Vol IV: #26 I Just Like It

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I feel a need to produce a blog post, though I’m tired of myself at the moment. Lots of life going right and lots of life going wrong. (Isn’t that what it is?) Accordingly, the rest of this post will a Jazz appreciation post.

My nephew asked me who my top five drummers are. He likes to do that type of thing, ask for lists of favorites and bests. The answers usually lead to more questions and fun debate as the entire exercise is his way of creating conversation. I like it. And in regards to his drummer question, I gave him a preface before answering.

My knowledge of drummers and percussionists is limited, mostly to rock drummers. And while true, Keith Moon and Stewart Copeland are considered rock icons, they are still merely rockers. Jazz drummers (and session drummers) by contrast are both more disciplined and more creative. The jazz drummer must be tight to the beat yet loose and confident when given the lead, unafraid to experiment, tear down, and reshape a groove. The rock drummer does not rearrange the beat or update a popular fill. Unlike his jazz sibling, he’s paid to sit in the pocket and play it like he did the night before. All the creativity he’ll use is in the studio, written and rewritten by a team of musicians and producers. Mr Jazz does all that writing and rewriting in the moment, as the song unfolds. No second take. No bathroom breaks.

I said all this is fewer words and began to search YouTube for examples of great jazz drummers. And while I listened to find the right songs, my head bobbed and shoulders swayed, especially to Latin jazz greats like Tito Puente. After a few minutes, I selected two and sent them to my nephew. He has yet to respond to the video links. I get it. Jazz is an old soul’s music. No twenty year-old is gonna listen to jazz without a girl to impress. There was a time when I listened to jazz to impress people, mainly a few ladies. But now, I just like it.

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Short: The Tour, West Virginia #4

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David hurried to the red outer doors of the former school, both dented and scarred. Then he scraped open the left door and stood aside, like a 5th Avenue doorman. And as I would for anyone holding a door for me, I thanked him as I passed over the threshold into a dark foyer.

Later, I’d figure Jonathan wanted to ask for more than a few weeks of my time. This trip was the first of four he’d use to recruit me to the cause. Jokes on him because he didn’t need to recruit me. Given my low self-esteem, I was ready to jump at any opportunity, including one of little pay, deep in the heart of coal country. Years of waiting tables and slinging beer kneaded me into an insecure mess and I didn’t know how to break free. Like most men, I took my self-worth from my checking account. And in each attempt to venture outside my trade- to inflate my wealth and self esteem- I failed.

Good friends put me up interviews and floated my scant resume with banks, schools, and lawyers’ offices. In hope, I’d iron my best dress shirt and trim my hair. And, per my father’s advice, I’d try to make sure they heard the smile in my voice. Then, like clockwork, the rejection emails and calls came, leaving me to wonder how I might improve my chances.

After a few years of this gut wrenching routine, I stopped asking for help. Interviews had begun to feel like a well rehearsed show and I grew tired of the glazed eyes and insincere questions. In truth, I was never a serious candidate for white collar work. And the setbacks took a toll on my soul, sending me into into the open arms of self-pity and various lusts. I’m too fat. My hair sucks. You don’t have any skills.

I briefly considered taking a promotion to restaurant manager, but decided against when I did the math. (It’s a sad but true reality, most restaurant managers, at least in North Carolina, take home less money per hour than their best servers and bartenders.) Then one summer, I decided to re-enroll at Clemson University only to come up short of the needed funds. Subsequently, as my mid twenties languished into my late 20’s, every avenue of economic advancement felt closed. And I was content to play board games and watch football with my mates rather than meet new people or expand my connections. And, I’d grown tired of the blank disapproving looks of my peers and family.

Paradoxically, if one were looking to move up the economic ladder, I do not advise they to move to West Virginia. And I highly advise against work with any non-profit organization. Unless the person is desperate. Of course, I was desperate. To leave Charlotte. To prove myself. To show the world I’m a good man, one you should admire and honor. If I couldn't make money, at least my work would be important and people would see me as important, I naively assumed. In the years after, I learned. The world hates good men and women. They hate being reminded of their greed and inertia. Men will dismiss you as a “do gooder.” And women will see your goodness and dismiss it. Noble as the work was and maybe, goodwill doesn’t buy European vacations and a new car every five years. It doesn’t buy esteem or opportunity.

