There’s a crumbling building at the intersection of Routes 219 and 50. You can choose north, south, east, or west to go anywhere you wish. And of all the directions I’ve went, the memories of my first home go with me. Yesterday, I turned to them again.
I still think about the cast of characters that came into the Red House Service Station for a Pepsi, a candy bar, and conversation.
From these windows, I watched my Dad walking out to the light of the gas pumps in the evenings. During deer season, the hunters would swing by with eight-points in their truck beds. Embellishments and all, there are few better stories better than their hunting stories.
This was our view from my brother’s room, where we created worlds from imagination, Ghostbuster toys, and Legos. How is the world smaller but holds more possibilities when you’re a kid?
My parents showed steers in the 70s and 80s, and didn’t do too bad! I didn’t grow up to be a farmer, but it’s still a way of life sacred to me. It’s from that life that I owe my own.
And at night before bed, I would sit on the basement steps and watch my Dad fill the furnace. Appalachian winters were cold. Appalachian coal kept us warm.
No matter how far I go north, south, east, or west, home stays with me.
