Fairmont State University - Mound Yearbook (Fairmont, WV)

Page 9 text:

Memories make West Virginia ' West Virginia ' I remember when I was only three and would walk down a little narrow path that linked our home in Clarksburg to a grape arbor and raspberry orchard out back. In the summer when the path was dusty, I ' d stomp in the dry earth and send small clouds of dust into the air only inches from the ground. Some of the dust would rest on the tops of my feet and on my legs. The dirt felt so good: I ' d wiggle my toes to allow the cold earth to seep up between them. The sensation made me smile then. Upon reaching the.arbor and orchard, I ' d stuff as many grapes and raspberries into my little mouth as I possibly could. They tasted so good: I ' d eat until I didn ' t think I ' d ever eat again. And, then, with stained purple hands and fingers, dusty brown legs and feet, and a protruding aching belly, I ' d trudge back up the path to the house. After I got near our home, I ' d hide from my mother because I had eaten her fruits for jellies and had gotten terribly dirty. Somehow, she never seemed to mind when she found me. Now I realize it was a very natural thing and she never punished me for living and learning those natural things. She ' s a West Virginia lady. Now whenever I go home in the summer, I usually take a few private moments to walk barefoot down that quiet dusty path. I even smile when I stop to cool my toes in the dirt. The arbor and orchard are gone now, but my memories still linger. I close my eyes on the sites of those precious thoughts and I can still taste their splendor. I was only twenty-two when I remembered a living experience from the age of three. OPPOSITE PAGE: A Fairmont family enjoys the summer Bluegrass festival. TOP: Garden Lanes ' residents use this path as a shortcut. BELOW: Student Center. RIGHT: Irises.

Page 8 text:

! m j k » V 3S- is A«tei?

Page 10 text:

Being a ' mountaineer ' has its heartaches, too When I was a little girl, my dad would pile us in the car every Sunday and we would take a drive — nowhere in particular, just a drive. Somehow we would always wind up passing through the small coal camps that dot southern West Virginia. Places like Bud, Herndon, Ameagle and Helen were as much a part of my life as the hills that overshadowed them. Dingy, grimy, run- down and at times ghostly, they spoke of the rough and sometimes dangerous life around mines. My dad is a coal miner — not a radical who jumps at the chance to strike — a man who just wants to work and provide for his family. He goes down into that dark hole five days a week so we can eat. When I was little, I never really thought too much about it. I never realized the dangers he faced, not until the day the phone rang and my mother cried. It was one of the things a miner always dreads — a slate fall. And, my father was hurt. Life goes on and so do the mines. My father ' s still working there, although he doesn ' t walk as straight as he used to, and he doesn ' t breathe too well. I ' m glad he made a way so that neither my brother nor I would have to worry about the mines. I only wish he didn ' t have to. 1uUL iAoJuaA