* * Getting hot and bothered in the coal-fields

I spent three days last week traveling through far southwest Virginia, primarily in Bristol, Big Stone Gap, and Appalachia doing research and interviews for my upcoming book, Harmonic Highways, Motorcycling Virginia's Crooked Road.  I met several interesting and articulate people with great stories to tell.  One man near Bristol was particularly fascinating.  A luthier himself, he owned a classic violin made in Italy by one of the contemporaries of Stradivarius.  It was worth in excess of $1 million.  I will be telling his story in my book.

One interview, however, that I conducted on a hot Thursday afternoon left me a knot of indecision and emotion.

The neighboring communities of Big Stone Gap and Appalachia, Virginia, straddle the line demarcating the boundary between coal bearing regions and non-coal bearing regions.  There are many active and retired coal miners in this area and I wanted to speak with some of them to understand their occupations and lifestyles.  While one miner I spoke with was happy and reasonably healthy in his retirement, another drew a much more negative picture.

On one of the many roads emanating from Appalachia, I drove my motorcycle onto increasingly narrow and poorly paved roads past abandoned homes, tipples, and industrial buildings.  On a side road in a former coal camp, I parked the motorcycle at the end of the good pavement and I walked the last 100 yards to find a man named John Seabolt in his small but well-kept bungalow home.  There were a dozen other homes in the neighborhood, some in good condition with homey touches like picket fences and flowers and others in the advanced states of decay.  There were neither children nor telltale signs of them, such as bicycles or basketball hoops.  Dogs ran from porches to bark at me.

A friend of John's had called him to ask if it was okay for me to visit and interview him.  I guessed upon meeting him that he saw relatively few visitors, particularly strangers.  He was a short man like myself, but stout.  Even though he knew I was coming, he didn't bother to put on a shirt.  He wore only shorts and loafers.  He had a belly as round and smooth as a dime-store Buddha.

He told me about losing his job years earlier in coal mining.  Apparently, he was responsible and on the scene where a man was crushed to death in a mine.  Somebody had to take responsibility and that fell to John.

During his conversation, he got up from the sofa to attend to his wife, who was apparently incapacitated in the nearby bedroom.  He told me that she had had several strokes.  I had to impose upon him in his own house by asking him not to light the cigarette he lifted to his lips.

I heard several stories of accidents and fires in the mines.  John was disabled, living off a pension and government assistance.  His days were filled with menial tasks and listless wandering of the neighborhood.

When I departed, he told me that perhaps half the houses in his neighborhood were completely unoccupied.  Because of the advanced of the decrepitude, houses were virtually worthless.  Many of them were ostensibly for sale and could be purchased for virtually nothing, but since there were no jobs, nobody wanted to live there.

Donning my helmet and clothing, I threw my leg over my hot motorcycle and bid Mr. Seabolt adieu.  Driving away, it seemed to me that he and most of his neighbors were simply waiting for death to come.  I remembered the old admonition from my mother, “If you can't say something nice, don't say anything.”  What would I say in my book about Mr. Seabolt?



* * Mucking the stalls

The party we’d been invited to had been called off, so Jane and I were doing the Ward and June Cleaver routine on Saturday night, sitting on the sofa, watching the Tour de France on the tube.  Jane answered the phone.  It was our 19-year old daughter, Whitney.  From as much of her voice is I could hear, I could tell she was upset.

With one ear towards the commentary of Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen in France and the other trying to overhear Jane's and Whitney’s conversation, I caught only snippets of what was going on.  But when Jane hung up, she said, “Whitney seems to have an appointment this evening to clean a horse barn for one of her customers and she either forgot about it or didn't follow instructions properly.  I told her that you or I would go with her to the barn because it is getting dark and she didn't want to go there alone.”

Jane was already in her pajamas.  When she asked me if I wanted to go, I said, “Sure.”

Twenty minutes later, Whitney drove to the house in the 1991 Toyota Camry car her grandmother had given her when she got her driver's license.  I sat in the passenger seat, scooching away all of the empty water bottles on the floorboard, as Whitney drove northward on the bypass around Blacksburg.

When I asked her what had happened she said, “I have a customer who has me look after her horses from time to time.  She asked me early in the week if I could do it tonight but she never told me officially that she wanted me to do it.  So I never wrote it on my calendar.  I had another barn to clean earlier this evening, so when she called I was already booked.”  Whitney takes her commitments seriously so she was upset when her customer intimated that she had skipped the appointment. 

We left the bypass on Coal Bank Hollow Road and drove to Mt. Tabor Road, and then eastward for several more miles.  I had never been to this particular barn.  It was at the end of a long gravel driveway through a forest that was surprisingly free from undergrowth as if animals grazed there.

