I spent the night at The Mineral Springs Motel in Webster Springs, West Virginia. That’s a lot of springs for a little coal mining town, I’ll ask Randy about that. Randy owns The Mineral Springs Motel. He’s sixty-nine, former mayor of Webster Springs, former member of West Virginia House of Delegates, former West Virginia state senator and the first openly gay elected official in West Virginia. He recently had surgery for brain cancer and wants to sell the place, $750,000.00 (two acres, mature trees, well-maintained lawns and flower gardens, a stream running through it, masonry building with a metal roof and twenty-three rooms not updated since the wood paneling was installed in the seventies). He’s willing to negotiate.
I had breakfast at Vicki’s Cafe. The Special was two eggs, sausage, toast and coffee for $4.75. With potatoes and a buttermilk biscuit, my breakfast was $6.31 plus tip. The coffee was weak, maybe that’s their cost savings. My no-humor waitress was in her forties with sagging jeans and tattoos on her hands and arms. I tipped her well, the girl needs pants.
While I was eating, three motorcycle guys from North Carolina sat down at the next table. I said hello and got curt nods in return. Sixties, bearded, baseball hats hiding their pates, black leather jackets with American flag patches and a goose stitched on the back, they were members of the Wild Geese MC. I’m sorry, but an embroidered goose just doesn’t have the same gravitas as “Hells Angels” or “Hells Outcasts “ or “Banditos.” Just sayin’.
Walking to Vicki’s for breakfast, I ran into James and George. Nine o’clock in the morning they were sitting by the creek and each had a tumbler of white wine. Last night, I sat with them and drank that same wine. They’re a strange couple. James hates the smell of cigarette smoke, George smokes and so they sit together ten feet apart. James seems physically quite fit, George had a hip replaced and hobbles with a cane. George doesn’t talk, James won’t stop talking. They seem to drink well together.
James and George were born and raised in Webster Springs and had been living in Fort Lauderdale. James had been writing and editing for a variety of gay publications including a stint in the leather press (who knew?). When I arrived yesterday afternoon, he was wearing a Black History is American History t-shirt, which would seem to me bold in small-town anywhere, particularly small-town West Virginia.
West Virginia has a lot of poor people. They live in tiny clapboard houses with peeling paint and broken steps surrounded by stacks of firewood, junk vehicles and carefully manicured lawns. Or they live in ancient mobil homes, a haphazard wood porch nailed to the front that’s piled with broken furniture and trash bags surrounded by stacks of firewood, junk vehicles and carefully manicured lawns. Indoor plumbing seems unlikely. But here’s the question: if poverty is set in steep hardwood forest, clear trout streams and tiny well-maintained roads is it still poverty? The lawn thing is weird.
The town of Pritt Mountain is a bar. I stopped because of the LGBT banner hanging over the door. I sat at the bar next to Mark and Don and ordered a bottle of Bud. We were all hard of hearing. I yelled at Mark, “What’s the name of this town?” and he took my arm and led me to the jukebox so that we’d know what song was playing.
One of our two waitresses complained that eating raw broccoli gives her gas so bad she can’t breath. The other waitress has 25 grandchildren and one great-grand child. Her fifty-one year old son is having triple bypass surgery and she held him while he cried. She talked at great length about how nothing is more important than family.
