As a video feature producer for a print newspaper, I never quite know if readers of the newspaper make it into the back sections  of the Charleston Gazette  website to find the videos I create, which sit atop the web versions of print stories. Hence, if you missed this one, or live in Xalapa, Mexico (where my imaginary Facebook self lives) and don’t read the Gazette, here’s a reminder that when you grow old you don’t need to grow un-funny. Or un-sweet. Below is a dollop of the companion story by my colleague, Julie Robinson. I thought a group interview with eight couples would be unwieldy. I was un-correct.

By Julie Robinson | Charleston Gazette | Feb. 11, 2012

CHARLESTON, W.Va. — Cupid’s aim was true when he targeted eight Charleston couples who will renew their wedding vows Tuesday on Valentine’s Day at Edgewood Summit.

Among them they represent 320 years in their current marriages. Some married young during World War II, others remarried later in life after a spouse’s death. One 40-year marriage is a second after both suffered through painful divorces.

They laughed and finished each other’s sentences as they shared the love stories they’d forged in good times and bad. For better, or for worse.

Here are their stories | Read On

Documents

So, you’ve got your court decisions that undermine the very foundations of a democratic society like Citizens United. Then, you’ve got court cases involving anus-fired bottle rockets and shocking revelations of what really goes on behind closed doors at sorority houses. Today, we take a step back from abyss of political/corporate jury-rigging by the henchmen of the one percent and instead read up on more troubling matters. Such as how blasting fireworks from your hindquarters can harm your fellow man. The following lawsuits were reported on in a Feb. 3, 2012 posting to The West Virginia Record by Chris Dickerson and Kyla Asbury. And, really, we can’t sum it up any better than they do in that lead sentence. We pass this report on not to make light of the genuine injuries suffered by the anal-bottle-rocket-startled Marshall ballplayer, but to stand in awe and regret we entirely missed out on this use of firecrackers when we were in college.

HUNTINGTON — Bottle rockets, a man’s anus and a fraternity party has resulted in a lawsuit.

A man is suing Alpha Tau Omega after he was injured at a frat party. Travis Hughes, another man at the party, was also named as a defendant in the suit. On May 1, 2011, at about 1:30 a.m., the fraternity was having a house party both Louis Helmberg III and Hughes were attending, according to a complaint filed Jan. 23 in Cabell Circuit Court.

Helmberg, who plays for Marshall University’s baseball team, claims Hughes became intoxicated and attempted to “shoot bottle rockets out of his anus on the ATO deck.” When doing so, Hughes startled Helmberg, who then jumped back and fell off of the deck of the fraternity house and was injured, according to the suit. He was lodged between the deck and an air conditioning unit. Helmberg claims there was no railing on the deck at the time of the incident… Helmberg, a catcher for the Thundering Herd, claims the deck never had a railing when it was installed and was approximately three to four feet high. The suit says the fraternity was negligent in failing to provide a safe deck and that Hughes was at fault for consuming alcohol “which leads to stupid and dangerous activities.” Helmberg is seeking compensatory damages with pre- and post-judgment interest. He said he fall caused him pain and suffering as well as medical expenses, lost earnings capacity and lost time from the baseball team ….

Being conscientious reporters, the scribes from the Record note that this is the second recent case involving Greek groups on Marshall’s campus. Sigma Sigma Sigma recently was sued over allegations of hazing and harassment by a sorority sister. Hazing is bad-bad-bad, but there has to be more than this, right? You might want to sit down before reading, if you’re of the fainting-couch sort:

On March 29, 2010, Sarah Frances Lyon pledged Tri-Sigma at Marshall University, according to a complaint filed Sept. 28 in Cabell Circuit Court.

Lyon claims on April 9, 2010, she met with a friend at the sorority house to go to a nail salon and when she arrived, she witnessed open beer cans, cases of unopened beer and other evidence of a party in multiple bedrooms. She claims she also witnessed multiple male Sigma Phi Epsilon Fraternity members sleeping in beds with the Tri-Sigma sorority girls.

