Weekends 2

I have had people say to me, "What is there to do in the mountains? What fun can there be living in the country? There's nothing to do!" I suppose fun is where you find it.

This past weekend started out with a visit to the replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial that was traveling through our area. We've been to the wall in Washington twice, and there are no words to describe the intensity of that experience. We didn't expect much of the replica, so we were surprised to see so many people walking its length and looking at the displays that travel it.

Ripley is a small town, so anything different will draw a crowd. But this was different. People came from all over to see the wall, to find names, to offer their respect to the lost soldiers listed on the black surface. We found the name of my husband's Marine buddy who was killed when he stepped on a land mine (a "Bouncing Betty")--William A. Ketchum, Jr. Only 19 years old, a bright boy who loved to read, Larry told me. Only days from going home.

We stayed for a while, then went on to dinner and home for wine in front of the fireplace--evenings are still cool in the mountains. We talked a long time as Larry remembered his friend and the year he spent in Vietnam.

Saturday morning we went back to town to have breakfast with friends at the Downtowner, our favorite breakfast restaurant. Larry and I went back to the Wall and were surprised again at the number of visitors. It does his heart good to see that. One man caught our eyes--he was dressed in the green fatigues of the Vietnam-era soldier, complete with helmet and boots. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, just looked at the displays intently. We walked away, and then Larry decided to go back and talk to the man. The guy was stand-offish at first; it was apparent that he'd come with a mission and he was fulfilling that--to pay honor to the dead by wearing his old uniform and remembering.

But he did talk--and talked and talked. Several young soldiers were there and they gathered around the two old vets to listen. I wish I could convey the depth of that experience, of those words. I could see it all in the man's eyes as he pulled MPC (military money in Vietnam) and Vietnamese money out of his pocket, along with his old drivers license and other documents. He'd kept it all, and he remembered it all.

We stayed with him for almost an hour, and when we left the young soldiers were still with him. Good boys, those. They knew, and they respected.

After coffee at Court Street Station, we couldn't decide where to go next. I wanted to go to an auction; Larry wanted to go to Richwood to the annual Ramp Festival. In the end, we did both. We checked out the auction, found nothing of interest, and headed off to Richwood.

For those who don't know about ramps, they are a potent wild onion that mountain people have been eating for years as a spring tonic. They're strong--so strong that you will reek for days if you eat even one ramp raw. Nowadays they're in demand in gourmet restaurants, and people have discovered how to tame the wildness of their odor. But here, they're still a spring treat to be hunted in the mountains right after the snow melts.

We got to Richwood just as the festival was winding down. They still had some ramps and other food left, and fed us for free! Ham, potatoes, ramps and sassafras tea. Nice folks there in Nicholas County, and we'll definitely go back next year. Richwood is the granddaddy of the ramp festivals, and what writer would not love a little town that has a low-ku contest (as opposed to haiku) as part of the celebration? It's what happens when a poet is mayor.

Sunday was a day of work for us, but it's the kind of work we love, digging gardens, putting down mulch, getting a few plants in the garden. We got out the lawn furniture now that it seems the snow really is over, and enjoyed dinner on the deck as we watched the sun set over the hills.

Nothing to do? More like too much to do, and every bit of it a memory to cherish.