Fried Chicken and a Diddle-I-Dune: I'm Coming Home

The small coffee stand in the hotel lobby kept odd hours. I learned that the hard way when we arrived the afternoon prior, when I thought I had time to wander the halls dressed in their Christmas best before getting my fix. The next morning I made sure to be punctual, a mostly impossible feat if you’re me, unless there’s an endangered beverage or a paycheck involved. Next to me in line under the oversized oak tresses of the lobby’s vaulted ceiling, my dog gave side-eye to the life-size (if you’re my size) nutcracker to let him know he shouldn’t get too close to her mom. On my right, she made quick friends with the FedEx guy with the kind eyes. They say dogs can sense a person’s intentions; God knows I can’t see past my own, so maybe that’s why I always keep a dog around. 

That morning, I stole a few minutes to savor my coffee while my kids were still in the room asleep. From my perch at a high-top table for six pushed against the middle set of oversized windows, I watched the lake as it did its one and only wintertime thing: sitting perfectly still. It was a moment of release, which I’m told I could achieve on the regular through pharmaceuticals, if I were someone else entirely. My body is a temple, unless you count tattoos and weekend carbs. 

Although I have no relationship with the outdoors as it pertains to tents, kayaks, and summertime forests, I’m close to Nature in my own way, having grown up a child of my grandmother’s hilltop farm, sucking on honeysuckle, chomping on crab apples, pining for ponies. To this day, I remember perfectly the sound of a rooster yelling Rise and shine, bitches! 

Sometime last summer, Nature sent her sirens after me, singing me away from my citified safety net full of noise and distractions intended to keep my mind in line...as if. So I finally began to listen: I took my dog on Saturday hikes when my kids were away splashing and fishing on the Buckhannon River where I could never manage to feel at home. Jezebel and I didn’t do any deep-forest explorations, but we took baby steps along the fringe of Nature’s well-worn skirt. 

In late fall, a girlfriend invited me to hike in the woods at a resort halfway between her city and mine. We met a couple of years ago when I was writing for her department at a university. When it comes to my people, I know 'em when I see 'em (if I listen to my instincts), and so it wasn’t long before she and I were on my porch sharing pizza and talking shit like we’d known each other forever. A long-divorced 50-something southern WV firecracker, she’s become a dear friend and my outdoors guru. This winter, she’s teaching me the ropes of cross-country skiing. I’ve never downhill skied and have no desire to, but walking in the snow is one of my favorite things, so I think I can hang. 

For many years I've called myself a summer girl, a disciple of the sea. Last summer there was no family trip to the ocean, and while disappointment loomed at the time, now I see the gift. It was Nature’s tough love, teaching me to learn to feel at home in the home that is mine instead of wishing to be anywhere but here. I’ve always loved West Virginia for the magical childhood it gave me. I’ve appreciated its history, food, and art. Feeling connected on a spiritual level has been a struggle. I’m a sucker for deep soul connection, and I guess that’s why living here hasn’t felt quite right…until now. My roots are tugging on me.  

When I was a kid, one of my favorite places was a holler on the wrong side of the tracks. East View is where my mom grew up and where many of her siblings live to this day. Of my mom’s 16 siblings, Aunt Kathy was my favorite back then. Her husband, my Uncle Fred, was a long-haul truck driver whose rough-hewn good looks were like burlap wrapped around a heart of gold. It was Uncle Fred who taught me how to do the “honk your horn” move with my arm when passing an 18-wheeler on the road. 

When Uncle Fred left us too soon three years ago due to complications from Covid, a long line of 18-wheelers paid tribute through Rt. 98 in my hometown. A few weeks later, I sent my aunt a gift—a wind chime engraved with the name of the man she’d been with since they were kids, to remind her to think of him when the wind blows. I still think of him too. 

Before the years took Uncle Fred and me away from the holler, life was all dirt and dogs, horses and hay, cousin alliances and country anthems. Until today, I didn’t know the name of the man who sang fried chicken and a country tune/they go together like a moon and June/a finger lickin' chicken and a diddle-i-dune/fried chicken and a country tune—but I know that verse like I know my own name. 

Over the years, my East View family and I have butted heads due to my big-city liberal beliefs and my big fat mouth that may never learn the art of shutting up. I’m no staunch partisan, more so a fan of doing what feels right, be it left or right, but it’s not my job to convince anyone else of who I am... although I’ll probably try if I care. 

Thankfully, my family and I have realized that what we had together in those glory years isn’t worth losing now. Now, fresh from the heady glow of the holidays, I have time to gather pieces of me from the past, measure them against the present, and decide how to move forward. Perhaps toward places quieted by canopy or booming with conversation between the farm animals of my youth. I doubt I’ll ever go deep into Nature alone, and probably never in a tent, but I’ll meet her on a wooded path or at a tree-lined river with a friend.