It’s a New Year, and we’re starting with a new guest contribution from West Virginia author, Kathleen M. Jacobs. In this piece, Jacobs reflects on things that are hard to put your finger on but make rural living worthwhile. Thanks, Kathy, for helping Literacy In Place start the New Year off right!
When I was an impressionable eleven-year-old, my parents moved from St. Louis to an unincorporated town in rural West Virginia. In time, I would fall as deeply in love with the treasures from its forest floor, its crystal clear streams, and its soaring mountains begging to be climbed as much, if not more, than I fell in love with one particular neighbor, whose reticence and Beatles-like, bowl-cut hairstyle tempted me. But that’s a story for another time. And while that young man and I drifted apart, my love for not only rural living but rural WV living intensified.
What I remember with vivid detail was my mother’s dissatisfaction (although it went far beyond dissatisfied) with rural living, especially rural life in WV. I didn’t understand it then, and I still don’t fully understand it, but the murky waters are beginning to clear. My mother was incredibly opinionated (the apple doesn’t fall far). She was relentless in her insistence on the truth, and uncompromising in her convictions. Sound familiar? If so, then you have arrived at the core of rural living, regardless of state. And with that realization, my lack of understanding began its turn. Because, as I have lived most of my life in WV, I have embraced most fiercely not only the state, but rural WV’s indestructible identifiers: a resilient character, deeply-entrenched opinions, an unquenchable search for the truth (even as they may knowingly or not refuse to, at times, live it), and their stronghold on their convictions. And I chuckle just a bit at how each one of those identifiers could be attached to my mother, as well. I just wish she had known of it and embraced it.
I so wish that my mother had corrected her preconceived notions of rural, WV living instead of focusing on the physical distance from siblings and relatives and friends and the lack of opportunities offered in more populous areas of the country and the state’s geographical challenges. I’m certain that being physically separated from friends and family took its toll on her emotional health, as I too have always been physically distanced from family, since my marriage nearly fifty years ago to a “native” West Virginian. It’s never easy being separated from family and friends, even though time finds a way to do just that all on its own, without much help for us. (Anyone born and raised in WV and those of us who are so-called transplants will fully understand the addition of quotation marks around the word native and the fact that regardless of how long I have lived in the Mountain State, I will never be considered a West Virginian, by those who were born in the state. And even in knowing that truth, I am more determined every day to insist upon being called a West Virginian. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that the stronghold that West Virginians continue to cling tight to has also become a hindrance to the state’s progress. Again, another story for another day.)
My memories are vivid of my mother humming “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” particularly when she baked a fruit pie. I recall walking softly by, fearful that if I interrupted her she would stop humming a tune that I found nearly intoxicating. She never missed an episode of “The Andy Griffith Show,” whose lessons remain impactful, even as I watch the re-runs, particularly “Howard’s New Life,” where he makes the decision to move from Mayberry to the Caribbean, only to discover that the grass is not always greener on the other side. Too, she loved pepperoni rolls; after all, her father was a baker. And I often spotted her in our backyard, bending to take a whiff from the honeysuckle bush and, sometimes, tasting its sweet nectar. And often, she would simply stand at her bedroom window and gaze at the soaring mountains, opening the window a bit to what I hoped was the sounds from the creek that ran across the road. It became a part of my day to stop in our foyer and gaze upon a decoupage plate that my mother had made, that held nature’s treasures: a honeycomb, walnut shells, bird feathers, acorns, and a lone yellow wing from a butterfly. Again, I gazed upon these wonders when my mother was not close by, worried that they might disappear if she found me wondering at their mysterious creation and simple beauty.
It is those very qualities that I inherited from my mother that make the decision to leave so difficult. Being in one’s element holds tremendous power. And while I keep weighing that decision (regardless of the effort expended), the scales are never balanced. Because of the uncertainty that accompanies that decision, I often return it to its familiar drawer in my desk and say, “I’ll get back to you on that—soon.” I imagine that it knows that it is safe.
And while rural living certainty has its share of challenges, I know all too well that we are not alone and perhaps that is why I continue to stay the course. I wonder too had my mother lived to see my work published if my words could have held the power to convince her to leave behind those preconceived notions of rural living, take a deep breath, and come to the realization that she was, indeed, at her core, rural in her thinking and in her actions. I’m in awe of what she could have accomplished, what each of us can accomplish if we engage rather than reject the challenges that come with rural living. Because those challenges also provide refreshment and an awakening to all that rural living has to offer. In searching for a few words to describe this compendium of possibilities, I recall a line from the movie Miracle on 34th Street when the attorney who is defending Santa Claus attempts to impress upon his very straightforward, no nonsense girlfriend that she shouldn’t overlook the “lovely intangibles . . . they’re the only things that are worthwhile.”
A few years ago, my spiritual advisor commented, “Anyone can make it in NYC. Try making it in rural WV.” Maybe each of those intangibles that my mother chose not to embrace made their way to me and opened my eyes wide to make certain that I not only didn’t miss them but that I found a way to highlight them through the use of tossing about those twenty-six letters of the alphabet and watching them—like magic—fall into place. And by passing that passion on to my high school and college students, it became certain that words are not only powerful, but in their power they invite us to not so much change as to consider what we might not have yet considered. And that elixir feeds our creative hunger and just might be reason enough to keep returning a decision that I have not yet confronted to its rightful place, keeping it safe, until I bring it back out into the light of day for another look, knowing all too well that it just might be quite comfortable in its own element. And I think that is the very nature of rural living. It invites us to consider and re-evaluate and maybe even change. Each is another “lovely intangible” that keeps us grounded, keeps us focused, and encourages us to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Kathleen M. Jacobs holds an M. A. in Humanistic Studies. She divides her time between the Appalachian region and NYC. She writes books for young readers. She can be reached at www.kathleenmjacobs.com.
Dr. Parton's Literacy In Place 