]]> http://westvirginiaville.com/2012/02/of-anus-fired-bottle-rockets-and-shocking-sorority-houses/feed/ 0 http://westvirginiaville.com/2012/02/song-of-the-day-nicci-canadas-love/ http://westvirginiaville.com/2012/02/song-of-the-day-nicci-canadas-love/#comments Thu, 09 Feb 2012 15:09:49 +0000 admin http://westvirginiaville.com/?p=6022

SongoftheDay

Usually, when the West Side of Charleston, W.Va., makes the news it involves a gun. So, when Bob Loughery called me, representing a jazzy soul singer named Nicci Canada, who grew up on the West Side, I was glad to check her out. I like her sound and the musical inspirations she hopes to emulate and channel: Jill Scott, Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughn, Billie Holiday. Canada performs Saturday in Charleston with the Bob Thompson Unit.

Today’s Song of the Day, “Love,”  comes from her debut CD, “”Twenty Twelve,” whose title I imagine speaks to her hopes for busting out this year. (You can order the CD or download it song-by-song at CDbaby.com.)  Below is an excerpt from a profile I did on her for today’s Charleston Gazette in advance her appearance Saturday at the Love Art inaugural fundraiser for the Arts Council of Kanawha Valley.

West Side Native’s Got Soul

By Douglas Imbrogno | Charleston Gazette | Feb. 9, 2012

CHARLESTON, W.Va. — Nicci Canada came relatively late to the realization that in the spotlight was where she belonged.

“It didn’t cross my mind until I was, like, 28,” said Canada, who grew up on Charleston’s West Side.

A friend planted the seed after hearing her sing. “Nicci, I think you missed your calling. You should be singing,” Canada recalled the friend saying. “And I thought, ‘OK, I’ll do it.’”

She is speaking by phone from Charlotte, N.C., where she now lives and plots the ongoing development of her career. The 37-year-old’s first CD, “Twenty Twelve,” came out in August. She’ll showcase her jazzy, soulful voice this Saturday with the Bob Thompson Unit as part of Love Art, the inaugural fundraiser of the Arts Council of Kanawha Valley.

“I’m just excited to come home. I love West Virginia; I love my people. I’m a Mountaineer girl at heart — always have been, always will be.”

Hometown acquaintances not clued into her reinvention will know her as Shawna Nakia Reese, but Nicci is her longtime nickname while Canada is her husband’s name she took when she married. She grew up singing in the Greater Emmanuel Apostolic Faith Church in Charleston where “my first solo was in the kiddie choir,” she recalled. | Read On

←∞→

SongoftheDay

There are a plethora of things to do tonight in Charleston (which also gives us the momentary pleasure of using the word ‘plethora‘). Among them is the Carpenter Ants CD release show at The Empty Glass for their fifth recording, “Ants & Uncles.” I profiled the band and CD in a Thursday Charleston Gazette story and trooped out to band founder Michael Lipton’s house in Charleston’s East End to interview the Ants and record some video as they rehearsed.

Long-time, hometown bands often suffer a sort of overexposure ennui among locals. But the Ants are a great and fun band to hear, and the gospel-soul music they often channel is different from the usual fare one encounters in band set-lists. Plus, they are collectors and purveyors of lesser-known wonderful songs. The excerpt heard in the video above is the song “He Saved My Soul,” by Claude Jeter of the Swan Silvertones, a song Lipton came upon, learning later that the band was from West Virginia. Cool find. Cool band. For more samples of the CD, visit the Carpenter Ants website.

The Carpenter Ants in their element.

Here is an excerpt from my Gazette profile:

CHARLESTON, W.Va. — You can tell Carpenter Ants guitarist and vocalist Michael Lipton wants to get past the question quickly.

But it’s such a usual question to ask a band that you have to ask just to get it out of the way. Why the name?

“We were in Idaho with ‘Mountain Stage,’” he says, seated in the kitchen of his East End home as the smaller of his two dogs, Miga, hops up and down off his lap.

