Tales From the Valley

Appalachia is a strange place and Wheeling a strange town. The cracked and broken road that brought me here reveals the foundation of brick laid over a century ago when the city was the bustling hub of the coal, oil, and steel industries. Now, here on Stone Street, there’s a fancy casino, its modern façade and neon signs offering false hope. Farther down the street, set in the midst of solid-looking family homes, there’s an old, ramshackle house that probably shelters some unfortunate soul, their lives stolen by drugs. It’s a place of pride and despair. Maybe I notice the irregularities in this town because in my mind, I’m just passing through to someplace better. I guess I could be called a run-away, though I consider myself a young traveler. My journey started from a small town several miles south along the banks of the Ohio River. I walked from there to here. In Wheeling, I have a choice of borders to cross and will decide where to go tomorrow. Tonight, the sun is setting against the hills and trees on the horizon, so it’s time to find a place to sleep. Around the block, I see an elderly gentleman sitting on the steps of a timeworn house in desperate need of paint. He appears as old as the brick poking up from beneath the road and wears a bright red jacket with a yellow stripe going down the side with the words U.S. Marines. His withered hands lay folded over the top of an ivory cane he is using as a place to rest his cheek. U.S. Marines“What are you looking for?” It takes me a moment to realize the man is speaking and even longer to realize he is talking to me. I shove my hands in my pockets. “I’m uh, not sure.” “Lost?” he asks, lifting his head from his cane. I nod. The man’s wrinkled face twitches in what could be called a grin. “Aren’t we all? I was too, a long time ago. Maybe I still am. I’ve been in every nook and cranny of this valley; know it like the back of my hand, and I still have no idea where I am.” Worried that this might descend into a long-winded rant where he forgets I’m even there in the middle of it, I take a step back. “What’s you hurry? In too much of a rush to listen to an old man and his stories?” His words shame me, so I take a seat on the porch beside him. “I have a minute.” “Good to hear. You see, I know all kinds of stories from all kinds of folks. Wanna hear a few?” I nod and he smiles…