A deep sense of satisfaction warms me as I park along the curb in front of my townhouse. In the past year, I’ve refinanced my school loans, and last week I closed on my townhouse on a gentrified block in the Sunnyside neighborhood of Morgantown. I feel . . . at home. And I feel like I am just beginning my life as an adult – a first-generation born-in-America son of Filipino immigrants. Walking up my steps, pulling out my keys – my keys to my house – I insert the key, turn the knob, and enter. Pulling the door closed behind me, I’m embraced by a peaceful quiet, in my space. Dropping my keys on top of one of the piles of boxes by the door, I look over an ocean of similar boxes spread throughout the living room. On the opposite wall I see a single 5×7 photo frame propped on the mantel holding a photo of Rico and Esmerelda, Mr. and Mrs. Esteban – Mom and Pop. He’s wearing a blue golf polo slightly stretched around his generous belly with his arm around my mother’s plump physique – seven-months pregnant. With their free hands, they hold aloft small American flags on their proudest day – the day of their naturalization – taking the oath to become American citizens.
I remember I have a living room full of boxes concealing what I have and five other rooms with mismatched pieces of furniture revealing what I don’t have. I do have a breakfast meeting in the morning two hours away in Charleston. There’s a hotel reservation waiting for me if I choose to go tonight – or I can just get up incredibly early tomorrow – I can’t; I have to go tonight. There’s nothing in the fridge. And I still don’t have a shower curtain. I’ll pack a suitcase, grab my briefcase, and I’ll get something to eat on the road. And if I get to my hotel in Charleston, I can expense my dinner. As quickly as I’m home, I’m just as quickly back on the road – a five-foot-six road warrior with my best suit hanging behind the driver’s seat.
I was hoping to get to Charleston before nightfall. I made it about halfway without a hitch, making the most of the precious late-February daylight. I-79 from Morgantown to Charleston cuts almost straight down through the heart of West Virginia, like a knife. The product of modern earthmovers, it follows what prior to construction of the interstate was an imaginary line running through hills where hills had to be removed and through thin air where roadbed had to be built up. But this thin line of the modern is not immune to the primal – especially in winter. A quick snow squall can blow up in the blink of an eye and suddenly drivers can lose visibility – enough for a car to veer off the road. First responders are generally quick to the spot as long as they get a call. Almost on cue, my GPS flashes “Road Closed Ahead – Accident – Delay: 30 minutes” just before it begins to blink intermittently, “No signal.” I decide it’s a good time to get off the highway and grab something to eat. If it says thirty minutes, it’ll probably be an hour. Let the emergency crews clear it up before getting back on the road. I get off at exit 67 and decide to follow 4 south. Going from the open interstate to Route 4, everything seems to close in. The two-lane highway makes me feel claustrophobic after the open interstate. The road follows a winding river as wooded hills fold in and out and dense hardwoods – beech, maple, and cherry – overarch the road and white birch run down to the river. This road – this river path – might be laid right over the same game trails and goat paths used by the first inhabitants of this area. As the river and the road continue to serpentine, I lose any sense of direction. My GPS freezes. Immediately off the interstate, I had passed one eatery – “The Three Lil Pigs BBQ” in neon and underneath a wooden sign saying simply “Diner.” I saw that the parking lot was filling up with travelers apparently responding to the same impulse. But I had decided to go on to the next opportunity down the road where I might find less of a dinner rush. As I notice the sky dimming, my GPS switches to night mode, and I switch on my headlights. In the twilight, my lights washed over a tall, thin man with a bushy beard leading two mules along the opposite side of the river, and I begin to second guess my decision. And then my headlights hit a simple, white-washed wooden sign declaring, “TRAdINg POST.” I parked on the near side of the small log-cabin-style building. I anticipate a very kitschy version of West Virginia Mountaineer dining and probably a few tables of hillbilly giftables and souvenirs. As I park, I see no other cars in sight. I assume patrons are local or parked on the far side of the building, as amber lights shine out through windows on three sides.