“Through this door is where we’ll be bunking,” said Jonathan as we walked through the first door to the left of the foyer. In its original purpose, the room was the old front office, small by modern standards. The plaster walls were yellowed and cracked, the floors covered in grey vinyl tile, worn but clean. And across from the door we entered was a navy blue, chest-high counter with a half door to the left of the counter. Low sunlight brightened the room through what was left the large window to our left. Using the half door beside the counter, we walked through the waiting area to a larger back room containing two newly built bunk beds and two gently used sitting chairs. The welcomed scent of fresh lumber filled the cool room. Opposite the beds was another metal door, and this one led to the toilet and shower. Both meager and plain. The shower nothing more than a PVC pipe poking out of the wall and the toilet was exposed in the opposite corner.

“This is the leadership living space, when the student arrive. We’ll need a place to get away.” Jonathan quipped with a smile in a way to communicate I was part of the leadership group. I was flattered and primed. The thought of being seen as worthy of leadership lifted me from the cold floor and I fought off a smirk.

“So this is what you’ve been working on?” I joked.

“Oh yeah. We’ve had to invest a lot of time and energy into getting ready for Thanksgiving. We’ll be hosting about 60 people upstairs,” replied Jonathan as he leaned against a plaster wall and pointed up.

“What all have you done?” I inquired.

At this, Jonathan and David looked to each other and smiled. David let out a half-laugh and shook his head. Tom, who’d been quiet since we entered the building, was now more attentive. Then, the pair began to rattle off their list of accomplishments.

They’d bought and installed twenty new water heaters to accommodate 30 newly built showers, fixed several holes in the roof- including learning to tar and patch, repaired all the necessary windows on the first two floors, ran gas lines, replaced two ovens in the Home Ecc room, and built and outfitted over 60 bunk beds.

“Let’s take him to the Home Ecc room,” suggested David.

And turning to me, Jonathan asked, “Want to go see where you’ll be working?”

“Sure,” I nodded.

And then we were back out of the bunk room, through the tiny waiting area, and into the main hallway. The long, dark corridor was lined with dusty green locker, as dented and abused as the front doors, covered by the calling cards of vandals. Jake wuz here. Mike loves Tina. And various cusswords. Every ten feet, a fluorescent light fluttered in and out, and Jonathan led us to a stair case across the foyer. Like the mountain roads, the staircase had more switchbacks than needed, before we reached the warm second floor.

The hallway was properly bright and well lit from end to end. The lockers were gone and the space held the gentle heat of kerosene heaters. Then I was shown the bunk rooms, one for guys and one for the ladies. Both former classrooms, institutional and drab. And then we made a stop in the “public room” before heading down to the Home Ecc room. The public room was the size of two class rooms and it contained four large dining tables, five used cloth couches, and stacks of boardgames. Without being asked, I offered, “I’m going to need serving tables and drink stations.” Jonathan nodded his affirmation. From the public room, David led us past the stairs to the far end of the hallway to Home Ecc room. And as before, he held the door open with a smile.

The Home Ecc room looked a bit like a science lab. It was filled with cooking stations and wash sinks, except all the appliances were long stripped away. In the far right back corner were two brown fridges and two new-ish black stoves. Electric stoves. The kind you use to feed families of five. And my task was to feed over sixty hungry college students after a day the most physically demanding work they’d ever do?

“Whadda think?” inquired Jonathan with a lowered chin, the chummy tone gone from his voice.

“Yeah, this could work,” I answered, trying to remain light-hearted.

“It’ll have to,” he deadpanned as he turned for the door.

“Alright, then,” I shrugged and smiled. I knew better than to ask about the old cafeteria on the first floor. The equipment was moved or sold when the school closed. And the project budget didn’t include thousands for convection ovens, a flat top griddle, and six-eye gas stove. It doesn’t do to want for more from the situation. As most do in similar moments, I’d learn to make do with what I had. And rather than bitch about what the setup lacked, I gave my approval instead. As we existed the room, I noted the generous amount of prep and storage space.

