April 5, 2021
It's hard for me to imagine spending one's entire life in a small town. And by small, I do mean small. In the 2010 census, the population of Cass, West Virginia was 52. Since then, my guess is, the count has gone lower. Yet, at one time, I learned Cass was a "thriving" timber town.
My daughter got married last month in Colorado and throughout the winter, I skied at various mid-Atlantic resorts in a nearly futile attempt to find my ski legs. One of the best places I found to ski was Snowshoe Mountain. Since it’s almost a six hour drive away from my house in Northern Virginia, I stayed overnight at nearby Bear Creek Lodge, in Cass. It has eight clean, simple, inexpensive rooms. Downstairs, a little shop sells cheap souvenirs, groceries and beer. Off to the side of the shop, there’s a grill for cooking up the usual fare of bacon ‘n eggs, pancakes and sandwiches (the pastrami sandwich was surprisingly good).
The first time I came downstairs, in the early morning, to order breakfast, I noticed William, sitting near the window, absorbed in his iPad. I don't remember how we got started in conversation, but he told me a bit about himself and the town. That's when I learned there was an old timber mill just a short walk from where we talked. William told me that he was born and raised in this town and he told me all about the good hunting in the area. I let him know that I had great admiration for people that knew how to hunt and dress their prey. His younger relative, Mark (Mark’s wife, Sarah, works the morning shift at the grill), stood nearby and seemed to also absorb William’s wisdom.
During my last visit, I arrived at the store late on a Friday evening. An older man named Jim was singing a bluegrass tune on a makeshift stage. His buddy, Vern, was sitting on the side, near a window with a good view of the Greenbrier River and the Cass General Store, which used to be owned and run by the timber company. Jim and Vern were childhood buddies back when the mill was the center of life in the 1940s. Jim frequently drives back from his current home in Ohio to visit his friend and tend to a hunting cabin he maintains in the nearby woods. When my eyes first made contact with Vern, he was waving his arms, motioning to me. I had no idea what he was trying to say. Eventually I learned he wanted me to pick up his guitar and play along with Jim. I don’t know why he thought I could play but I wished I could return the invite in a meaningful way.
Jim has a nice voice with an easy smile and a twinkle in his eye. At one point, however, I saw that twinkle turn mischievous. Vern was singing to a woman who briefly stopped in the store. Jim seemed to tire of it and played his guitar, slowly increasing in volume. His buddy voiced a useless complaint and I could see that Jim knew what he was doing, as those mischievous eyes glanced nervously at Vern with each rising chord. I liked Jim very much.
I enjoyed talking to Jim and Vern and it was clear, they enjoyed talking to me. At the end of the evening, they asked how long I was staying. Jim let us know they would be “‘pickin’ on the porch” at the Cass General Store on Saturday afternoon. I looked forward to seeing them again and they were very happy when I showed up, although the rainy weather prevented us from sitting outside. William's wife, Diane (she’s a hard workin’ woman that seems to handle many responsibilities of the lodge) invited us to enjoy some grilled burgers that she made for the fellas. We listened intently to the music and their memories.
Although it was the last weekend of the ski season and the warm temps affected the quality of the remaining snow, the skiing was good. The highlight of the weekend, however, was getting to know William, Diane, Mark and Sarah a bit better and meeting Jim and Vern was tops. I learned two important things during that last visit. I realized how much music, especially bluegrass and gospel, helps some people endure their hardships. I also learned, or rather felt, through their passionate singing and stories, how much they loved their small town. Their memories, twinged with a sense of loss, were palpable. I want to say I felt their hope as well but soon realized that was perhaps a futile projection. I wonder how many communities there are in America, far past their primes, that have endured similar hardships and face the same uncertain fate?