Entering the building I walk up to the bar. The man behind the bar, with the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, says, “Welcome to the Trading Post. Whatcha got to trade?” I notice there are no stools along the bar.
I look around. “Me? I’m just looking for a bite to eat.”
“Well, we barter with a lot of people ‘round here.” He smiles. “Keeps the tax man from getting’ tween people.”
“You mean like I bring you a sack of beans and you give me a hamburger and fries?”
He laughs. “Not ‘xactly. Say a feller bags a deer. He takes it to his local meat processor. He tells him to send the meat to me. The meat processor takes his share. No cash changes hands. That feller then has a balance here. He can redeem it in taters or,” he looks around the room, spotting the display by the door, “or t-shirts or shot glasses.” He turns and points to a small bulletin board next to the door. “Or services. One guy’ll do your taxes. We got a guy’s a glass blower.”
“Can I pay for my meal, then, or do I have to trade you something for it?” I ask.
He smiles. “No, I can cash you out. What can I get you?”
I say, “What’s your specialty?”
He looks at me, pausing, and says, “I could whip you up some cornbread. The skillet’s hot.” He looks toward the back of the room, and turning back, says, “We got some fresh elk and pheasant. Some grouse, rabbit. And I got me a mess of venison stew that I put up yesterday.”
“Any veggies?”
“Vege-tables?” he pronounces with an extra syllable. “I got some ramps and taters I could fry up? No maters to speak of. We only get greenhouse-grown this time of year.”
You don’t spend four years at WVU without learning the quaint food lingo – taters for potatoes, ramps for little green peppery, garlicky onions, Molly Moochers for a certain mushroom with a nutty almost smoky flavor. Maters: tomatoes. I figure I’ll be safe going with one of the traditional fast foods of West Virginia culture. “How about some pepperoni rolls?”
“No furrin food.” He looks at me deadpan for a moment, and then his face breaks into a broad smile. “Just kidding, but we don’t have any at the moment.”
“I’ll take some fried ramps and taters and a little cornbread.” I order with a slight smirk as if sharing the joke with the barkeep. “And how about a Pepsi?”
“I’d rather work out a trade,” and he pulls a stoneware jug from below the bar. “But we do have Pepsi.” He places a warm can in front of me, and heads down the bar to my right where he begins to labor over a large wood stove with two skillets, a wide-mouthed stew pot, and an old, blackened coffee pot on top. Looking back over his shoulder, he says, “Take a seat. I’ll bring ‘em over to ya when’re ready.”
I look around the room. Two other souls sit hunched over plates of food, one facing away from me, and the other sitting along the back wall in the far corner. The man in the corner looks up at me periodically as he eats. The windows now look out on a dark, wooded landscape and out over the winding river. Three long, family-style, wooden tables line the walls on two sides with benches along the wall and several bent-willow chairs on the opposing sides of the tables. I take my jar and maneuver into a seat along the back wall, facing the front of the “trading post.”
Shortly, the barkeep brings over a hot plate of steaming potatoes and fried green onions with a generous piece of cornbread. “Salt ‘n’ pepper’s on the bar.” He looks down at me momentarily. “You don’t have a knife.” He seems puzzled. “You need one?”
“Please,” I reply. “And a fork would be nice.”
His puzzlement seems to intensify. “You ain’t got no meat, there. You need a fork?” He looks at me, shaking his head. He mutters under his breath, “Kids is soft these days.” He walks back behind the bar and searching, pulls out a hunting knife and a straight, two-tined fork. I thought, Really, Daniel Boone? Maybe you’re taking this schtick a little too far.
Before the thought clears my mind, the diner who had been facing the wall moves suddenly, dragging his chair over and slamming down his plate across the table from me. “You care for some company?” Without waiting for a response, he returns his attention to his plate and continues eating. “The venison stew is mighty filling.” He wags his head and then looks up at me. He strokes his dark, shaggy beard with his thin bony hands. He’s wearing something resembling a shearling coat over a simple shirt with a laced placket.