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Vol IV: #25 Next Step In Organization

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In my mind, I’m failing at this writing thing. Not a full failure. I see the progress in my descriptions of people and places. And, I’m learning to build a story and cast a scene. But, my stories are not being written, or edited or refined. The novel continues to gather dust. And, I find I’d rather blog about the process or a life event than work on my stories.

Part of the problem is in my brain. For some reason, I make up rules for myself…that aren’t real. For example, I set timelines and “office hours,” as if I can’t write later in the day or at night. Another part of the problem is the general tread of failure- no need to expound on that for the 100th time. And the last problem I’m facing is organization, which I’ve bucked against like a true idiot.

It’s this last weakness I want to attack next. In August, I was content to dedicate time each day to “writing.” Then, when the hour approached, I settle into my chair and stare at the wall for ten minutes, wondering what I should do. Fortunately, this beginner’s approach worked, that is, until I had several half-finished projects on my shelf. And I hate a half-finished projects. Hate it.

Last week, while feeling overwhelmed and sad, I remembered an interview of a professional skater boarder/producer named Rob Dyrdek. In the interview he explained how he tracked all aspects of his day, and by doing so, improved his performance in the important areas of his life. Seconds later I turned off the interview. That’s stupid. Who needs to track their day to that level? Turns out, me. I do. Nik needs to track his day, to see the progress, and know his little boat is further upstream today than it was last week. The truth is I’m not going to finish my first novel until I set aside time to do so, likewise with editing and revisions. More intention and detail is better than less.

So, now, I will subdivide the hours into chunks: two hours for novel work, an hour for blogging, and an hour for review and edits. And I downloaded a free time clock to track my hours. I don’t expect to hit those numbers today, or even any day this week. The point is to continue to work and build my endurance. The goal is to hit those numbers by the end of the month, and if I do, November will be highly productive. And I don’t expect more organization to hold all the keys to success, but it’s part of the equation.

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Vol IV: #24 Rich Amid Crisis

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The welcome clarity brought about by the urgency of death hit me yesterday. Suddenly, my economic and romantic states were no longer important, and everything petty fell away like the way the wind blows dead leaves off a tree. I reacted by texting all my praying friends, those who believe in miracles. And they responded as I knew they would. And then I feel to my knees like a child before bed and begged for my father’s life.

Today, that scene seems dramatic. Calm has replaced the chaos as tests and more test commence. The news of my father’s demise will have to wait for another day. And this is what it feels like to live in the aftermath of a miracle. Of course, he was going to be ok. But was he? What if I- and I assume other family members- didn’t pray and ask others to call down heaven? The modern western mind will say answer in the affirmative. Yes. He was fine. No need for alarm. In fact, no. He was not.

My dad’s entire life is a string of miracles and sideswipes at death. The fact that he made it to sixty-six years old is a testament to the good hand of God. And while I will be grieved the day death makes the final call, I will not be angry or bitter. I have loved my dad the best I know how. And I know he loves me. And I’m grateful to have had a good father-son relationship, the type craved by so many.

I’m also grateful to known and loved by my community of friends. Though I sat alone in my room, I did not feel alone. And though I do not have resources to travel home, offers of assistance poured in, should I need it. And in a moment like yesterday, after spending weeks mired in self-pity, I’m made suddenly aware of how rich I am, in love and life. And no amount of money can buy a healthy parental relationship or loyal friends.

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Vol IV: #23 Feeling Alone

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“The writing had better be good,” he said, as if I needed that sage advice. Good writing? Who knew? Thanks man. I’ll add that to the list of what I need to do. These I thought but did not say. My friend was trying, in desperate way, to give me the best advice he could. And he’s not wrong. If my writing is good, I’ll go far. And if it isn’t, I’ll be an internet hack till I die. But did he need to state the obvious?

And this is why I keep to myself, especially now. A 43 year old man is suppose to be buying houses and starting a family and making regular 4(O)1K contributions. He’s not suppose to be writing his first novel and learning to draw. All this, I know. But here I am, and I see no other way forward in my life.

And, rather than complain- which is super boring- I’ll ask for prayer. What I need, in addition to more resolve and peace, is community. In Redding, I feel like a like an old ball on a dusty field, half deflated, left to sit alone in the sun and rain. I’d relish the opportunity to find support in the company of other writers and artists, and to not feel like an irresponsible moron or untalented hack.

