic failure. When he spoke of neglect, he emphasized, he was not blaming neighbors or families, but rather decisions made by distant leadership and economic systems that left communities vulnerable. “That distinction matters,” he said, “because the story we tell about who is responsible determines whether anything ever changes.” Turning to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Crockett urged the audience to look beyond the familiar imagery of the 1963 “I Have a Dream” speech. While acknowledging its enduring power, he focused instead on King’s final years, when the civil rights leader warned that America was ignoring deeper structural problems. Near the end of his life, King famously said he feared he had been leading his people into a “burning building.” Crockett expanded on the metaphor, explaining that buildings rarely collapse from a single dramatic event. More often, they fail because foundations weaken—because small compromises and hidden erosion go unaddressed. “A building can look sound from the outside,” Crockett said. “The doors can still open. The signs can still say, ‘Welcome.’ And yet the foundation can already be compromised.” King, Crockett argued, recognized that America was willing to remove visible barriers while leaving the deeper architecture of economic inequality intact. Lunch counters could be integrated, but wages remained stagnant. Voting rights could expand, while housing segregation persisted through policy and finance. Rights, Crockett said, mean little without economic stability beneath them. He then brought King’s critique into the present, pointing to Wytheville and similar Appalachian communities that have seen opportunity steadily narrow. Decent work—jobs that provided dignity, stability, and the ability to plan for the future—has disappeared. Wages have flattened as living costs increased. Young people have left not because they lacked love for their hometowns, but because staying no longer guaranteed a viable future. “That did not happen because we failed as people,” Crockett said. “It happened because economic foundations were allowed to erode.” As those foundations weakened, Crockett said, deeper crises took root. He addressed the region’s drug epidemic directly, describing fentanyl and methamphetamine as symptoms of untreated economic and structural pain rather than personal weakness. “When economic security erodes,” he said, “pain goes untreated—and something more dangerous always moves in to fill the gap.” Crockett emphasized that addiction and loss have crossed racial lines, devastating poor and working-class white families and black families alike, though often through different systems. He warned that racial division has been encouraged because it distracts communities from confronting the structural causes of harm. “As long as we are arguing across racial lines,” he said, “the systems that hollowed out towns like this one never have to answer.” In closing, Crockett returned to the legacy of Dr. King’s later work, particularly his focus on economic justice and coalition-building through the Poor People’s Campaign. That shift, he said, was what made King truly dangerous—not his rhetoric, but his organizing. “This is not a call for perfection,” Crockett told the audience. “It is a call for participation.” Crockett left listeners with a final challenge. “The question before us is no longer whether we admire Dr. King,” he said. “The question is whether we will build what he was trying to make possible.”

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Not A Sparrow Falls drops today

