Marshall University Marshall Digital Scholar Theses, Dissertations and Capstones 1-1-2003 East 52 : A Multi-Genre Work Chronicling One Man’s Final Journey M. Joseph Jarrett Follow this and additional works at: http://mds.marshall.edu/etd Part of the Nonfiction Commons Recommended Citation Jarrett, M. Joseph, "East 52 : A Multi-Genre Work Chronicling One Man’s Final Journey" (2003). Theses, Dissertations and Capstones. Paper 664. This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by Marshall Digital Scholar. It has been accepted for inclusion in Theses, Dissertations and Capstones by an authorized administrator of Marshall Digital Scholar. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Creed County EEAASSTT 5522 A Multi-Genre Work Chronicling One Man’s Final Journey by M. Joseph Jarrett Thesis Marshall University Graduate College M.A. English Dr. John Young Dr. Mary Moore Mr. Art Stringer Huntington WV 2003 Marshall University ABSTRACT East 52: A Multi-Genre Work Chronicling One Man’s Final Journey M Joseph Jarrett Middle-aged Michael Coogan heads east on US Route 52 through the area known as "Creed County" (a combination of Mercer Co, WV and Bland Co, VA), returning home to "bury" his father, although the man has been in the ground for several months. After a near fatal accident, Michael sees historical markers often revealing two stories: the typical history and the "unknown" history—a description of a fateful event that occurred in or near the locale described. Upon learning of these second histories, he visualizes the events surrounding the unknown facts related to him on the "reverse" markers. These stories trigger memories of key events in his life. As he continues his trip down East 52 and Memory Lane (his and Creed County’s) progresses, he begins to realize just how awfully irreconcilable life is—that is, until he meets Old John (his Hitchhiker)…and the little deaf-mute girl (his Hope). iii This collection is for Shirley Shuman and Jim Walker, my mentors, who taught how to love to read and read to love, and for Joseph Jarrett and Sue Jarrett, my parents, who taught me nearly everything else. This collection would not have been put together without the help of three people to whom I am greatly indebted: Dr. John Young, Dr. Mary Moore, and Mr. Art Stringer. Thank you for your willingness to oversee this project and your faith in me to complete it. iv Contents 1. Prologue 01 2. Entering Creed County 03 3. Interlude 07 4. The Cast of Tommy Bracken 10 5. Interlude 22 6. Little Mikey’s Cats 24 7. Interlude 35 8. The Edge of Sanity 39 9. Interlude 55 10. Opening Up 57 11. Interlude 81 12. Pink Belly 83 13. Interlude 101 14. Rebeccah of the Garden 112 15. Interlude 163 16. Sorry, Dad, I’m Queer 167 17. Interlude 191 18. [Lost in Translation] 194 19. Interlude 207 20. Leaving Creed County 213 21. Epilogue 221 Source credits 222 Curriculum Vita 223 v 1 Prologue East Fifty-two. The old interstate highway cuts circuitously across the country, passing through hundreds—thousands—of villages, hamlets, burgs, towns, cities, and budding metropolises. Nearly two- thirds of the horizon-bound black top retains the archaic two-lane template divided by the nearly unending twin yellow guidelines. The remaining third is a conglomeration of four-lane freeway and gravel, dirt, and mud-rutted drives no wider than a single vehicle. Once the highway hits the Ohio-West Virginia border, however, the pitted and potted black top loses its longed-for horizon amidst an endless passage carved by rolling foothills, low mountains, high- ceilinged forests (turned from multi-hued greens to high golds, oranges, and reds this time of year), rough rivers and hazardous streams, and, in more recent years, rock quarries, strip mines, and coal fields. For nearly one thousand miles the interstate bears the form of the lazy black snake (known in these parts as simply racer), meandering its serpentine way over, under, and through mountains and valleys, slicing tighter and tighter switchbacks as it goes; stretching itself out over short distances through back hollows and open fields of timothy and blue bonnet as if malaised for a moment; then picking up its land-over curvage passing through dark oak, birch, dogwood, and pine forests. Eventually the old interstate bisects its way through Mercer County, West Virginia, and Bland County, Virginia. This area, particularly rich in ore—like most of Southern West Virginia—as well as lore, is still known to most of the inhabitants as Creed County, a name adopted commonly amongst the people well