“I saw an advertisement — ‘Carpenter Ants’ with a slash through it. I’d never heard of a carpenter ant and said ‘That’d be a funny band name.’”

And so, inspired by a pest control ad, one of West Virginia’s longest running bands — and perhaps one of its only gospel-channeling, secular R&B and country funk ensembles — was born. The Carpenter Ants mark 25 years together this year and showcase an ambitiously produced fifth album, “Ants & Uncles,” in a CD release show at The Empty Glass at 10 p.m. Saturday.

“That’s it. Dumb story. Move on,” says Lipton.

Moving on, as the rest of the quartet filters into the house for a Wednesday rehearsal, there is the matter of labels and genres.

“We’ve gone through different phases,” Lipton says, as frontman Charlie Tee drops onto a kitchen chair. Drummer and vocalist Jupie Little and harmonizing bass player Ted Harrison pull up the rear.

“We were doing kind of R&B and country blues kind of stuff. Then we started getting into gospel, so we pretty much got immersed in it …” | READ ON

Readings

For most of us, when we spin off this mortal coil our obituary is the only encomium we’ll leave behind in testimony to the life we lived. So, live well, breed happy families and warm-hearted friends — and try to to leave behind an obit that says something other than “he went home to be with the Lord and have a Schlitz with Jesus.” (Actually, that would be a great obituary line).

As a collector of fine local obituaries (Happy Jack’s was the best!),  this one today for Francis Joseph Falbo leapt off the Charleston Gazette obit page. I say this not as a fellow Calabrian, the region in the instep of the boot of Italy where my father was born. I also say this not as a fellow spaghetti-eater and son-of-a-spaghetti eater. (Well, maybe a little).

But just like Happy Jack, I think it might have been a welcome thing to know this guy. Salt of the earth. Paisano to paisano. Farewell Francis Joseph Falbo and well-done. (And, no, the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ line never does get explained.)

CHARLESTON GAZETTE, Jan. 19, 2011:

The Last of the Mohicans. Francis Joseph Falbo, 85, passed away peacefully Sunday, January 15, at Hubbard House in Charleston after a courageous, but much-too-brief, battle with lung cancer.

Frank was born August 30, 1926, to John Falbo and Mary Olivito Falbo, who immigrated separately from Caccuri, Calabria, only to find one another again in the mountains of West Virginia. Settling eventually in Smithers, they raised a family of nine unique and memorable bambini. Frank was the last surviving member of this interesting and industrious clan, and in many ways was the last of his kind.

In addition to his parents, Frank was preceded in death by his eight siblings, Elizabeth Colosimo, Jimmy, Fanny Dalporto, Edna Eckstein, Tony, Al, Johnny and Rudy.

He recalled fondly the days of his youth, and regaled us all with stories of his adventures in the Depression-era Upper Kanawha Valley. His magical tales of growing up on the streets and hills of the boomtown of Smithers made us all long for those simpler times when everyone was equal and “wore the same kind of knickers.”

Frank married “the girl of his dreams,” Margaret Cline Falbo, and the couple was blessed with seven little spaghetti-eaters of their own, just as the fortune teller predicted on their honeymoon. Two of his beloved children were taken from us well before their time, daughter, Peggy, in November of 2010, and Frank Jr. in November of 2011. Left to cherish their memories are children, Michael and wife, Kathy, of Nitro, Dr. Anthony and wife, Dr. Judith Thomas, of Centreville, Va., Dr. Mary Beth Falbo and husband, Winfield H. Strock, of Charleston, Chef Patrick of the Galapagos Islands, Ecuador, Greg of Smithers and daughter-in-law, Darlene of Ansted; grandchildren, Dr. Frank III of Columbia, Tenn., Jason of St. Albans, Amy Sommer Gaefke of Pittsburgh, Pa., Dr. Shane Spicer of Manhattan, N.Y., Graham of Arlington, Va., Michael of Nitro, April Johnson of Spring Hill, Jennifer Carriger of Charleston and Win Jr. of Georgia; 14 precious great-grandchildren; and a host of loving nieces and nephews and their progeny.

