Country Roads - Chapter Two: Charlie's

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West Virginians are an affable and approachable bunch. So, coming from grumpy and aloof New England, I needed time to make the adjustment. However informal they are in appearance, the hospitality more than compensates. The mountain twang of their accent leaves me on the verge of letting out a violent chuckle. Conversations are prolonged, and many have taken in genuine interest in me and my visit here. The Mountain Laurel Restaurant in Fayetteville is under new management and undergoing renovations. Locals come and go during lunch and dinner. As I sat down at the bar and glanced at the menu, the owner came up to, welcomed, and invited me back for dinner, not having eaten lunch yet. That was before I got his name. Sean is a partner in the business and did not hesitate to tell me about his ten-year-old daughter, the behavioral indiscretions of his youth, and the social options for a night out locally. The Mountain Laurel is a place where NASCAR, hunting programs, and Dukes of Hazard reruns reign supreme. I made the mistake of raising my voice and in doing so interrupting a critical moment during the last laps of a recent race. A handful of mustached men in hunting fatigues turned around and glared at me. Clearly, I was out of line and disrespectful.

The contrasts of West Virginia’s rural back roads are impossible to miss. Rich in the beauty of steep and impenetrable forested hills, deep and swift whitewater rivers that rush down mountainsides, and alluring country stores, is also a hidden sadness. A lack of economic opportunity has held its grip the region, ever since the days of large-scale coal mining declined into a shadow of a powerhouse. Torn, colorless, unskirted, and wobbly mobile homes line county lanes next to which are parked dilapidated hatchbacks many times held together by duct tape. Cheerful girls play between the rotting the piles of junk that have sunk into the mud. Signs reading “Keep Out” warn visitors to maintain a distance from the heaps of rusty sinks, cracked hitches, and ripped up auto parts strewn across the front yard. Strip mines do very little to enhance the bleak residential scene that afflicts pockets of Fayette County. The few employment opportunities available exist in the public sector. It is not uncommon for the local Board of Education to be the largest source of work in a county, as it is in Fayette. Given that those avenues are limited, many others turn to state government, another huge employer in West Virginia. Wal-Mart is among the top choices; this bears very little ground for people since most positions are part-time and offer few benefits. Fayette County hasn’t a single movie theater. Job searches are among the major topics of conversations in bars, breakfast cafés, and convenience stores. Young men bounce ideas and information off each other in order to exhaust every last prospect. Seasonal work for rafting companies may be just fine for those in their early twenties looking to secure some pocket money, but do very little for anyone having to raise a family.

Bear in mind not all is dismal in south central West Virginia. People are closely connected to family and community. There is a deep faith that impacts values; there exists an absolute sense of right and wrong. Credit is given to those in need on the basis of your family name and reputation, which are intertwined and mean everything. Soil your name around here and it may take years to regain others’ trust. Crime in Fayette County is low and violent crime outside the home is negligible. The pace is sweet and slow. Stress is hard to come by, especially when picking up a quart of milk at the market entails several minutes of chit chat on the daily events. Food here is hearty, if not the healthiest. I took particular notice of the huge man, the real possibility of triple bypass surgery rapidly approaching, in line in front of me one morning at breakfast who ordered three fried eggs, a biscuit smothered in gravy, and a side of Canadian bacon. To drink? A Diet Coke. That’s right: a Diet Coke. People are beyond congenial. They smile, then tell you to have a nice day. And mean it. They remember your name. It is an attitude you do not fully appreciate until returning to Connecticut where one must ask, “Why can’t we be like this also? What’s wrong with us?”

Neil and Carol were born in Fayette County. They are as much a part of the landscape as any creek, factory, or lumber mill. A Vietnam veteran and retired juvenile case worker, Neil’s crass demeanor and scruffy exterior should not at all dissuade you from discovering his open attitude and willingness to give his time and kindness to visitors. A walking storybook and in tune with the locals’ trials and tribulations, Neil proves that to be a part of the community, it is imperative to establish oneself here for the long term. To whom you are akin, with whom you went to high school, and your father’s friends forty years ago still play a vital role in being connected to daily life in Fayette County.
Accompanied by Carol, I met Neil and on my first night at Charlie’s Pub. Divorced and in his early sixties, he is often at Charlie’s Pub nursing a can of Old Milwaukee. Following the common jovial greeting I have come to expect here, our conversation took a few dangerously sharp turns before leveling off to where he soon had his arm around my shoulder and escorting around the bar as if we had known each other for several years.
“Hey, Bob! This here s’um bitch is my friend Rich from Connecticut!” Handshakes ensue and then the inevitable, this time from Bob: “Boy, West Virginia sure did put a lickin’ on you boys up from Connecticut this year! Y’all better stick to basketball, hear?” In a state with no professional sports, the college level fills the gap. That said, college football in West Virginia rules the land in the autumn. For the rest of the evening, Neil offers me little tidbits and stories about the local area, its people, and history that keep me well entertained and attentive. Some are tall tales, perhaps a bit embellished and self-serving. But they are told with vigor and conviction to where their entertainment value is enormous. Other patrons wandered over to join us. Everyone was polite and welcoming to me, and immediately so. This is the antithesis of peoples’ cold-shouldered attitude in New England, where for all most care you could drop dead and they’d walk over your body. What a great turn of events. Just how great? Only a few hours at Charlie’s and I had multiple invitations to join families for Thanksgiving dinner. This is a virtual impossibility in Connecticut.

Carol, soft-spoken yet very articulate, is the quieter an introspective half of the couple. A chain smoker and recovering cancer victim of similar age and civil status as Neil, she expresses a combination of nostalgia and bitterness when discussing West Virginia. Her smile warms up a room when she recalls the days of her youth and the simplicity that she came to understand and appreciate. She truly believes in where she is from is a positive place of kind-hearted and sincere people. Unquestionably, Carol possesses these qualities in overwhelming amounts. Yet, she becomes easily irritated with certain elements of modern reality. She has survived cancer while watching those close to her having succumb to it. Stuck in a low-salaried job with the State where pay raises are non-existent, but it being her only option for heath insurance, her daily toil no longer brings her any sense of satisfaction. Her family home is now unoccupied, and has been for over a year. Neglect has put it in a state of disrepair and it will most likely remain empty and continue to slowly disintegrate as long as Carol owns it. Nevertheless, Carol perseveres and becomes a beacon of knowledge and joy when in the social company of others. The sooner she comes to terms with the struggles in her life, the sooner she will have found the peace and tranquility she desperately needs.
Neil, his friends call him Fuzz, and Carol were my personal tour guides around Fayette County for an entire day and were phenomenal. Our trip took us to Gauley Bridge, at the confluence of the New and Gauley Rivers, where they form the Kanawha. Then we went on to Montgomery County, stopping at Fuzz’s modest childhood home near Charlton Heights. It was there he explained how coal companies designed residential communities along the river bank according to the type of task employees performed. For example, at one town, still rather tidy, is where upper management would live. The very next town would be for lower management and office workers. The closest to the mine or mill you got, the lower the class of people that had to live there. Fuzz mentioned that there was no coincidence that common laborers lived closest to the production facility. Therefore, they had to endure the vast concentrations of smog, soot, and other carcinogenic pollutants that rained upon their roofs, porches and streets.

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Photos

Picture Perfect
The only thing missing is the moonshine still in the back...

An Assortment of Trinkets
Anywhere else, this would be seen as junk...

Fancy Decorations
The ceiling at Charlie's