January 6, 2026 Zach Cooley No Comments

On August 15, 1926, Wytheville experienced perhaps the darkest hour in its history, when one of its citizens was lynched solely because the color of his skin was Black. Long before the lynching of Raymond Byrd was memorialized on a plaque at the site of the former Wythe County jail, a friend of mine, David Monahan, approached me with the idea of writing a novel inspired by this tragic event. From the very beginning, the idea both compelled and frightened me. I was deeply drawn to the story, yet I felt I lacked both the courage and, perhaps more importantly, the lived experience to tell it responsibly. For more than a decade, I wrestled with that truth. Ultimately, I arrived at a novel that includes this history—but in fictionalized form. Names have been changed, and certain circumstances differ from the historical record. I still do not feel qualified to tell the full truth of this story as it deserves to be told. That work has already been done with great care and scholarship by the late local historian John Johnson in his book They Gathered a Mob. My novel, however, seeks to tell a more multifaceted story. While I do not understand—and would never claim to understand—what it means to be societally ostracized because of race, I do know what it feels like to be treated as a third-class citizen as a person with a disability. A century ago, the experience was far harsher. If a disabled child survived birth at all, institutionalization was often immediate and permanent. That reality was another truth I wanted to confront in this story. One of my sister’s favorite books is To Kill a Mockingbird. It is one of mine as well. Inspired by it, I introduced a disabled teenage boy and his younger sister into the narrative, drawing from our own childhood. I included memories of strolling the streets of our neighborhood together, planning imaginary journeys, always accompanied by our dog, Fluffy—who was tragically killed by a car. After I lost another dog years later, I was devastated by the thought that I might never see him again. I had been told that animals do not go to heaven. That idea broke my heart. Dogs love unconditionally in the way God calls humans to love—and so often, we fall short where animals do not. I could not accept that such love would be excluded from eternity. Years later, a caseworker visited my home, and I shared that grief with her. She introduced me to Matthew 10:29: “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.” I held onto that verse. I carried it with me for years. It became the spiritual foundation of this book. I knew I wanted to write a story that paid tribute to Raymond Byrd, to the pets I have loved and lost, and to people with disabilities like myself—to affirm that a meaningful quality of life should never be denied to any of us. At its heart, though, this book is also a tribute to my sister. She is six years younger than I am, yet she often took better care of me than I ever did of her as her big brother. My childhood was wonderful because I had the greatest playmate in the world. She was my baby, and she is the reason I wanted to become a father. Through her, I learned the joy, tenderness, and purpose that come from loving a child. She has always been kind, funny, generous, and loving. Today, she remains among my truest friends and my most trusted confidants. This book is as much a tribute to her as it is to anything else. On a more serious note, I want readers to see the connection—however uncomfortable—between the mistreatment and misunderstanding of people of color, people with disabilities, and even animals. These are very different experiences, but they share a common root: the denial of dignity. In the end, we are all God’s creatures, and we are far more alike than different. If the idea that “not a sparrow falls” does not convey that truth, then my work has failed. Not a Sparrow Falls has the potential to be the most important book of my career—but only if people are willing to engage with its message. If you are open to examining the unsettling parallels between our present moment and the world of a hundred years ago, I humbly invite you to read it. As its back cover summarizes, “In the shadowed hills of 1920s Virginia, teenager Eli Ellis moves through life in a wheelchair, his sharp eyes and quiet strength carrying more than just the weight of his own body. Beside him is his little sister Sill, brave and bold with a sketchbook always in hand, and their dog Fluffy — until the day violence steals more than just their peace. When a lynching in their town is hushed, the siblings record the dirty secrets of Stones Mill. Their handmade book spreads faster than whispers in the church pews, drawing admiration, suspicion — and danger. As community support swells and opposition turns threatening, the Ellis family is pushed to the edge, facing down the powerful men who would rather preserve silence than face justice. Eli must find his voice, not just on the page but in the town square, as the truth begins to stir hearts and shake foundations. Based on true events, Not a Sparrow Falls is a tender, unflinching portrait of a small town at the crossroads of conscience. Told through Eli’s wise and wounded voice, it is a story of resistance, remembrance, and the quiet resilience of those who refuse to be erased.” This is the strongest statement I have ever made as an author. If you give it a chance, I would genuinely love to hear whether its message reached you. Not a Sparrow Falls is now available on Amazon in hardcover…

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Wilson pens techno-thriller series