Whitney and I began working her tasks, she giving me instructions on what to do.  There were three horses including one adorable miniature.  It had been an extremely hot day and even at this crepuscular hour was still warm.  The horses had been kept in the barn all day out of the hot sun.  Whitney gave each some food and set them outside in the pasture.  I dumped their water buckets and refilled them from a hose.  She mucked the stalls and scattered new sawdust.  All the while, barn swallows flitted in and out of open high windows.

We used this opportunity to catch up on each other's lives.  Whitney was taking summer school and told me how she had not done as well on a recent Chemistry test as she wished.  It had become a surprisingly busy summer for her, and her next few weeks of activity were similarly overbooked.

As we emerged from the barn to begin our trip home, the lightning bugs sprinkled the sky with their luminescent pixie dust and a lustrous full moon rose in the eastern sky.

On the way home, she talked about her love life and guys she was seeing.  She had brought one of her boyfriends to dinner at our house a few evenings earlier.  Jane and I were underwhelmed by him.  He was uninteresting and uninterested.  I said, “I'm not sure whether he is typical of the men in your age range but I can't imagine that there aren't some guys out there who bring a greater zest for life with them.”

She admitted that her time with him during his visit fell short of her expectations and she would be seeing less of him in the future.  She said, “He is a bit more engaging around me but he doesn't really have as much personality as I thought.”

She mentioned a couple of other guys she was interested in.  She said, much to my delight, “I like to bring the guys over for you and mom to meet.  I am clouded by my attraction for them but you two see right through that and help me better understand what the guy is really about.”

I admitted it was nice to hear that she appreciated our wisdom and insight.  I said, “You are worldly, smart, interesting, and attractive.  "You make a pretty good catch for a guy.  Don't sell yourself short.  Look for a guy who is who is interesting and who has the same zest for life that you do.  Find yourself a guy who brings something of value to your relationship.”

She drove her car down the short street to our house and our time together ended too quickly.  As I kissed her goodnight and as she drove home to her apartment, I thought to myself how special it was to share a warm, moonlit evening with a beautiful, wonderful girl, and swallows, fireflies, and horses.

* * Celebrating a milestone

Sixty years ago today, Doris Sara Tatarsky of Richmond, Virginia wed Robert Abraham of Hewlett, New York.

My father was attending Virginia Tech, VPI in those days.  His sister, Ginger, was a student at Richmond Professional Institute.  Both siblings decided to pursue their educational opportunities in Virginia rather than in their native New York.

My father’s sister’s roommate was Doris.  Ginger did the matchmaking.

My parents were married at a synagogue in Richmond on a sweltering July day.  My brother David was born three years later and I was born a year after that, one day after my parent’s anniversary.

This weekend just past, my parents, my father’s sister and her husband, my father’s half brother, my mother’s sister, all three of my siblings and their spouses and families spent the weekend together at the Wintergreen Resort. During the day, everyone seemed to be off in their own direction, either playing golf, tennis, or swimming.  Dad, my brother David, and I spent Saturday morning watching birds with a man who literally wrote the guidebook to the birds of Wintergreen.

On Saturday evening, all 21 of us posed for photographs before we had dinner together at one of Wintergreen’s restaurants. Dinner took forever to be served which caused the only major glitch of the weekend.  It was fun for everyone to be with the grandchildren and see how they have grown.  The ages range from 19 to 8.  Dad spoke emotionally about having a healthy family which he loves.  He told me later how happy he was for me that I was doing the type of work, writing, I'd always wanted to do.

It is quite remarkable that my parents have stayed together and been healthy and active for all these years.  Mom is still sharp mentally with all of her senses still working well.  Dad has tinnitus in his ear and does not hear as well as he once did.  But otherwise, he is active and childlike in his love of nature and photography.  Many of my contemporaries have already lost one or both parents.  In fact, many of my classmates themselves are no longer alive.  It is a blessing that my parents are still self-sufficient, healthy, and active.

This post was supposed to have a happy ending.  Unfortunately, I learned from my sister moments ago that dad had had fallen down half a flight of stairs this morning and had suffered a mild concussion and perhaps a broken collarbone.  What this accident portends is yet to play out.  Nevertheless, the memory of this joyous event will linger forever in the minds and hearts of all who participated.

* * Robbed by a masked bandit

A week ago, I was robbed.

This time last week, I was on the road doing research for research for my upcoming book, Harmonic Highways, Motorcycling The Crooked Road.

After exploring Rocky Mount, Ferrum, and Floyd on an excruciatingly hot day, I stopped for the night at Willville motorcycle campground in Meadows of Dan.

My tent, sleeping bag, inflatable mattress, clothes, and most of my other belongings were stored in a Cordura duffel bag that I draped over the rear seat of the motorcycle.

I set up my tent near the creek and threw my mattress and sleeping bag inside.  I had a state map on the picnic table, along with my helmet, riding suit, and flashlight.  I had brought dinner with me and I walked up the gentle hillside to the porch of Will’s cabin and had dinner chatting with Will and another motorcycling friend, Mike.  When I returned, I found small puddles of water on the state map.  It messed with my mind thinking about how they could have been there, given the cloudless sky.  I was completely unable to fathom an explanation.