before the War Between the States. The name never stuck on paper, but it traveled down in the oral tradition all the way from the first inhabitants, the Scots-Irish Puritans, and finds itself as old as the high road that passes through it. It is above this less traveled road that we find ourselves, ascending the updrafts, descending the downdrafts, rising and falling, circling lower, then higher, then lower again. Like the sparrow hawk 2 who screeches this clime as home, we watch below for slow-moving ground creatures which we may call prey. But unlike the hawk we do not seek to feast—to fill our starving bellies—nor do we seek to sport—to dig our talons in, to rip feather or fur from flesh. No, we are here only to observe. And, perhaps, take in and digest. Not to calm the fever in our stomach, however. We will do so to quench the hunger of our hearts and minds. Because, unlike the hawk, we are here not for what happens now and later, but for what has already happened. We are here for one purpose and one purpose only: we want to see/hear/feel/taste/smell a story. Ah, there, just cresting that low mountain. The glint of old steel flashes in our collective eye, tempting us with its ability to fulfill our needs, wants, and desires. Yes, this is the prey we seek. It is our time to follow—to watch and learn, to learn and watch, circling above—but not too far above. We must allow ourselves to take in as much as possible, to be open to all the possibilities. We must acknowledge that the story we are about to engage has already been written and we can do nothing to change the way in which it is revealed. As always, we will want to do something—to act in some fashion, to stop the acceleration of unknown passages, confusing situations, and irreconcilable experiences. Even if they look at us…oh, even then, even when they deserve to lose an eye or have ragged scars drawn down the sides of their faces. But, as we know already, we must constrain ourselves and only watch. This is our nature. To simply watch and wait. We’ve done so for many generations, and will continue to do so. Watch—from the air, from the rooftops, from the treetops, the cartops, the boxtops, the four tops—even from the crypt-tops, our favorite position from which to espy. So, are you ready, my fellow watchers and waiters? Are you ready to position yourselves in quiet observation? Prepare yourselves, for now is the time we descend... 3 ENTERING CREED COUNTY A bruised and rusted brown Ford Tempo followed the winding road down Foreman’s Mount. The driver, applying and letting go the brakes before and after each sharp turn, appeared completely focused on his driving, even allowing for the systematic crossing of the double yellow line as prefix for each switchback. Yes, Michael Coogan appeared focused, but despite those appearances—the calibrated look in his coral-tinged eyes, the jut of chin, the flexed muscles of his wrists and hands—his thoughts ran to other things. A closer inspection of his face would show a web-work of worry lines, a teeth-grinding jaw movement, and a dilation of pupils signifying a concern with what was in his head, not what was in front of it. For these reasons—whatever the source of focus be—Mike found himself shocked back to reality when the first gust of wind and spray of water hit the side of his car. He first felt the tires slip and the car rock to the centerline. Regaining control, Mike shook his head and glanced upward through the windshield. He had to check his watch before his brain could decipher the darkening gloom of the sky. 3:15. The middle of the afternoon. Mike looked up again, realizing he was in for something big. Instinctively, Mike’s right foot moved from its steady position above the accelerator pad to nudge the brakes again. He glanced skyward again, noting the disturbing purple tint to the roiling cumulo-nimbus clouds, the stomach turning force in which they spread over each other, bumping, impaling, enveloping. Absconding with the ambered light of day until only a pallid umbra remained over the land. He hummed a few bars, and then, realizing he himself was his only audience, he decided it was okay to sing. So he sang: “I don’t care if it rains or freezes ’long as I got my plastic 4 Jesus sittin’ on the dashboard of my car.” He reached across the steering wheel and patted his blue plastic baby Jesus cradled in the arms of the snow-white plastic Madonna. He smiled and continued the verse, adjusting the car every now and then to the to the gusts of wind that grew increasingly forceful with each of their doldrums.