I have dreamt of visiting the
bustling city of London and the rolling pastures of Dublin ever since I was a
little girl. Book after book I've read,
transporting me to faraway places that seem so much grander than my home
nestled in the West Virginia hills. This
state is my home, generations of my family hailing from the deep “hollers” of
Logan and Wayne Counties; but part of me believes I’m not meant to stay here. This part of me knows that my childhood dreams
of England and Ireland will someday be realized. Little did I know, however, that before I
could branch out to these faraway places, my roots must grow stronger in this intimate
place of Almost Heaven, West Virginia.
Deep
in the heart of my lovely state stands a town where time has stopped and
melancholy memories drift down from the mountaintops. Lonesome train whistles echo off the mountain
passageway as the Shay locomotive rolls down the tracks. Years after the actual operation of the
railroad has ceased, the town of Cass still clatters with excitement as the
Iron Horse grinds into the station.
Here, in a town frozen in time, my family spent our summer vacation –
not the normal choice of ocean-side views, but one of rolling hills and quaint
little towns. What I would soon realize
is the town of Cass and our other excursion sites through West Virginia held
stories they needed to tell me. A bright,
summer sun glinted off the coal-coated black train engine, casting murky shadows
on our upturned faces. Tickets in hand,
my mother, father, sister, and I boarded the locomotive with anticipation. All of the covered cars quickly became crowded,
so we made our way to the open car beneath the smokestack spitting out layers
of speckled coal dust. I located an
empty bench, my family following suit. A
sharp whistle rang from the train, and with chugs and puffs, the steam engine
hauled her passengers away from the station on the same track where she hauled tons
of timber thousands of times in the years gone by.
No more than five minutes after pulling away from the station, the tracks to the side of the main line were scattered with broken locomotives, only shells of what they once were. Seeing the bodies of the Iron Workhorses which transported tons of timber from the mountains to pulp mills forced me to realize how much times have changed. My ancestors depended on these trains to maintain their lifestyles; today they are simply a scenic destination for tourists. Life existed in a simpler form then and the nostalgic graveyard of antique trains made me long to be a part of it. The history of the place stirred a hidden feeling in my heart, calling me home in sepia tones. A heartbreakingly haunting train whistle hung in the air as we passed, our steam engine paying homage to her fallen comrades.
Further down the tracks as the slope began to rise, the silhouettes of the company houses came into view. Blackened with coal soot, the white houses slumped under some hidden weight. All across West Virginia, families of coal miners and loggers lived in homes identical to the ones standing before me. The heartbeat which kept West Virginia alive dwelled here. It occurred to me that coal mining and logging weren’t only occupations, but ways of life. They were the industries that built and shaped this state – and the people in it. These coal-blackened company houses represented the hardworking, unbreakable men and women who resided in them, standing strong despite numerous adversities. My heritage is wound and threaded in humble abodes quite like these. The houses caked with coal dust seemed to stand much straighter and gleam much whiter, embracing the qualities of perseverance and determination they embodied.
As civilization faded into the distance, the train slowly ground her way up the mountain. Lush trees provided shade the majority of the time, specks of sunlight dancing through their green leaves. Black coal dust pirouetted from the hiccupping smokestack, littering the treetops and train cars like forgotten snowflakes. I dozed as the birds composed a sweet lullaby with the rhythmic cadence of the industrial steel wheels of the train. A feeling of peace that I hadn’t felt in a long time enveloped me as the scenery of the summertime hills drifted by the train. The higher we climbed, the more I knew my lungs would always yearn for crisp mountain air.
Finally, after hours on the train spent daydreaming and reminiscing, our Shay locomotive reached Bald Knob, the final stop at the top of the mountain. Here the tracks ended. All of the weary passengers unloaded onto the cool stretch of grass, wanting nothing more than a bathroom and food, but what we saw when we stepped off the train took our breath away. For miles in every direction, hills and valleys cascaded into a work of art only God could create. Shadows bounced and played over the landscape of farmland and forests, content to tease the shimmering sunshine and soaring clouds. The varying hues in the landscape below looked strikingly similar to the patchwork quilt my great-grandmother hand-stitched, each square a special piece of clothing from every member of the family. On cold winter nights, it is under this quilt I find comfort and security. The view stretched out before me shifted suddenly; no longer did I see mountains and farmland, but a colorful patchwork quilt draped across a bed frame.
You will run for home when your heart is broken, when you long for familiarity, and when you are simply tired of saying goodbyes. Without a home, you become a hopeless wanderer. For the longest time, West Virginia was simply a place where I’d grown up. Now, as I prepare to leave it for the first time, I realize this place, these hills, and the people here have found their way deep into my heart. With lightning bugs twinkling off the silhouettes of trees and the fiery mountainsides in autumn, I have seen more beauty in my backyard than some see in a lifetime. The hills are my comforting blanket – they have seen me broken, triumphant, and torn; they have rejoiced with me and they have cried with me. My roots are now so deep into the mountains’ soil that no matter where I may roam, I will always return to Almost Heaven.