I continue to examine him momentarily. “What town is this?” I fumble with my over-sized utensils, cutting my potatoes and green onions.
“This here’s Strange.”
“Yeah, I agree.” I reply with a smile. “But what town is this?”
“This here’s Strange.” He stares at me. “This here’s Strange, West Virginny. They changed its name some years back. They named it after Willum. Willum Strange.” He lunges forward, placing one arm on the table. “Somebody found a set of bones sittin’ against a tree down along Turkey Crick. Under his hand bone they found a note, said, ‘Strange is my name and I’m on strange ground. And strange it is that I can’t be found.’ They renamed the crick Strange Crick. And they renamed the town Strange, West Virginny.” He looks down into his plate and steers another mouthful of stew into his hairy maw with a large soup spoon. “Never you mind, we know Willum Strange is still out there.”
“So, you don’t think those were his bones?”
“Mebbe they were. Mebbe they wernt.” He looks back up at me wide eyed. “But somebody’s still doing his work.”
This is better than It’s a Small World or The Haunted Mansion. I half expect to see translucent specters of lost souls down through the ages in period costumes seated along the wall around the room. “OK, I’ll bite. What’s his work?”
“He’s watching over us. All of us. You, me. Barkeep.” He looks over at the other patron. “Him.” With his wide eyes fixed on me, he shovels another spoonful of stew into his mouth, spilling onto his beard, and then sucking along his lower lip trying to recapture as much spillage as possible. He places his spoon down on the table and leans closer. “There was one year, no rain, no crops. People on the verge of starvation. Winter coming. Willum Strange took a hunting party, four of the hardiest men in his holler and the next two or three hollers, they fixed to head down Elk River as far as need be to bring back enough game to last the winter – five men and three pack mules.” He attempts once more to suck stew out of his beard along his lower lip. “They say they ran into Shawnee. But it could have just as easy have been Brits or French. They were all ready to kill settlers at the time. Whatever devilry they encountered, he lost all his men and one of the mules. Mebbe they et the mule, I don’t know. Whether they just scattered in the woods or got scalped, we’ll never know for sure. But Willum Strange was a man of solid mountain principles. He was gonna take care of his people. He was gonna bring home food for his family and the families that sent their men with him. He was gonna avenge whatever foul dealin’ they ran into down that river. And he wasn’t gonna enjoy the comforts of his own bed until he brought home the men he led out thar.” He extends his lower lip to suck his whiskers along his upper lip. “Willum Strange didn’t return that winter. But somehow his family et fresh game all winter — until plantin’ season. They say he would leave deer and rabbit on his family’s doorstep. Wolves and bear would smell it and come roun’, but they wouldn’t touch it. His woman and his youngins would hear steps and sounds of heavy weights being drug up and down the trails outside their cabin, and they’d know he’d been there. Same with the other four families.” He pulls back from me slightly.
He looks at my Pepsi can. “You know, that’ll prolly cost you more than a whole jar of moonshine.”
I look at the can, with distaste for the idea that I could have had a mason jar full of hundred-and-eighty-proof bathroom gin instead. “That’s fine.” I smile to myself. “I thought maybe if I drank the moonshine, I’d never be able to leave here, or something.” I smile but he doesn’t recognize my humor.
My companion lifts his head slightly with his eyes open even wider. “I hain’t thought of that.” His eyes returned to normal. “You can lose a day or two, I know that for a fact.”
“Next you’re going to tell me Willum Strange appears as a mountain man in buckskin with a Kentucky long rifle leading two mules along the river.”
“You, sir, are a revelation!” My companion leans forward again. “You talk like you seen ‘im! You seen ‘im? You seen ‘im?”
