Home
I have lived in the heart of New York City for many years but home to me is a crumbling shack and 11 acres of useless land high up on a swaybacked mountain called The Hump in Southern West Virginia. From the front porch you can see the New River making a long gentle curve before it plunges down the ancient New River Gorge, one of God's little geologic masterpieces. You can also see the forever-to-be unincorporated village of Sandstone--a general store, a handful of houses, a railroad track wedged into a hundred yard strip of flat land between the river and the mountains.
My father was born on this spot on this mountain and his father and mother lived here for most of their 80 plus years--never once traveling more than 100 miles from this quiet place. My dad and his siblings played here in the endless yard--the giant, slowly dying oak tree was a pup then. He used to ride an old gentle work horse named Smokey who would run like a yearling across the great field with him laughing and clinging to his bare back. The boys helped my granddad make whiskey in stills hidden in the woods. My grandfather was the best bootlegger in Summers County--a skill that proved to be most useful during the Great Depression. People could always find a couple of dollars for a jar of homemade corn mash.
My grandfather's father lived here, too. He was a schoolteacher and amateur geologist who insisted that the top of this mountain contained a lot of coal and even some gold. The people who convinced him otherwise made a fair amount of money. His father's homeplace was down the ridge. He was a real Irishman who had met my great-great grandmother on the boat on the way over and fallen in love. Unfortunately, both were indentured servants who had paid for their passage by agreeing to work for different sponsors in Franklin County, Virginia. When their eight years were up, they got married and moved to this mountain. He was a big man who was once attacked by a bobcat and killed it with a pocket knife and his bare hands.
Most of these folks are buried a quarter-mile up the road in a cemetery on a windy ridge that is called Bee Tree knob. From almost anywhere on the mountain on a fall or winter day, you can hear the wind howling through the live oaks that encircle the little graveyard.
I normally come here only once a year but I carry it with me everywhere I go. It is my place-- my connection to the past--which is what I think southerners are talking about when they speak of a sense of place. Scarlett O'Hara knew she always had it. Blance du Bois and Quentin Compson knew that they had lost it. In fact, most Southern literature is about this loss which was not just of a war but a culture.
My place is no Tara but it is magical. I know there are no ghosts and even here the dead stay buried but sometimes as I sit here in the twilight watching the fireflies and the darkness gathering at the edge of the woods I think of my dad and look across the great field and see--silhouetted against the dying red sky--a rundown old logging horse, ridden by a boy, running as if for life itself.
My father was born on this spot on this mountain and his father and mother lived here for most of their 80 plus years--never once traveling more than 100 miles from this quiet place. My dad and his siblings played here in the endless yard--the giant, slowly dying oak tree was a pup then. He used to ride an old gentle work horse named Smokey who would run like a yearling across the great field with him laughing and clinging to his bare back. The boys helped my granddad make whiskey in stills hidden in the woods. My grandfather was the best bootlegger in Summers County--a skill that proved to be most useful during the Great Depression. People could always find a couple of dollars for a jar of homemade corn mash.
My grandfather's father lived here, too. He was a schoolteacher and amateur geologist who insisted that the top of this mountain contained a lot of coal and even some gold. The people who convinced him otherwise made a fair amount of money. His father's homeplace was down the ridge. He was a real Irishman who had met my great-great grandmother on the boat on the way over and fallen in love. Unfortunately, both were indentured servants who had paid for their passage by agreeing to work for different sponsors in Franklin County, Virginia. When their eight years were up, they got married and moved to this mountain. He was a big man who was once attacked by a bobcat and killed it with a pocket knife and his bare hands.
Most of these folks are buried a quarter-mile up the road in a cemetery on a windy ridge that is called Bee Tree knob. From almost anywhere on the mountain on a fall or winter day, you can hear the wind howling through the live oaks that encircle the little graveyard.
I normally come here only once a year but I carry it with me everywhere I go. It is my place-- my connection to the past--which is what I think southerners are talking about when they speak of a sense of place. Scarlett O'Hara knew she always had it. Blance du Bois and Quentin Compson knew that they had lost it. In fact, most Southern literature is about this loss which was not just of a war but a culture.
My place is no Tara but it is magical. I know there are no ghosts and even here the dead stay buried but sometimes as I sit here in the twilight watching the fireflies and the darkness gathering at the edge of the woods I think of my dad and look across the great field and see--silhouetted against the dying red sky--a rundown old logging horse, ridden by a boy, running as if for life itself.
