Now What?
An Appalachian View From Resume Speed, West Virginia Population:2 Old People and 2 Cats
by
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THE WASHING MACHINE
Every book must have a beginning. Since this is about country stories, the first story should be about one of the most kind and lovable men of our country village. The Year was approximately 1936 when he was near middle-age. He owned a small general store and was also the Postmaster. His store was located at a three-way intersection of dirt roads. Since my Friend was such an affable person, his store was a favorite meeting place for stick whittlers, liars, knife traders, tobbaco chewers, and such. A few could be found there during most business days, but the happiest times were after the evening meal onward to ten o’clock at night. It was at those times that much laughter filled the air.
The scene was almost always the same. A corner near the front entrance contained the Post Office. It was partially separated from the remainder of the store by a tall cabinet containing a little window with bars and a front containing rows of individual brass letter boxes secured by inset combination locks. A row of counter-tops extended the length of the store on two sides with a four foot walkway behind each.
An assortment of merchandise filled shelves from the floor to the ceiling along the walls behind the sales counters. A coal-fired pot-bellied Burnside Stove sat upon four sturdy iron legs in the middle of the floor. A square metal box with sides eight inches high filled with ashes was conveniently placed near the stove as a receptacle for air-delivered tobacco juice. Two
kerosene lamps, which produced dim yellowish light, dangled
from chains fastened to the ceiling. A few straight-back wooden chairs to accommodate customers were scattered about . Nail kegs provided additional seats as well as platforms for several checker-boards, the colored squares of which were almost obliterated from many years of constant use.
There were fewer night-time visitors at the store during summer months when most of the farm patrons worked late hours in their fields. It was during winter months when there was not much to do on farms, there was a jovial gathering six nights per week. Although the Merchant, himself, lived on a small farm, he did little of an agricultural nature besides pasturing a milk cow and raising a small garden. It is easy to understand that most of his time was required to operate the store and Post Office. For that reason, he had no urge to be in a hurry.
He did not own a truck. It was customary for traveling salesmen to visit their own customers on a weekly basis, so all the store owner needed to do to order new supplies was to wait for salesmen to arrive. Since my Friend enjoyed a lively conversation and was so friendly, he was a joy to visit unless you were a salesman in a hurry with a schedule to keep. The Merchant dearly loved to tease the salesmen and to keep them guessing if they were going to get an order or not. For them, that was very frustrating. Being generous beyond belief, he seldom sent a salesman away empty handed.
This story is about a particular salesman. It was the era when Maytag Corporation began selling gasoline powered washing machines. Very few of any Brand had arrived in our Community. That salesman must have assumed that he had a very good prospect with this Merchant, so with very little formality, he launched hastily into his presentation. The Merchant allowed him to work himself into a goodly amount of lather when he suddenly cut him off in mid-sentence.
"Young man. Don’t need one. Got one," he said.
Having assumed that he had no competition in that section of the State, the salesman was incredulous.
"Indeed, Sir, you you you have, Sir?" he stammered. "What Brand do you have?
"A Campbell," replied the Merchant with airy nonchalance.
"A Campbell!" exclaimed the salesman with disbelief. "Are you sure? I’ve never heard of a Campbell."
"Well, that’s exactly what I’ve got," said the Merchant with a matter-of-fact manner.
"I’d certainly like to see it. Where is it?" asked the salesman.
"If you are all that determined to see it, you can walk to my house yonder on the hill, knock on the door, and my Wife will show it to you," replied the Merchant.
This story reached a sudden climax when the Merchant’s Wife answered the door. The salesman introduced himself and said, "I sell washing machines. Your Husband said that you have a Campbell washing machine and I want to see it."
The Merchant’s Wife, being accustomed to her Husband’s practical jokes simply roared with laughter.
"Young man," she exclaimed. "You are looking at it! Did my Husband not explain that my name was Campbell before we were married?"
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About the Book
As a boy living on a farm atop Little Sewell Mountain seven miles Southeast of Rainelle in Western Greenbrier County, West Virginia beginning June 1929 when my Father bought our farm, entertainment consisted almost entirely of what One created for Himself. Those were difficult times just prior to The Great Depression. Rural life-styles were simple during that period of economic decline with the chances of survival by farm folk almost completely dependent upon the soil. Hard times yes, but not entirely unpleasant. My Family believed that what didn’t kill you outright made you tough. We had no alternate choice. If One wished to survive, get on with living and time will take care of itself.
Much of my pleasure came from listening to the community’s old folk telling stories, many of which were true, many exaggerated but told to be absolutely true. Lets say that some were enhanced a bit. Planting and harvesting by hand was hard labor, but it became much easier when neighbors helped neighbors. Thus we became good friends spending much time together. We walked from farm to farm to reach the work-site of the day and often visited each other during the early night time hours. It was always a treat for me when the story telling would begin. I would sit on the floor with my back resting against a wall and listen attentively to many wonderful tales.
I have always thought that for a person to be a good story teller, One has to also be a good listener. An old truism admonishes that One cannot learn anything while talking. The very fact that I am attempting to write an interesting book about the past is that I was encouraged to do so by my two children and my two granddaughters, all of whom were such good listeners when I told them bed-time stories during their childhoods.
When I visit modern Friends, I still enjoy exchanging stories. Many times, someone suggests that a book should be written to preserve them. It is with that in mind that I submit the following stories. Some are ones worn threadbare by the ‘old-timers’ of my youth and many relate to personal experiences of my eighty years of life including time spent during as well as subsequent to a career as a soldier. I hope you, the Reader, enjoy all of them.
About the Author
James E. Martin was born at Brownsville, Pennsylvania on November 29, 1921, the son of Scottish Immigrants. He was orphaned at the age of two. He grew to adulthood on a farm owned by Foster Parents in Greenbrier County, West Virginia. He was drafted into the World War II U.S. Army shortly after graduating from High School. His military career spanned most of World War II, all of the Korean War, and most of the Viet Nam War. He began as an artilleryman, but spent the final thirteen years in the Counter Intelligence Corps. After retiring, he earned a Bachelor of Arts Degree from Morris Harvey College, Charleston, West Virginia.
James resides at Caldwell, West Virginia with Betty Jean, his high school sweetheart and Wife of fifty-six years. They have one Son and one Daughter and two Granddaughters.
In retirement, he spends his time gardening, mountain hiking, singing in a quartet, writing stories, and being a volunteer reader to elementary school children. He has published two Children's Books and a book of poetry. He is a member of the West Virginia Writers Association and also The Greenbrier Artists, a water- color group.