“I saw him on my way here. I-I mean I saw someone leading two mules along the river.” I try to clear my head, feeling entranced. “You mean he’s some kind of Robin Hood stealing from the rich and giving to the poor?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “There’s not rich enough to steal from round cheer. But mountain men are independent, self-sufficient. Honorable. God-fearin’.” He leans down almost dipping his whiskers into his plate. “People still tell of his visits. One time, two peckerwoods from the city came through in a van. They saw a girl walking home from her shift at the Waffle Shop. They grabbed her. They had evil designs on her. They pulled off the road where they didn’t think anyone could hear or see. Well, she screamed bloody murder, but when all was done, those two boys were gelded and half-skinned alive. That girl wandered back to the road and some passerby took her to the sheriff. She was ruffled and her clothes mussed, but her virtue was intact. He couldn’t make heads nor tails of her story except, ‘a knife as big as my arm!’ The next day, the sheriff came across their van, and it all made sense. It was Willum Strange.”
“So, you better make sure you don’t run afoul of Willum Strange? Eh?”
“The god-fearing don’t have to worry.”
“You looked worried when I said I saw that man along the river.”
“I just always shake at the prospect of encountering something from the next world.” He looks dead-serious.
“Have a lot of people encountered Willum Strange?” I peer at him as the light from the wood stove plays on the side of his face I shades of red, yellow, and amber. “Any current-day, people you know, credible witnesses? Anyone who hasn’t been drinking moonshine at the time?”
“Ask the barkeep. He’s served him a dozen time.” He tilts his head toward the bar.
From the bar, the barkeep’s voice calls out, “You don’t believe in Willum Strange?” He walks over to our table and continues in a low voice. “He walks in that door,” he says, pointing toward the front of the room. “It gets airish, downright cold. He’s tall, bushy red beard, thick red eyebrows.” He pauses, his eyes going back and forth between the two of us at the table. Then, lowering his voice further, he continues intently, “Eyes like burning coals and breath like death. He leans his rifle against the bar and then he drives his hunting knife into the bar. Thwack!” He shifts on his feet. “Look for yourself, there must be fifty marks in that bar where he planted his knife. And then he says, ‘Cat’s head and gravy,’ he pauses, and then, ‘and a shine.’”
“Cat’s head?”
“A flar biscuit the size of a cat’s head.” He looks back and forth between us. “I try to give him a little extra, if we got it. It’s the thing to do when someone’s watching over you.” The barkeep looks back and forth between us at the table. His roving glance makes a third stop, and then he heads back to his place behind the bar. I follow his last glance and I’m startled to see that the other patron has come over and is listening intently to our conversation. Locking eyes with him for a long moment, he continues to stare, saying nothing. I turn my attention back to my comparison across the table. I sit in silence. My dinner companion continues to clean his plate and his face. I contemplate this chord of superstitious belief, resistance to demystification or progress. I look forward to getting to Charleston and returning to the modern world.
Before I complete my thought, it seems, I glimpse out the front window and see parts of two grey mules. The door opens silently, revealing a tall thin figure backlit by the rising moon. The temperature in the room drops noticeably. The figure moves through the doorway. The bulletin board of tax and laundry services and the display table of t-shirts and shot glasses seems to recede, and he approaches the bar. He carefully leans an antique long rifle against the bar and then deftly withdraws a large Bowie knife from its sheath. And then tossing it lightly in the air, he catches it, changing his hand position, and then drives it into the wooden bar.
The barkeep, eyes turned down, attends him almost reverently. In a voice like a January blizzard, the figure says, “Cat’s head and gravy.” There was a moment of silence. And then, “’shine.” The barkeep pours him a mason jar of moonshine from the jug under the bar and then retreats to the stove to prepare the order. For a timeless moment, the figure stands – almost seeming to float – in front of the bar. The room is silent except for the sound of the barkeep scooping ingredients and scraping the skillet.
I stare in my unbelief until finally the figure turns his head and looks directly at me, with eyes like two red-hot embers. His eyebrows and beard seem to writhe or radiate as though alive, while the weary head and body behind them seem weighed down, wracked with the pain of the ages. Instantly, I avert my eyes. Fear and reverence rumble over me like the preamble of a mountain thunderstorm. As my mind clears I see the sweet, proud faces of Rico and Esma Esteban. I feel the conviction that when I reach Charleston tonight, I will do so in the company of the host of good mountain people.