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Vol IV: #22 Personal Admin Day

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So, I decided to clean out my inboxes…Yep. You know how that went.

I have two email addresses, one is over 25 years old and probably on every stupid spam email list imaginable. It’s a Yahoo account and it receives all the boner pill emails, Lusty Ladies Now emails, and Get Out of Debt scams. Still, I had several important accounts linked to that ancient service. And I spent the better part of an hour cleaning the inbox and updating my contact information.

As I do with all inbox cleanups, I checked every folder for anything worth discarding as I prefer an empty folder as much as possible. In the Notes folder I found two dozen ramblings and a handful of lists and poems. They were from early 2013 to mid 2014. And buddy, lemme tell ya, the ramblings and poems weren’t pretty. I hated women and myself and Charlotte. I questioned everything and everyone. And I saw myself as a hopeless sinner before the Lord. It was all very cringe, like cringy-cringe-cringe.

I didn’t like being reminded of who I was ten years ago but I found room to laugh at my words. That guy was full of shame and didn’t believe in himself. And he had all the wrong priorities. And yet, he stumbled forward. I can’t hate him.

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Short: Gary and David, West Virginia #3

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)

I decided to follow Jonathan and Tom in my garnet Honda rather than ride with them in Jonathan’s white Dodge Ram. And David elected to ride with me rather that the gray beard in the truck. We got into my car and turned around in the drive behind the house and waited for Tom to join Jonathan.

“Ha,” laughed David, as he stared out he house. “He always drags out the door.”

David was young and handsome with cropped black hair and matching dark eyes. And he punctuated his conversation with laughs and nervous energy. He’d come to West Virginia with Jonathan back in the spring and seemed to relish the life he was living here.

“Where are we headed, again?” I asked as we waited.

“Gary High School. It’s where our base is. The volunteers will stay there when they come in November.”

“Ah.” I nodded as Tom strolled out the door.

“Finally.”

Over the next half hour, as we slalomed through the colorful mountains from Kimball to Gary, David became my tour guide. He pointed out the only hardware in the area, several “ok restaurants” and the houses of locals he’d met.

“Where do you hangout?” I asked.

“Hangout? Ha. We don’t really have a place to hangout. Sometimes when I’m bored I go to Walmart just to walk around and talk to the employees. Jonathan calls it a ‘loser lap.’ Other than that, we get beers- because Tom doesn’t allow alcohol in the house- and drive up the mountain near Big View. There’s no light up there so we can see all the stars.”

“I like stars.” I replied.

“Yeah? We should go up sometime.”

A moment later he pointed to several freshly painted houses across the river.

“A couple families from McDowell Mission live in those houses.”

“Who are they? McDowell Mission?”

“They are another NGO here. They get funding from the Presbytery and focus mostly on construction projects. Jonathon wants them to help us find projects for the volunteers.”

Once we passed Welch, the conversation steered toward personal facts and details. Like Tom, Jonathan told David about me, but I knew nothing of David and so I commenced to pepper him with questions.

David, a slight young man, not yet 21, grew up in the Bronx and he was the son of a Polish mother and Ecuadorian father. He moved South to get out of the city and met Jonathan while attending community college in Charlotte. Jonathan taught outdoor survival skills and David was one of his students.

“It was the one class I enjoyed. I almost failed everything else. Ha ha,” he stated in his jovial way.

And then we crested a steep hill on the outskirts of Gary. And David pointed to a long brick building, down between the road and a creek, towering mountain ridges to either side.

“There is it. Gary High School. Or, what’s left of it.”

“What’s left of it?”

“Yeah. Ha ha. It’s a closed school. Craig T bought the building a while back. And now he runs used clothing store out of the gym.”

“What are we doing here?”

“Jonathan wants you to see the kitchen and see what we’ve done to the place.”

“Right. Ok.”

Then, I followed Jonathan through a brick archway between the gym and the school, around the back the of the school. The abandoned building rose three stories tall with an engraved cement block above the entrance that read, “Gary High School Est. 1925.” The craggy red brick exterior was decorated with kudzu and graffiti, most of the single pain windows knocked out. And at once, the school represented the former prosperity and the present struggle associated with the coal town. As if to drive home the point, the faded words “Welcome to the home of the Gary High School Coal Diggers” hung onto the dented metal doors leading to the main hallway.

