Thinking of Home (This is a reposting)

I have been thinking a lot about West Virginia lately.  In the late 50’s and early 60’s when I was growing up on that quarter of a mile stretch of land across the creek, at the bottom of a mountain, this would be the time when Spring was in the air.  The torrential effects of the March rains would give way to a seeming pause in April as nature’s orchestra of wild flowers of every kind, and insects of varying species, and the thawing grounds awaits the Creator’s queue to commence it springtime sonata, the likes of which even a Beethoven or Mendelssohn could not compose.  Like a bow gliding along violin strings, the creek that flowed in front of our house seemed to have it’s own distinctive springtime melody.

Perhaps it was a mixture of the flowing waters of Stonecoal Creek and the sound of insects and other organisms living in it’s waters that made this unforgettable composition.  Soon, muskrats swimming along the banks and tarpons (that’s turtles for the uninitiated) losing footing and rolling down the mountain would join in the chorus.

I use to look so forward to springtime.  The cold ground of the past 4 or 5 months would be thawed enough for springtime play as thawing grounds gave way to horseshoe spikes, circles for a good game of marble play and hopscotch diagrams.  One of my two favorite past times was to lay on the ground and watch the cloud formations in the sky with my buddy, Ronnie; God bless his memory.

I did say, “two favorite past times”.  The other of the two was to  get up early Saturday morning, get a stick, some twine, (okay, for the younger generation, twine, is string), some fish hooks, a rock for a sinker and go fishing all by myself.  The foliage with its greens, reds and yellow hues were thick enough to satisfy  my need for solitude and sparse enough to allow the occasional breeze to pass through, making me feel, somehow, one with it all.  No one worried about whether or not I had been abducted.  It wasn’t necessary.  The community behaved in such a way that made certain that no matter where the children were, they were safe.  What more could you ask for?

The mountain above that cluster of houses where we lived was part of our playground and the thicker the foliage, the more adventurous the play.  My cousin and I would sometimes beat a path through the mountains to get to Grandma’s house, rather than taking the normal path.  It made life more interesting.  That entire side of the creek bank seemed to belong to me because I was free to play any and everywhere, except for under Mrs. Sue’s house where her dog, Patsy was.  Patsy was very territorial and was known to break loose from her chains when she needed to.

It never occurred to me that this place that I still feel in my soul would one day be only a memory.  Recently, I beat down the bushes and braved the danger of being snake-bitten to go to that side of the creek, stand there and just remember.  But is it really only a memory?  I think not because it still lives and breathes and energizes me when I am searching for inspiration.  Some think that I spend too much time with thoughts in the past, but I don’t think so.  Beyond the racism, as well as a family clash here and there, the memories bring me joy.  I really cannot imagine heaven being much better than some of the experiences that I was privileged to live and breathe.  If it is then I am in for quite a treat.

This reality has, in some sad sense and happy sense, given way to memory.