My husband is reading Lee Maynard's book, Screaming with the Cannibals. He keeps trying to tell me about the funny parts, and I keep saying, "don't tell me! I want to read it when you're finished."
I read Maynard's first book, Crum, last summer after resisting it for years. Why? Because of its notorious reputation. But last July we found ourselves less than five miles from Crum, WV, the scene of the novel. I had recently attended a workshop by the author so I was intrigued. We made the detour to visit.
Here is what I wrote last July about that experience:
Yesterday's storytelling was an unexpected adventure. The gig was at one of the state forests, to tell stories to the Wayne County 4-H camp. The forest, named Cabwaylingo because it borders the counties of Cabell, Wayne, Lincoln and Mingo, is situated in a very remote area, deep in the coalfields region of southern West Virginia.
My husband picked me up at work at 3 pm and we took the route recommended by the park superintendent--west on the interstate to the Ohio/Kentucky/West Virginia line, then south on the Tolsia Highway. It was good road, but boring. Lots of coal trains on the tracks, coal trucks, coal tipples, and little else to see.
When I looked at the map, I saw that if we passed our destination by a few miles, we would get to Crum, WV. Now for those of you not familiar with this state, Crum is the home of author Lee Maynard, who wrote his book "Crum" based on his hometown. It's not a flattering book, to put it nicely and has been a source of anger, admiration, embarrassment, glee and all sorts of other emotions since its publication. WVU Press re-released it a few years ago, reigniting the fire of controversy.
I had to see that place. I had not yet read the book, because its reputation as "gritty" kept me a little shy. But I had been to several workshops by Maynard and found him interesting, thought-provoking and owner of a wild sense of humor. I had to see the town that inspired his writing and so much controversy.
I saw it--and it's not much to see. A small, dying coal town almost choked out in the rampant growth of underbrush, abandoned buildings and junk cars. The new highway sort of bypasses it, with the railroad tracks creating a high barrier between the town and the highway. We wondered where people bought gas, because we'd seen only one station miles back near Huntington, and there was nothing in Crum, only a tiny grocery store and a pizza place.
We stopped in the pizza place--a nice little restaurant with games that is probably the hub of the town in the evenings. I did not have a camera with me, and I was so sorry for that. To visit this place was a like a trip back in time. I came away understanding very well why Mr. Maynard had to leave--it was not a place to inspire anything but a desire to get away. Isolated, dependent on the coal industry, troubled by low income and lack of opportunity, I would bet that most kids leave as soon as they find way.
The storytelling was a hoot. The 70 kids and counselors were great listeners. I found quickly that ghost stories were what they wanted, so that's what we did, along with a few ballads. The extension agent leading the camp, Carl Markham, is a born storyteller. I'd heard him tell several years back at an open mke session and he was a natural, but he doesn't pursue it. A shame, and a loss to storytelling. Think Jerry Clower and you have Carl.
We decided to take a different route home. The map showed the road through the park leading to a four-lane highway that was a pretty direct route for us. We figured the tiny line on the map probably indicated a twisty country road, but that was okay. It was 8:30, still light, and we would get to the 4-lane before full dark. Oh, how we can deceive ourselves!
Never before have I traveled a road like that, and I have done a lot of driving. Twisty it was and narrow, but traveled by huge coal trucks anyhow. They flew along that road, usually crossing the center line--and there were no shoulders, only steep dropoffs to the bordering creek. Lots of one-lane bridges, too, old, old bridges, some with loose metal plates laid over streel joists. One new bridge signaled that perhaps others would be replaced, but for now those bridges are something to experience.
But it was the tunnels that amazed us. The first was an arched, one-lane, and carved out of rock. You could look up and see the rock above; beautiful can't describe it. The second tunnel we reached just at dark. (We later learned that this tunnel is called The Dingess Tunnel). The trip seemed much longer than the map indicated, and we thought we must be near the four lane highway because of the road noise we could hear.
