Mountain Memories

A three room house with no indoor plumbing, newsprint for wallpaper, and a coal burning pot belly stove come to my mind’s eye when I think of West Virginia. My grandmother’s house stood about midway up the mountain of a valley called Derrick’s Creek; Derrick for my great grandmother’s family. Nothing of this secluded valley resembled my home in the flat, sandy soil of eastern North Carolina. The winding roads had been carved through solid rock and often yielded to rock slides and crumbling or nonexistent shoulders. Bridges appeared from nowhere, spanning over white water rapids and rocky beaches. My normally keen sense of direction was disabled and I found myself unable to distinguish north, south, east, or west. The sun played hide and seek with the mountain peaks. Often this shy ball of light appeared late in the morning over the walnut trees and the dark night held no street lights or even porch lights; only moon and stars, and the dark shadows of the hills. Our well timed visits avoided the heavy rains and snow at all costs. True to the name, a creek flowed from farther up the mountain and around my grandmother’s house. A bridge, really nothing more than five or six boards nailed together, made for a small path to drive across. Any significant rainfall flooded the creek deeming the bridge “uncross able”. Sometimes we parked up at the paved road and walked the cart path up to the house. First you passed the crib. I’ve never understood shy this rickety old shed was called a crib. At this point, the only babies belonged to mouse or snake mothers who made their nests amidst the discarded household and farm paraphernalia. Once you crossed the bridge, the coal pile lay on the right and on the left an unpainted out house sat against the creek bank. I only used this under the direst of circumstances. The small house sat in a clearing of walnut and sugar maple trees. The creek meandered around the side and front of the house sculpting out a flat field that once grew corn, beans, and turnips. A stonewalled well sat to the right of the house and the fruit cellar hid beneath a huge rock that must have been too large to move from the yard. A little white and brown terrier named Trixie would announce our arrival. Once inside, the sweet smell of vanilla wafers and snuff permeated the furniture and linens. I never saw the pot belly stove burning because we only visited in the summer. To visit the hidden valley in winter would be to risk becoming snowbound. Electricity and running water to the kitchen sink modernized the old cottage filled with feather beds, wardrobes for closets, and bare light bulb fixtures. My memories of this house and the chamber pot under the bed dictate my pronunciation of the word pecan: pucahn, not peecaan.

My ancestors were from Germany, Ireland, Scotland, and the Netherlands. I don’t know what enticed them to settle in this wild, rocky terrain. I myself would have been tempted to stay close to the ocean, but they traveled on from the east coast into the high mountains of western Virginia. Perhaps they were searching for an environment that reminded them of the lands they had abandoned back in the old country. Overall, I did not spend much time in West Virginia. We went every summer for a week or two at the most; however, the effect of these high hills has been significant. I call this my hillbilly gene. One of my legs is shorter than the other; my mother says this is for walking along side the mountains on the uneven pathways. I love the old timey bluegrass music with the sad crying fiddles and tinny banjos, and every so often I must answer the call of the mountains for a visit. One day I would like to visit the site of my grandmother’s little house. Some time after she passed away, the families of Derrick’s Creek sold to a company that developed a golf course and modern neighborhood. Only the name retains the heritage of the Derricks, Wilkinsons, Workmans, and Kings, but wherever we are we carry the hillbilly gene and the memory of the families of Derrick’s Creek.

For Verna Evel Wilkinson King

I remember mountains, wildflowers in the summer

Vanilla wafers and a thick old dusty Bible

Chilly nights and hot sticky days

I remember an old walnut tree, strong and unyielding, the rose bush full of sharp weapons, wounding those who dared to steal the blooms

And Grandma

Happy tears streamed down the wrinkles of her aged beauty as she reached out to hug me and slap my back

I loved her then, the long grayed braids that wrapped her head, the brown weathered hands, worn with pain and hard work, the lined brow, her dark knowing eyes

What lies ahead in this world is dark and scary, but she was always strong and unafraid, as firm as the mountain on which she lived

I look back and search for that strength she possessed, I need it now

I cannot find it, if only I were like her, like that old tree that stood in her yard, decades, old, enduring life with its unending, howling winds

Yet her memory stays within my soul and lives forever

Death cannot separate the memories from the living

The strong face without fear the obstacles and trials thrust upon them

They will receive rest and glory at their finish

I smile to think of her glory

Even though I often feel unworthy, I accept her legacy of strength and stubborn determination and pledge to be strong

Like Grandma.

November 11, 1977