January 2, 2026January 5, 2026 Zach Cooley No Comments

I never would have guessed that one of the quietest, kindest students I met at George Wythe High School would one day write two of the most technically sophisticated and emotionally charged science fiction thrillers I’ve ever read. Benjamin Wilson, who went on to graduate from Virginia Tech and build a remarkable career in telecommunications security and artificial intelligence, has transformed his deep professional expertise into fiction that feels as real as tomorrow’s headlines. Wilson’s novels — The Sovereign War and Obsidian Protocol — are part of two interwoven series that follow the same protagonist, Nathan Bishop, a brilliant but conflicted operative navigating the shadowy intersections of intelligence, surveillance, and artificial intelligence. Drawing on Wilson’s fifteen years of experience in fraud prevention, secure communications, and AI development at companies such as SAP, Sinch, and Vonage, both books deliver an extraordinary blend of technical authenticity and human drama. The first book, The Sovereign War, begins in the wake of 9/11 — an event that shattered millions of lives and reshaped the global security landscape. For Nathan Bishop, a young analytical genius recruited under the guise of a graduate fellowship, the tragedy becomes something else entirely: a code to be cracked.As the alphabet agencies close in — NSA, CIA, and the mysterious private unit known only as Orion Team — Nathan is molded into an intelligence tool, trained to see the world through data streams and behavioral algorithms rather than emotion. What begins as patriotic duty quickly becomes psychological disassembly. Wilson’s background in communications infrastructure and AI systems shows in every page — not as technical jargon for its own sake, but as a reflection of how easily the human mind can be programmed when it’s conditioned to solve instead of feel. There’s an eerie beauty in how Wilson writes about data — how code becomes a kind of poetry for Nathan, and how every equation represents both order and loss. Through him, Wilson captures a haunting question: when we build systems to predict and control behavior, what happens to the people inside them? The prose is sharp and clinical when it needs to be, then suddenly raw and human. In one passage, Nathan compares the quiet hum of the surveillance grid to a heartbeat — a machine pulse that replaces his own. Wilson doesn’t just describe intelligence work; he dissects it. Every mission, every keystroke, feels like a small surrender of selfhood. It’s this emotional undercurrent that makes The Sovereign War far more than a spy thriller — it’s a study in the cost of control. If The Sovereign War is about creation, Obsidian Protocol is about reckoning. Here we find Nathan Bishop years later, a former operative gone dark, hunted by his own invention — a shadow network led by his onetime colleague Marcus Hale, now known only as “Omega.” When Nathan’s sister Emily becomes the target of a deepfake disinformation campaign designed to flush him out, the battle turns personal. Wilson’s grasp of real-world cyberwarfare and AI manipulation is both impressive and unsettling. Every hack, every digital mirage, feels plausible. He writes not with the speculative imagination of a futurist but with the precision of someone who’s seen the architecture of deception from the inside. But beneath the code and circuitry lies something even more compelling: Nathan’s rediscovery of his own humanity. The more he tries to fight technology with technology, the more he realizes that empathy — not logic — may be the only weapon left. Wilson’s portrayal of this internal conflict is what elevates Obsidian Protocol above the genre’s usual tropes. He understands that the true threat isn’t the rise of artificial intelligence, but our willingness to become artificial ourselves. What makes both novels remarkable is how seamlessly Wilson fuses his technical expertise with emotional storytelling. You can tell this is a writer who’s not just guessing at how systems work — he’s lived it. His career in fraud prevention and secure communications lends credibility to every line of code and every classified mission. Yet, despite the complexity of his subject matter, his writing remains accessible, driven by character and emotion rather than pure exposition. Wilson’s protagonist embodies that duality — half machine, half man, constantly negotiating between precision and passion. The reader doesn’t need to understand every technical term to grasp the story’s deeper truth: that data without empathy becomes dangerous, and intelligence without conscience becomes tyranny. What also stands out is the compassion threaded through the chaos. Wilson never loses sight of the human cost of technology. His work in global communication systems — including anti-fraud initiatives that protect the vulnerable — clearly informs the moral backbone of his fiction. It’s no coincidence that Nathan Bishop’s story often turns toward protecting others, even when it puts him in harm’s way. Reading these books, I couldn’t help but reflect on the young man I once knew at George Wythe High School — quiet, humble, brilliant. His father, Greg Wilson, was a respected science teacher, and it’s clear Ben inherited both his intellect and curiosity. We both lived through 9/11 as teenagers, and it’s fascinating to see how that shared moment of global trauma shaped our adult work. For Wilson, it became a lens through which to explore power, fear, and faith in technology. For me, it became an opportunity to read and learn from his perspective. It’s rare to find a novelist who can bridge the gap between technical precision and genuine emotion — rarer still to find one who does it with such humility and purpose. Wilson’s books remind us that even in a world of algorithms and surveillance, the heart still matters. His stories pulse with moral clarity, empathy, and wonder, asking us to consider not just what we create, but what those creations make of us.

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