As we approached the tunnel, we found the source of the noise--two big coal trucks came roaring through the one lane opening. We looked up and saw a house built on top of the tunnel. Far, far, far away we could see other headlights, and thought that was someone waiting their turn at the other end of the tunnel. Since the trucks had come through from the opposite direction, we thought it must be out turn next. So we drove in---and drove and drove and drove.
This tunnel was a brick arch, with cubbyholes in the sides for walkers who might get trapped in there with cars coming, I suppose. Or perhaps it had been an old railroad tunnel. Water dripped on the car from the bricks above, and we realized that the roar we heard was a train passing right over our heads. The headlights at the other end seemed to be moving closer, an then it dawned on us--he had been in the tunnel when we entered it!
The tunnel was long--about a mile, we learned later. We realized, too late, that the local rule must be if you saw lights in the tunnel, you had to wait. We didn't know the other vehicle was in the tunnel because never in our wildest thoughts had we considered the tunnel being so long. We met the other car, and stopped. There was no room to pass, we were a long way in, and there was nowhere to go.
"Get out and tell him we're not from here," I told my husband. He looked at me. This was coal country, and folks can be a little touchy down there.
"Ask him to back up. I think we're further in than he is."
My husband--what a guy--got out and walked to the other car. The driver thought maybe we should back up, but finally agreed to do it. Well, I'm not sure who was further in--he backed a long, long way. At the other end were two other vehicles waiting to enter, and I was afraid to look at the drivers. Probably thought we were fools. We did have a second to thank the other driver and then got out of there.
At long last we came to a crossroads, and a little town proclaimed on the sign to be Lenore. Lenore? That wasn't on my map! We stopped at the only store in town, and asked how to get to the four-lane. We weren't far away, as it happened. Puzzled by this unexpected town, I looked at the map again. We'd missed a turn, and traveled at least 30 miles out of our way! No wonder the trip seemed so long.
As we reached the highway at last, my husband remarked, "Well, had we gone the right way, we'd never have seen those tunnels. I'd do it again." And so would I--but next time it will be in daylight, I'll have a camera, and we'll know the rules of the tunnel.
I read Maynard's first book, Crum, last summer after resisting it for years. Why? Because of its notorious reputation. But last July we found ourselves less than five miles from Crum, WV, the scene of the novel. I had recently attended a workshop by the author so I was intrigued. We made the detour to visit.
Here is what I wrote last July about that experience:
Yesterday's storytelling was an unexpected adventure. The gig was at one of the state forests, to tell stories to the Wayne County 4-H camp. The forest, named Cabwaylingo because it borders the counties of Cabell, Wayne, Lincoln and Mingo, is situated in a very remote area, deep in the coalfields region of southern West Virginia.
My husband picked me up at work at 3 pm and we took the route recommended by the park superintendent--west on the interstate to the Ohio/Kentucky/West Virginia line, then south on the Tolsia Highway. It was good road, but boring. Lots of coal trains on the tracks, coal trucks, coal tipples, and little else to see.
When I looked at the map, I saw that if we passed our destination by a few miles, we would get to Crum, WV. Now for those of you not familiar with this state, Crum is the home of author Lee Maynard, who wrote his book "Crum" based on his hometown. It's not a flattering book, to put it nicely and has been a source of anger, admiration, embarrassment, glee and all sorts of other emotions since its publication. WVU Press re-released it a few years ago, reigniting the fire of controversy.
I had to see that place. I had not yet read the book, because its reputation as "gritty" kept me a little shy. But I had been to several workshops by Maynard and found him interesting, thought-provoking and owner of a wild sense of humor. I had to see the town that inspired his writing and so much controversy.
I saw it--and it's not much to see. A small, dying coal town almost choked out in the rampant growth of underbrush, abandoned buildings and junk cars. The new highway sort of bypasses it, with the railroad tracks creating a high barrier between the town and the highway. We wondered where people bought gas, because we'd seen only one station miles back near Huntington, and there was nothing in Crum, only a tiny grocery store and a pizza place.
