Dear West Virginia

One Man's Dream

“One Man’s Dream” by Cheryl Tarrant. Used with permission.

This post is for anyone who has left home. I don’t mean to go to the grocery store or even for vacation. This is for folks who have packed their possessions, hugged their mammas and daddies, and pulled away from the curb with their cheeks wet and their eyes on the road because if they glance in the rearview mirror, they might not go. It’s for those who bookmark their hometown newspapers and like their native accents. It’s for the homesick, the diehards, people who would charter a plane or ride a mule, whatever it takes to go home at the holidays. This post is a love letter like no other. It comes from Jason Headley, today’s guest blogger.

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Dear West Virginia,

I suppose this has been a long time coming. Looking back, it must have seemed abrupt. Twenty-two years we spent together, then I up and left with no real explanation. I probably owed you more than that. So I’ll try my best to explain it to you now.

We were perfect together at first, weren’t we? As a boy, I couldn’t have asked for a better playmate. Your hills and trees, your railroad tracks, rivers, and run-down factories. You could have killed me a dozen times, at least. I seemed to be asking for it. I was rough on you, but you gave as good as you got. My blood in your soil, your splinters and gravel under my skin. This is how we did it, becoming more and more of one another every single day.

I drew your initials in my notebooks in the sharp angles of the university logo. They weren’t just letters. They were you. I wore blue and gold, but those weren’t your only colors. You were green and white, too. Just like my Paden City Wildcats. You were orange and yellow and red, your hillsides alight with fire every autumn. You were the purple of the Ohio River, the sun’s last rays drawn deep. You were black, a night sky as endless as my imagination.

You were everything to me. My mom and my dad. My brother and my grandparents. My home and my school. All of my very first firsts. It was perfect while it lasted.

I wish I could tell you when things changed. That I could point to one moment. Maybe the first time I saw the ocean, standing there with my pant legs hiked to my knees, staring at the end of the earth. Maybe it was something I saw on television: a bionic man, a talking car, a chimpanzee sidekick, a girl in her underwear. Maybe it was the books, one of the stories that seemed so wild and strange and far beyond anything I could ever imagine happening while surrounded by the steadfastness of you.

That might be part of it. I knew, as sure as I knew anything, that you were never going to change. You’d spent lifetimes building mountains from flat, solid ground. You’d grown forests, had them taken from you, and grown them again. You were strong, stalwart, and set in the ways that worked for you. But I slowly began to realize they wouldn’t work for me.

I can’t actually think of a time beyond boyhood when I thought I was going to stay. It’s strange. Ungrateful, I suppose. You were the only thing I knew and somehow you weren’t enough. But my interests and ambitions grew beyond any realistic expectations. Far beyond the reach of your panhandles. And I suppose that changes a relationship forever.

The question is, did I begin to stand out because I knew I was going to leave? Or did I know I was going to leave because I was beginning to stand out? I fished your streams, but with little frequency and even less success. Friends and family stalked your forests for hours in the hope of bringing home deer, quail, squirrel. The interest never took with me. But there were bigger things. Ideals I didn’t recognize, some old-fashioned, some simply old. Disagreement with common-held beliefs. Those I saw as wrong-headed, and those I knew were just plain wrong. All of that combined to leave me somewhere in between. There, but not.

I know your state bird, your state flower, your state tree, your state animal. I know your state fish, for crying out loud. Every fiber of my being was forged, formed, and intricately woven by the experience of growing up with you: my basic values, my ingrained suspicions, my belief that good things can always happen to you, but don’t hold your breath.

You see, I’ve never had a problem being from West Virginia. I just had some difficulty being in West Virginia.

Still, now, the places we knew together are like songs to me. Just the names bring a flood of memories: Dolly Sods, Canaan Valley, Oil Ridge, Buck Run, Bickles Knob. And then the places that had no real title: the rope swing on the north end of town, the outfield of the far baseball diamond, the attic of my best friend’s house, and, of course, the few square feet of my bedroom. I papered those walls with dreams. That town. I sought your best places and poured endless meaning into some of your most ordinary corners. I did all of this, day after day, for over eight thousand days. And then, one day, it was time to go.

You probably didn’t see it, because my back was to you as I drove, but I cried when I left. And not just because I was in Kentucky. I cried because I missed you already. I cried because I’d never been away from you for longer than two weeks. I cried because I was afraid. Because if I wasn’t a West Virginian, then what was I?