I situated my belongings, leaving most of my things inside the tent but the little food that I had left: a half bagel, to peaches, and a candy bar, in the duffel bag.  I spent the evening chatting with other campers.  After dark, I was sitting by the campfire – yes, it did cool enough to have a fire – when someone yelled at us, “Whoever has the Honda needs to come over and have a look.”  I scampered from my log seat back to my camp area.  Someone said, “There has been a raccoon here and he has gotten into your stuff.”  With my flashlight, I saw my black duffel bag lying in the creek nearby.

I pulled it from the creek.  It was muddy and dirty.  All of the food was gone.  A pair of wool socks was similarly muddy and wet.  My toilet kit, including my medications, was soaking wet.  The pills in the individual compartments were dissolving.

The next morning I wandered into the creek and found my watch and my Rotary club pin along with a small cloth bag that I normally use to carry my lunch to work.  The food was completely gone, including the wrappers.  I felt stupid for failing to heed the warning signs and made that I’d been victimized. 

I spoke with Will about my misfortune.  He said, “We have occasionally had problems with raccoons here in the campsite.  I have trapped two of them and have driven them 10 miles away before releasing them.  I never feel quite right about this.  I’m not sure they won’t find their way back eventually and besides, I feel like I am simply exporting my problem to somebody else.”

Other than this little incident and the oppressive heat, it was a wonderful trip and I met some fascinating people who I will be profiling in the book.  Stay tuned to this blog for further announcements. I appreciate your interest in my work.

* * Exploring the Tug River Valley

A week ago, I was on the road riding my motorcycle with two friends from Northern Virginia.  We were headed for Matewan, West Virginia, where one of the most important and tragic battles between coal miners and coal mine owners took place in 1920, the subject of the eponymous 1987 movie directed by John Sayles.  I also knew that Matewan was near the center of the nation’s most famous inter-family conflict, the feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys. 

I had a grand plan for this escapade.  I’d met these friends at rallies of the International CBX Owner’s Association.  The CBX is a particular model of Honda motorcycle that was produced only from 1979 until 1982.  With its magnificent 6-cylinder engine, it has become a cult classic bike and each of us owns a specimen.  We would ride these machines to the Tug River Valley and I would then write about that story and attempt to sell the article to one of the national motorcycle magazines.  The title was going to be, “Three Sixes on the Tour de Tug.”  Unfortunately, one of my two friends failed to get his motorcycle ready to make the ride.  I ended up loaning him one of my other bikes, a twin cylinder model called the Honda Pacific Coast.  My title then necessarily became “Two-and-a-third Sixes on the Tour de Tug.”

I sent an inquiry letter last week to one of the magazines and meanwhile started to work on the article itself feeling hopeful that at some point it might be accepted.

My wife Jane and Mary Ann Johnson, who does most of the critical editing for my writing, both commented that they felt the first draft of my article was inordinately negative.  Mary Ann wrote, “It definitely reads as if you were angry and in a stream-of-consciousness mood and absolutely miserable with the heat. I would suggest you ride in better weather.”

Granted, both days we were on the road it was extremely hot and I was plenty uncomfortable at times.  I wasn’t reticent in reflecting that in the article.  Nevertheless, Jane’s and Mary Ann’s comments took me by surprise because I really didn’t feel at all negative about the trip.  Most motorcyclists accept a certain level of discomfort as a routine matter of course.  Motorcyclists are exposed to the weather and the weather can often be cruel.  Being too hot, too cold, or too wet is a pain, but it is what it is.  One or the other is frequent.  You accept what you get.  Mary Ann’s suggestion that our ride be done in better weather was simply not feasible because of scheduling and momentum.  Once a ride is on the calendar, I tend to do it regardless.

I was familiar with most of the areas we visited, but there were still some surprises for me.  I didn’t know that Matewan was bracketed on both sides against frequent floods, the east side by the mountain and the west by a 20-foot tall floodwall, protecting it from the temperamental Tug.  Huge gates with moveable doors guarded every entryway.  Matewan was described as being the most flood-prone town in America until the wall was erected in 1997.  I did know of the horrific decrepitude in Pocahontas, Iaeger, and other coal camp towns, but my friends were shocked. 

Still, none of us felt negative about the trip.  As I said in the article, this isn’t Dollywood.  It is real Appalachia, real America.  Visits are not for the faint of heart.  But the Tug River Valley should be on the “must see” list of more tourists.

As I mentioned, the article is now in draft form.  Publications like national motorcycle magazines do not like to print things that have already been circulated.  However, if you would like to read it and are willing to keep it to yourself, please e-mail me <bikemike@nrvunwired.net> and let me know and I will send it to you as an attachment.