Jonathan hopped out of his truck and smiled at me as I parked beside him.

“Whadda think mate?” He asked through my window and before I had a chance to get out of my vehicle.

“I don’t know. Gimme the tour and I’ll tell ya.” I yelled, trying to match his cheek.

David chuckled, then leaned over as he unbuckled his seat belt and whispered, “I know it doesn’t look like much, but we’ve worked really hard to turn this place into a proper dorm.” His words felt like a bit of a warning as much as an expression of pride. And I knew from that moment forward I needed to be positive and hopeful with my feedback. For when the odds are long and the work is thankless, the last commentary the man on the front line wants is the criticism from an asshole who’s invested nothing in the endeavor.

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Vol IV: #21 Finally, Adapted to the Weather

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I am proud to write, after ten years, I’ve finally adapted to the weather in Redding. The searing summers no longer bother me like they did, and the endless rainy weeks don’t bum me out. Oh? Have you not heard of them, the rainy weeks? They are the dreary distant and lesser known cousin of the summer heat, though less predictable. The rainy weeks first appear during the winter and last into early spring. And they are know to hangout for a week or three at a time, days on days of low gray clouds and rain, though the pace and volume may vary. The rain may fall as heavy mist or a steady drizzle or an outright downpour. And the amount of rain will range from a tenth of inch to 2 inches a day. And yes, they take some getting use to.

The key, I’ve found, is to get out into the weather. There’s nothing to be gained by sitting inside all day, every day. If it’s hot as an oven, I go for a walk. If it’s cold and windy and drizzling…I go for a walk.

Thankfully, California is not a humid orifice during the summer. And short walks at all times of the day have taught me to appreciate the weather each day offers- the coolness of the early morning and when the heat finally relents late in the day. Yes, the midday sun is oppressive, but this type of appreciation only comes by taking a stroll midday, when the sun is high and pounding Redding with all its might.

The rainy weeks are another matter. If the heat is oppressive, the rain is depressing. And when the wet days start to pile up, I begin to question if the sun still exists and if I’ll ever feel it warm my face again. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but it’s true. Thankfully, last winter I decided I’d go for walks anyway. (Mostly because I refused to sit inside and stare at my drab apartment.)

The bigger takeaway, I believe, is learning to work with the seasons rather than hunker down or curse them. In Redding, it’s going to be hot as shit every summer, cold and wet in the winter. And if I let the sun and rain dictate my actions, I’d only go out in April, May, and October. But I need nature and the sun and to feel the temperatures change.

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Short: Tom Martinez, West Virginia #2

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)

Tom Martinez was a short with a medium build and shaggy, silver hair man. He wore faded Wranglers and an old black sweat shirt, both stained by splotches of paint. From behind his large wire- framed glasses, his eyes sparkled and he smiled upon seeing me. And, why not? Jonathan had talked me up, obviously. And, more importantly, I was another foot soldier in the battle to revive the coal fields.

Over that first hour together, huddled in the kitchen, I learned a great deal about my host. Firstly, Tom spoke softly and laughed at his own jokes. And to complicate the conversation, he had a slight mountain draw and often cupped his chin with right thumb while rubbing his mouth with the forefinger. On several occasions I had to ask him to repeat himself, which became increasingly tedious to the point where I stopped asking and simply nodded. From what I could discern, Tom was a self-taught artist, had lived through plenty of rough moments, but managed to hold onto a grand vision for McDowell County, the giant brick house being part of the plan.

After high school, he married his high school sweetheart and moved to Mt Airy, North Carolina. Quite bitterly he said he “never wanted to leave the county” but his wife wanted to “live like the people on TV.” The statement stirred my funny bone, but I kept a straight face.

Over the next two decades Tom worked in various cigarette factories outside Winston Salem, started a family and taught himself to paint. After another layoff, Tom and his wife split over whether he should find a new job in Winston or move. He pined for his home, for the country roads where he belonged. She did not, being the “upitty” woman she was. When the divorce was finalized, he to moved back to McDowell while she remained in North Carolina with their sons.

