The Seasons of Riffle Run

I quietly walk, hand resting lightly on Amos’s harness. The land is a magnet. My connection to it pulls me. The last rays of sunshine on my face reminds me of a time lost, its voices forever stilled and forgotten. With the wind lifting my hair, I listen closely to the bubbling of the creek. I can almost catch the echo of a melody, a banjo, a guitar and the mandolin. It would be dusk, as it was now, and the music would ring through the air.

I’ve loved this beautiful place my whole life. To me, West Virginia has always meant home. Though now I’m totally blind, I’m fortunate to have my memories. In my mind, the vivid pictures of tree-covered mountains, their peaks touching the sky, smooth green rivers and the wild flowers growing in abundance are still crystal clear. A waterfall pouring into a deep dark blue pool, its banks thick with rhododendrons and the intoxicating sweetness of the mountain laurel are forever part of me.

Riffle Run was named after a descendant of our family a couple centuries ago. The hollow where both sides of my mom’s family were born and raised is now a campground. In the early seventies, the government bought out all the farms to build the Burnsville Lake and Dam. Hundreds of homes were stolen. Whether the families wanted to leave or not wasn’t a choice. When the federal government wanted something, they got it no matter the steep price many had to pay.

Even though I grew up in Ohio, I was a West Virginian in my heart. Just hearing its name always brought on a longing for home. My roots were firmly planted in WV with both my parents being from the mountain state. As far back as I can remember WV was an important part of my life. All holidays and vacations were spent here.

After marrying in the early sixties, my parents moved to Ohio. They began their life together with two daughters. But Ohio never became more than a place to live; West Virginia was home. They instilled their love of the mountains into my sister Lisa and I. 

In my child’s mind, Riffle Run was a magical place. In the summer when the trees were leafed out, one could almost pass its turn off. I sometimes thought that it was a secret place that only opened up for us.

Riffle Run branched off Route 5 and led down over a bank. At the bottom of the slope sat the Conrad’s house on the left. It was a big two-story house with porches running the length of the back and front. As a child, I never imagined that I’d marry the shy dark-haired boy who lived there.

My grandparents lived a mile or more from the main road. In the summer, a vehicle could make the trip up the creek bed to their farm but in the winter, walking was the only option. 

I had lots of family on Riffle Run. My great grandparents, grandparents, two uncles, two aunts and three cousins lived on the run. Sherry, my younger cousin by one month stayed with my grandparents. She was spoiled rotten and enjoyed teasing me about my wariness of farm life. Although I was the older one, she was country wise and every chance she got made fun of my city girl ways.

My grandparent’s house was L shaped with a front porch across its length. It had a gray scratchy siding that reminded me of sandpaper. On the right of the house was a garden. To the left was a huge fenced in barnyard with several buildings. There was a barn, washhouse, chicken coop, feed shed and out house. It was a typical West Virginia farm with cows, horses, pigs, sheep and chickens. 

A creek flowed along the road in front of the house. Across it was the sheep pen, and inside the pasture was a fenced in garden. My grandma had a randy bucksheep that she called Old Jonathon. Whether truly mean or not, he loved terrorizing anyone other than my grandma who dare come into his field. 

I’ll never forget sitting in the porch swing one summer day watching my mom in an ankle length skirt walk through the gate to reach the garden where my grandma was picking beans. Old Jonathon was stretched out on top of a rock in the sun appearing to snooze. Mom eyed the bucksheep a good five minutes before she made up her mind he was asleep and wouldn’t know she was around. Half way to the safety of the fenced in garden, old Jonathon roused and took after her. “Mom! Mom, help me!” she bellowed. I giggled so hard tears ran down my face. Watching her mad dash for safety, holding the long skirt high was a sight.

My son's warning startles me back to the present.  "Mom, I'm coming through!"  He calls as he streaks by on his bike. His passing doesn’t bother Amos in the least. His stride never falters. The guide dog loves our walks through Riffle Run. In the summer, the campground is super busy. But it’s closed by late fall, throughout the winter and into most of the spring. During these seasons, it’s ours to peacefully stroll.

A crow cawing brings back memories of the hot West Virginia summers. A skinny little city girl visiting her grandma’s house on Riffle Run was like Dorothy entering OZ. The country was nothing like where I lived in Ohio. Each season held a special memory and every day brought a new adventure.

During the summer, the days were spent playing in warm sunshine that lightened my hair while darkening my skin. It was pure joy to stand knee deep in the cool creek that ran in front of my grandma’s house. My cousins and I loved playing in the crystal clear water catching tadpoles and craw crabs.

“Out!” I smiled remembering my Uncle Gary’s command.  

Sherry and I exchanged nervous glances. Her hair was dark reddish-brown with curls going in every direction. We were both seven, and where I was cautious, she was daring. Trouble was her middle name.

She’d caught a huge blue craw crab in a coffee can fifteen minutes before. The beast was so gigantic, she was afraid of him. The easy thing to do, she decided, was to lay the can on its side in the bottom of the creek and chase him inside with a stick.

She knew I was scared of him and pushed the can at me, grinning evilly. “Get away!” I wanted nothing to do with that monster.  

Being always full of ideas, most of them bad, Sherry got that “up to no good” glint in her eye. “Come on, I’m gonna play a trick on Mom Riffle.”

I meekly followed at a safe distance, dreading what she planned for our grandma. In the spacious kitchen, she pulled one of the wooden chairs up against the sink. Giving me a wicked wink, she put the plug in and turned on the water. After it was filled almost to the top, she poured its new occupant in. 

Hopping down, she put the chair back. Her hands behind her, she bowed her curly head, looking totally innocent. Then I realized why. Uncle Gary came into the kitchen. To Sherry’s annoyance, he walked straight to the sink. One glance down, his eyes swung to hers. “Out! Now!”

She scampered to the chair, pushing it back to the sink. Climbing up, she grabbed the coffee can and then stopped. Looking at the can and then back at the sink, she grew more dismayed. The can wouldn’t fit into the sink. “How’m I gonna git him back in the can?” 

“That’s your problem. Now out!” Uncle Gary was the grouchy as well as the orneriest of Mom’s brothers. He had no mercy for Sherry or her escapades. He was the one that always made her spit out her chewing tobacco when he caught her with her mouth poked full. They were definitely archenemies.

“But…but,” she looked at me for help. I shook my head. It was her idea.

Continue to: The Seasons of Riffle Run ~ Page 2

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