I had a tape recorder on the front seat to capture thoughts as I drove, alone, toward a new life. This is what I said as I left you behind: “If California is half as good to me as West Virginia has been, I’m going to be in pretty good shape.”

And I was right. But a dozen years here has taught me just how wrong I was about something else. I never stopped being a West Virginian. There are some things that can’t be undone. Not by all the gods in all the heavens. Geography be damned.

The other day someone wrote to me and said, “I’ll be coming to your state next week.” And I thought, “I wonder why he’s going to West Virginia?” He wasn’t. He was coming to California. But I still, in my marrow, think of you as “my state.” I only hope you still think of me as your son.

I have grandparents and great-grandparents buried in your ground. I have family living in the curves of your hills. I have pieces of me scattered all across your land. And I have the best parts of you locked here in my heart.

Maybe that’s not enough. Maybe all these words can never explain away what I did. Maybe abandonment is too great a sin to be absolved. Maybe. But I like to think not.

I like to think all your countless years have given you unbridled understanding, the likes of which I’ll never understand. That on a cold autumn night when the air smells like burning leaves and small town football, you miss me a little, too. I like to think that when I come home, you’re as happy to see me as I am you. And that the few days we get to spend together each year are like a gift, a time machine. Proof that old friends never fade.

That’s what I like to think.

Forever yours,
Jason

Jason Headley tells stories.

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709 Comments

  • Paul Perry

    I live at Pie W.V. In Mingo County. I was raised on stack cakes,my wife Anna Adkins Perry made the very best cake. My address 1642 R.A. West Hwy. Delbarton, W.V. 25670

  • charlotte arbogast

    That was a wonderful story about our wonderful state Jason! I feel the same way about West Virginia & about Sistersville. I never want to leave. Are you the son of Saundra & Keith of Paden City? If so, I know your parents well.

  • Holly Spears

    This article definitely hit me in the heart. My new album is about getting back to my West Virginia Country roots. There’s even a song about getting up the courage to move away like I did when I was 18 and knowing it’s ok to go back home for a day, a week, or a year and that I am ALWAYS WELCOME there.
    “… always a West Virginian.” That rang true to me, too. From Nashville, TN to Northern, KY, I still wear my WVU gear!
    Thank you for sharing this. Made me tear up for sure.
    with love,
    Holly Spears

  • Laurence Hickman

    Jason, Thanks for the “trip back home”! Good for my heart, mind and soul, as it was for many others , I’m sure.

  • Bridget John Losch

    This totally resonates with me. I left WV at age 21. It will always be home. I live in Las Vegas now but was back home for a visit in December. I cry for my old home quite often, even though it’s such a depressed and depressing area! Something about those hills and valleys, rivers and streams that can’t be duplicated.

  • Mary McFarland

    Thanks Jason. After more than 30 years out of WV (Parkersburg) and 20 of those in France, I still get asked by the not so very stranger in the Mall if I’m the one in France, and when am I coming home? Probably never I say, but I do ove that I am still asked.

  • mary sharp

    I lived outside of Akron Ohio for 23 years and I remember yearning to drive down a dirt road and see only the lightning bugs flicker and butterflies dance over the tops of wild flowers. So after my divorce, I moved “back home!” I too, always referred to West Virginia as home! It’s in my heart and soul. I think of the hardships my parents suffered to raise 8 children, and I feel so proud! So very blessed to call West Virginia my home!

  • Marjorie Rose (Shuck) Kallas

    I’m from West Virginia and proud of it. Although I have lived in Ohio longer than I lived in WV. I married and came here in 1964, and anytime I can, I go back to visit my Aunt Gertie, who lives in Lockbridge. When my mother died in 2005 we had to sell property and I’ve been there couple times to see place,I’m glad we found some nice people to buy it they have changed a lot ( almost everything) but it looks beautiful and it’s not like some places that just sit and rot away. I’m from very small town of Pax. I love the mountains there and especially in the fall. Nothing like West Virginia.The picture in your story looks so much like our house we grew up in.

  • Bonnie Summers

    I left WV for FL in ’83 & moved back 1/28/13……THE BEST MOVE I EVER MADE WAS TO COME BACK HOME….I am here to stay!

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