Back on home soil, Tom worked odd jobs in the small towns of Welch and Kimball, mostly handyman work, until he earned his first artist’s grant. The grant- from the National Endowment of the Arts- commissioned Tom to paint a mural on a water tower next to the main thoroughfare of the county, the Welch bypass. He never mentioned how much he was paid, but it was enough to buy the old Coal Baron’s house and renovate a small corner of its basement containing his bedroom and studio. His vision to create an artists colony out of the home seemed feasible given it’s size and number of room. In the meantime, he continued to earn income by painting government funded murals.

My initial impression of Tom was that he is like most men not given to criminal behavior or drowned in wealth, a mix of hope and disappointment, earnest yet hypocritical. He was in one moment a principled conservative in love with America, yet made his money via government grants from the NEA- a department most Republicans would happily ax given the opportunity. And despite being complicated, he truly loved his home and worked to built a network of people with similar notions.

Tom would’ve talked our ears off if we let him, but Jonathon finally interrupted.“I think it’s time we head up to Gary. You coming?” he asked Tom.

“If you don’t mind. Let me go put up my paints and thinner first,” Tom responded already halfway down the stairs.

“Yeah mate. We’ll wait,” Jonathan called down after.

With the local out of hearing distance, I finally offered my thoughts.

“Interesting guy.”

“That’s one word of it,” chimed David, who’d been fidgeting quietly in the corner of the booth for the duration of the chat.

“He’s a bit odd, that’s for sure, but’s he’s a good guy,” added Jonathan in a low voice.

“I’m glad I met him first.”

“Yeah. He’s a good introduction to McDowell and the type of people we’ve met.”

“Oh?” I asked, wondering if they were all oddballs.

“Yeah. Lots of good people here who just want what’s best for the county.”

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Vol IV: #20 Rough Drafts and Finished Work

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Yesterday I went forward with my decision to tag all my short stories as rough drafts, those posted to the main blog. I need to evolve my process in two ways. First, I need to keep creating new work, and secondly, I need to review, edit, and rework existing work. And I need to get into the habit of doing both each day. Next week, I’ll create a new page dedicated to finished stories and make them available for download. And by finished I mean, as complete as I am capable of completing a story.

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Short: My Intro to West Virginia

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)

When you’re young and insecure, you answer the call from someone like Jonathan Wildson. He was confident to the point of cocky, told a good story, and filled his time with manly pursuits like karate and mountain climbing. And, he dialed up his Australian accent at will, usually around single women. So I was thrilled when Jonathan called me on a late summer day and said he needed me.

“Hey mate, you busy?” he asked.

Was I busy? What a funny question given my status as a waiter.

“No. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a new gig up in West Virginia and I need a cook. You interested?”

Yes, of course, I was interested, beaming that someone wanted me to be part of their gig.

“Yeah, maybe,” I replied as cooly as possible.

“Why don’t you come up for a look about? Get a feel for the place. It’s rough but we have fun.”

“Yeah. Ok. That’s sounds doable. I’ll get the time off and let you know when I’m coming.”

“Great. Can’t wait to see you.”

* * *

Two weeks later I drove north from Fort Mill, South Carolina up I-77 to West Virginia. I was glad to be leaving my routines and boredom. And I knew, if anything, the drive would be worth the effort. Within the first hour, as soon as I cleared Statesville, the rolling hills grew into foothills and then to the west the Blue Ridge rose above them. And though just beginning in South Carolina, autumn was in full bloom in the mountains. Dazzling reds, bright yellows and oranges coated the rock. And the air was clean and cool as I turned off the interstate onto Route 52 near Bluefield.

And there on Route 52, as I wove my way deeper into West Virginia, the glory of fall began to contrast the ever increasing broken fences, cracked windows, and weathered wooden siding. Dilapidated homes and shuttered businesses were caked in mud. Then, just after I passed a sign reading “UNINCORPORATED ELKHORN,” old coke ovens appeared next to the road and beyond them a mix of fallen brick walls and kudzu and sycamores. The roof of a school gym had sunk to the ground, the rims ripped from the backboards. And per the posted price of unleaded, I calculated the filling station closed its doors a full fifteen years before my arrival. From Elkhorn, the drive to meet Jonathan lasted only another 20 minutes but I drove through three more towns of a similar fate. All dead or mostly dead. Then, after four hours of driving, I saw a big blue and yellow sign and pulled of the road into the parking lot.