We stopped in the pizza place--a nice little restaurant with games that is probably the hub of the town in the evenings. I did not have a camera with me, and I was so sorry for that. To visit this place was a like a trip back in time. I came away understanding very well why Mr. Maynard had to leave--it was not a place to inspire anything but a desire to get away. Isolated, dependent on the coal industry, troubled by low income and lack of opportunity, I would bet that most kids leave as soon as they find way.
The storytelling was a hoot. The 70 kids and counselors were great listeners. I found quickly that ghost stories were what they wanted, so that's what we did, along with a few ballads. The extension agent leading the camp, Carl Markham, is a born storyteller. I'd heard him tell several years back at an open mke session and he was a natural, but he doesn't pursue it. A shame, and a loss to storytelling. Think Jerry Clower and you have Carl.
We decided to take a different route home. The map showed the road through the park leading to a four-lane highway that was a pretty direct route for us. We figured the tiny line on the map probably indicated a twisty country road, but that was okay. It was 8:30, still light, and we would get to the 4-lane before full dark. Oh, how we can deceive ourselves!
Never before have I traveled a road like that, and I have done a lot of driving. Twisty it was and narrow, but traveled by huge coal trucks anyhow. They flew along that road, usually crossing the center line--and there were no shoulders, only steep dropoffs to the bordering creek. Lots of one-lane bridges, too, old, old bridges, some with loose metal plates laid over streel joists. One new bridge signaled that perhaps others would be replaced, but for now those bridges are something to experience.
But it was the tunnels that amazed us. The first was an arched, one-lane, and carved out of rock. You could look up and see the rock above; beautiful can't describe it. The second tunnel we reached just at dark. (We later learned that this tunnel is called The Dingess Tunnel). The trip seemed much longer than the map indicated, and we thought we must be near the four lane highway because of the road noise we could hear.
As we approached the tunnel, we found the source of the noise--two big coal trucks came roaring through the one lane opening. We looked up and saw a house built on top of the tunnel. Far, far, far away we could see other headlights, and thought that was someone waiting their turn at the other end of the tunnel. Since the trucks had come through from the opposite direction, we thought it must be out turn next. So we drove in---and drove and drove and drove.
This tunnel was a brick arch, with cubbyholes in the sides for walkers who might get trapped in there with cars coming, I suppose. Or perhaps it had been an old railroad tunnel. Water dripped on the car from the bricks above, and we realized that the roar we heard was a train passing right over our heads. The headlights at the other end seemed to be moving closer, an then it dawned on us--he had been in the tunnel when we entered it!
The tunnel was long--about a mile, we learned later. We realized, too late, that the local rule must be if you saw lights in the tunnel, you had to wait. We didn't know the other vehicle was in the tunnel because never in our wildest thoughts had we considered the tunnel being so long. We met the other car, and stopped. There was no room to pass, we were a long way in, and there was nowhere to go.
"Get out and tell him we're not from here," I told my husband. He looked at me. This was coal country, and folks can be a little touchy down there.
"Ask him to back up. I think we're further in than he is."
My husband--what a guy--got out and walked to the other car. The driver thought maybe we should back up, but finally agreed to do it. Well, I'm not sure who was further in--he backed a long, long way. At the other end were two other vehicles waiting to enter, and I was afraid to look at the drivers. Probably thought we were fools. We did have a second to thank the other driver and then got out of there.
At long last we came to a crossroads, and a little town proclaimed on the sign to be Lenore. Lenore? That wasn't on my map! We stopped at the only store in town, and asked how to get to the four-lane. We weren't far away, as it happened. Puzzled by this unexpected town, I looked at the map again. We'd missed a turn, and traveled at least 30 miles out of our way! No wonder the trip seemed so long.
As we reached the highway at last, my husband remarked, "Well, had we gone the right way, we'd never have seen those tunnels. I'd do it again." And so would I--but next time it will be in daylight, I'll have a camera, and we'll know the rules of the tunnel.
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