A Self-Made Man. Frank graduated from New River State College (now West Virginia Institute of Technology) in 1948 with an industrial arts degree, and put that training, along with his analytical nature, strong work ethic and legendary ingenuity, to great use in many areas, including vulcanizing tires during the rationing years of World War II; teaching school in Miami during the Cuban Revolution; designing, building, and remodeling numerous local establishments, such as the iconic Burger Carte and Big Al’s Club; and his masterpiece, the family’s retreat, and his home during his later years, “Raven’s Roost.” In addition, he established Falbo Glass Company, supplying custom glass for the automotive industry and other businesses. He retired after 25 years with Vocational Rehabilitation, where he improved the lives of many handicapped individuals by teaching job skills to help them assimilate into the work force. Additionally, he implemented the original handicapped accessibility program in the state, removing barriers and opening the world to the handicapped throughout West Virginia.

In parting this world, Frank leaves us with his usual advice: “Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

Mass of Christian Burial will be 11 a.m. Thursday, January 19, at St. Anthony’s Shrine Catholic Church, Boomer with Father John Rice as celebrant. Burial will follow at Montgomery Memorial Park, London. A mercy dinner will take place at Immaculate Conception Catholic Church, Montgomery.

Friends may visit from 6 to 8 p.m. Wednesday, January 18, at O’Dell Funeral Home, Montgomery, where a Christian Wake Service will be held at 6 p.m.

Expressions of sympathy may be sent to www.odellfuneralhome.com.

MonasteryNights

Bhavana Buddha ~ photoillustration by Douglas Imbrogno

An Occasional Memoir of Visits to the
Bhavana Society Buddhist Monastery in West Virginia.

Chapter 1: The Karma of Moths
Chapter 2: The Good Friend
Chapter 3: Just Breathe It
Chapter 4: All Is Not Lost, After All

By Douglas Imbrogno

All I want to do is sit in the angled sun that pierces through the trees. I want to write something about today’s lunch at the monastery, which was personal in more ways than one.

A quarter-hour ago at noon, we finished the last meal of the day. It was a filling one, concocted by Robert the cook. Spicy vegetable curry with homemade nan and steaming bowls of potato-pea soup. Now, we had two hours of personal time before a late afternoon Q-and-A for retreatants with the abbot.

Notebook in hand, I had retired to a bench behind the meditation hall. It was one of many outposts of solitude scattered about Bhavana’s 60-some wooded acres at the base of Great North Mountain in the West Virginia hills.

Today’s lunch dana — a word signifying a donation to the monastery — was in honor of two friends of mine, both recently and quite shockingly departed. Under Bhavana’s recently expanded Dana Project, you could sponsor a meal in memory of loved ones. Or just to help the place out, as it survived on donations.

The merit of giving dana to a Buddhist monastery is considered auspicious. Such merit may be applied to the person in whose name the dana is given. I had written a check earlier in the day in support of this meal. That would explain the print-out, propped on a stand beside the big metal pots of aromatic curry, steaming soup and bowls full of salad and fruit:

‘TODAY’S DANA IS PROVIDED BY DOUG IMBROGNO IN REMEMBRANCE OF HIS FRIENDS, PAUL H. AND JERRY C., WHO BOTH RECENTLY PASSED AWAY.’

In that single sentence was written whole chapters of my life. The week before the retreat, I had learned of Paul’s suicide at age 53, after his younger brother posted a stunned Facebook status update. I’ve written elsewhere of this terribly sad news. Suffice it to say, Paul was the last of my high school friends I would have thought might end up a suicide.

I had been constantly reminded of his cheery face as one of my fellow retreatants had a kindred face, right down to the ice-blue eyes and jutting Matterhorn of a nose. I had not seen Paul in a decade, since the last high school reunion I’d attended. My heart ached to think of what that gentle, sweet-natured boy I knew in high school had gone through to climb up the high cliff of suicide, then to plunge off. (I don’t know how he died and don’t think I want or need to.)