We choose to meet in the Walmart parking lot because it was easier to find than punching an address into an app. Homes in McDowell County had addresses but Google Maps was of no use this deep in Appalachia. After stretching my legs and a proper introduction to Jonathan’s assistant David, I returned to my car and followed them another fives miles to a massive brick house on a hill, overlooking the river running next to the road. From the road, the house didn’t appear as grand as it was thanks to the surrounding overgrown ash and beech trees. Only when we swung up the drive around the back side of the house did its heft reveal itself. Brick walls rose into a steep slate roof with copper eves and drain spouts. I counted multiple chimneys, four perhaps, and three layers if single pain windows. Those can’t be the originals, can they? I wondered.

Jonathan interrupted my curiosity. “Come on, let’s go say hi to Tom, then we’ll all drive up to Gary together.”

David had gone ahead of us into the house, and I heard him call for Tom. As we waited for our host to come up from the basement, I chatted with Jonathon about the house and studied the kitchen I stood in. The room was cramped by modern standard and in need of a remodel. Due to the location in the back corner of the house, the back and side walls were comprised of large bay windows, allowing as much natural light as possible into the room. And underneath the back wall, to the right of the entrance, was a small electric stove, followed by a formerly white sink, then an L-shaped counter for prepping meals. Next to the counter, sat a wooden booth big enough to seat four people and no more. Opposite the stove sat a newer black refrigerator with magnets and coupons plastered to its face and to its right a heavy wooden door leading to the basement. Judging by the bowls in the sink and contents on the counter- two half empty jars of peanut butter, a bag of cinnamon raisin bagels, brown bananas, and several boxes of supposedly healthful cereal- the current residents of the house assembled meals rather than cook.

“This house is a lot better than our last house,” he giggled. “In the last house closer to Welch, I could take a shit, flush it, then watch it squirt out a pipe into the river. Bloop.”

“Really?” I asked, both horrified and full of laughter.

“Yeah mate. Straight pipe into the river. It’s common up here.”

“So all the pretty trout in these rivers and streams are shit fish?”

“I guess so.”

What a waste, I concluded just as David poked out from behind the basement door, Tom following behind him.

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Vol IV: #19 Catching Up With Tom

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Last week I began writing the first of a series of stories born from my time in West Virginia. And today, as I researched exact locations of various homes and events, I fell into a rabbit hole. It’s been twelve years since my last visit to and so my rabbit hole consisted of digging for up-to-date information on various personalities I came to know during my four years of work in the community.

I lingered mostly to find all I could on Tom, who I lived with for a year. Short with puffy silver hair, Tom always sported a black or gray sweat shirt, blue jeans, and white walking shoes (as known as ‘dad shoes.’) He was a proud local and self-taught artist with a focus on nostalgic Americana. And he aspired to turn his massive coal baron home into an artist colony.

From what I found on the internet, he’d run for House of Delegates in in 2014. The associated Facebook page stated Tom is pro-coal, pro-gun, and pro-Jesus. That’s a solid platform given the area, though he did not win. The Tom I know is soft spoken and avoided crowds. And he was not quick on his feet- a fact I’ll demonstrate in a coming story about our trip to New York. The election result was not a surprise. What was shocking was his involvement in the January 6th insurrection at the Capital building.

The thing is, people like Tom are completely hated and belittle by the left. And while it’s appalling he was in DC the day an idiotic mob decided to break into Congress, I know the man is harmless. Misguided, but harmless. Tom is like so many Americans- scared our of his mind. And scared people do dumb shit. I see liberals do the same thing, in their own way.

What I would tell Tom if I saw him is he will do more with a paint brush than in office. He will do more in his community by continuing to walk out his vision of an artists colony in his home. And this is what I’d say to anyone who believes the sky is falling. Most of power comes from how we live our lives and love the people around us. The enemy wants us to have contempt for our bosses and neighbors and our family. But fear cannot drive our fear just like violence doesn’t heal.

I know this post is little out of left field, but I had to get this out.

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