"WEST VIRGINIA MEMORY"

By S. A. Pool

9:30 a.m. The temperature is on 85 degrees, but the humidity is already up to 70%. The cool cotton jumpsuit I put on earlier is beginning to feel sticky against skin, and I feel the urge to soak in a tub of ice water. Outside, the dogwood, ironwood and maple trees have been collecting some of the moisture on their leaves. Now they're beginning to show signs of fatigue as their limbs droop under the pressure of excess weight. Soon they'll be sagging like willows; the water raining off the leaves to muddy the ground around the trunks. Only ferns and fungus grow thick and lush in those areas.

In spite of all the water floating in the air, the run, a small creek which usually divides our land with clean and rapidly rushing water, has dried up to a scattering of shallow pools incapable of supporting any life greater than a mosquito or mud-dauber. Copperheads, lizards and other forms of low life seem to thrive on this weather, feasting best on everyone else's famine.

The locust and katydid began their screeching nearly an hour ago. Their son, sounding like so many fingernails scraping simultaneously down blackboards, will grow louder and more irritating with the heat and humidity of the day. By noon they will drown out the sound of a TV or radio, making those forms of entertainment impossible to enjoy.

In fact, I have yet to find any form of diversion enjoyable this time of year in West Virginia. Trying to cram housework, farm work and a little horseback riding into a few early morning cool hours is definitely not my idea of how to have a good time. Summer is supposed to be full of swimming, hiking, picnics and Frisbees. The only swimming I can do around here is limited to my own sweat - unless one enjoys picking leaches and crawdad off parts of your body every two minutes. I tried bike hiking twice last year, and spent the rest of that summer recuperating from heat prostration.

The local farmers declare this to be the best time of the year. I think they say that because the planting was finished in spring and it's too early to harvest, so there's nothing left for them to do but sit back and be lazy for the next three months. Hence, the cluster of rocking chairs on every porch. These same hard working humans play solitaire regularly with 48 cards.

With that thought in mind, I decided to set out on the two-mile walk to my next-door neighbors' farm. Mrs. Hovermale is a gruff, stocky, 57-year-old woman. Her face is weathered and creased from her hard, struggling life. Her eyes are life-less; all hope of escape drained by the bitterness of reality. Her hands, lumpy and strong, are covered with spotty discolorations. The sight of her explains the appreciation these people have for lazy days. Hard work and primitive living conditions have transformed this one time flower of the Mountain State into a withering old hag. It's difficult to believe that the portrait hanging over the mantle of the beautiful young bride with the long graceful fingers, is the same woman who sits across from me now.

She's a sweet woman, though, and always happy to seem me. After the dogs eagerly announce my arrival and escort me to the open kitchen door, I find her waiting for me, one freshly filled coffee mug in her hands and one at my place on the table. (I never had the heart to tell her I'd rather have a tall cool glass of ice tea.) She enjoys sitting there, swatting flies and discussing the private lives of the community residents.

"Reverend Farrell's been spend'n lots a time at the Yost's place lately..." she began, pausing for a moment to deliver a fatal blow to an unsuspecting horsefly, "...duri'n the dey..." another pause to delicately lift the corpse by its wings, "...when the mister's 'wey..." she pressed her free hand against the table, pushed herself to her feet and crossed the kitchen to stand by the garbage can, "...work'n." That word was punctuated by the dropping of the corps into the refuse.

Noon. Mrs. H. invited me to stay for supper. I declined, of course. I told her Claude was due home soon and I had a million things to do before then. The fact that I was starving by now and had six hours to do absolutely zilch before Claude got home from work was irrelevant. I'd learned from other experience that such invitations in this area were merely dialogues of ritualistic etiquette imposed by the local gentry, and not meant to be taken too seriously. Had I accepted the invitation, my fresh cup of coffee would not be waiting for me tomorrow.