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You Can Go Home Again Relatives put things in perspective.
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THE SUN'S LIGHT WASHED through
the smoke and the flames as I rode away from Kafka's nightmare industrial
city and into the West Virginia of the coal miner's daughter, the maple
leaf turning to flame in the chill of the fall morning.
West Virginia soon gave way to Virginia. I was entering the South, where the land was a little more untidy, undeveloped, unindustried, and the people began to twang away with y'alls and honeys, and darlins. There were fewer tidy brand-name gas stations, and more messy independent ones. I, once a Southern gal, couldn't understand the attendant at one -- not a word he said. I don't know if it was his terrible lack of education or his mouthful of chew. He looked at me with delighted suspicion, handed me the pump, and babbled on. Behind the station's garbage pile of empty oil cans, rags, tires, and used blue paper towels rose a tall rock cliff and some tangles of blackberries. The sky was blue with a few dots of clouds. I rode on. The Ural putted away, content with her new electrical system and engine fixes. As I rode, my eyes were drawn to a certain kind of sign. Antique-hounds see Garage Sale and Flea Market signs. Farmers see signs that say Tractors and Feed, and mechanics see Small Engine Repair. In any small town, I was oblivious to the charming gift shop if it happened to be beside an Everson's or a Napa. The quaint cafe was invisible next to a snowmobile shop where I might get spark plugs and fuel filters. In a town with a motorcycle shop, I didn't see anything else. I stopped just in case I didn't see another one in a while, to inspect hoses, plugs, filters, oil, gas additive, loose or lost nuts and bolts, light bulbs, and levers . . . . . . read the rest of this story in American Borders - the book |