Bhante Gunaratana had read off the names of my friends before the meal began. We then recited a short Buddhist puja and loving-kindness meditation, directing merit their way. I read from a supplied sheet of paper, following the words of the meditation. The words blurred as a drop of water fell onto the page, a runaway tear I’d failed to catch in time.

Jerry. Oh, Jerry, I will write of you some day and what passed between us. But I don’t have the words right now. His life ended in a quick flurry at age 54, from a too-late diagnosed case of hepatitis, concealed from some of us until he was gone. Paul and Jerry. I hoped even the slightest breeze of merit would — should this merit-thing work –  deliver a momentary gust to their backs as they commenced their next incarnations.

I caught sight of the retreatant who looked like Paul. I was cast instantly back into high school. Seeing Paul at a desk beside mine in algebra class. Watching him ride shotgun in a friend’s car, the window rolled down, his hair scattered by the breeze.

What can you do? One must trust in the ongoing dispensation of compassion. Or take faith in the underlying luminosity of all mind and all effort.  Whatever turns our paths take – even the most terrible ones — we are yet on the Way. Or can waken again to it should we stumble off into weeds and darkness.

Monastery Dana ~ treated photograph ~ westvirginiaville.com

When they asked me to write down words to describe those to whom I was devoting this dana, I hesitated. Should I write ‘dear friends’ or just ‘friends’?

I chose ‘friends,’ just to be perfectly honest. Paul was part of my gang of good pals in high school. A good friend. Part of our tribe.

We once went on vacation to a Kentucky lake, staying at a cottage with the family of our great mutual buddy, Jay. One afternoon, the three of us took the family’s white-and-blue boat out onto the glassy surface of Lake Cumberland. Jay gunned the engine across the lake, furrowing its waters. He piloted it to anchor in some quiet, private cove, one of scores notched into the deep woods enveloping the long lake.

He cut the engine and a heartland silence took hold. Only the skree of bluejays, the putter of a fishing boat passing the cove mouth, the water lapping against our hull, tattooed the air. It was the kind of eternal blue-sky summer day that tricks young men into believing they are gods at play who will live forever.

Jay grins. “Want to get high?”

A joint appears. Maui-Wowie or some other best-stuff weed. He fires up, puffs, passes the joint. My finger touches Jay’s fingers, then nicks Paul’s on the next hand-off in what passes for Holy Communion among the fallen brethren of the Church of Stoned Suburban Boys.

We lie flat upon the boat’s deck. Paul rests supine in the bottom of the craft. We stare up at the slow-moving clouds. In our juiced cerebellums, they take on distinct, even mythic forms.

An airplane.
A bear.
A baby with a rattle.
An anvil.
The god Vulcan, hammering out a sword upon the anvil …

Then, in one of those minor, haphazard cruelties perpetrated by the teenage mind, myself or Jay — I forget who began the ruse — tells Paul he has been in an accident. The boat has wrecked, terrible things have happened. Bodies. Yes!

“No!” Paul says. “You’re kidding me …”
It is strong pot. He’s so stoned…
“No, Paul, they’re taking you to the hospital. Why do you think you’re lying flat?”

No, no, no, he says.
Maybe a little of the roundness has sheared off his chuckles.
“I’m not dead am I?”

I forget how long the game went on. We were not inherently cruel or mean boys. Soon, we are all sitting back up. “Screw you guys!” Paul cries. He would have smiled then. I remember him always wry or grinning, his Paul Newman eyes glinting like blue marbles in sunlight.

Jay turns the key. Flips the steering wheel hard right. Off we surge, leaving behind a frothy wake as we dash off to the next episode in our young, hopeful, oh so restless lives.

Now, Paul really does lie in his grave, put there by his own hand. If not my ‘dear friend,’ at this remove of years, he was someone who was genuinely dear. So what to say, except godspeed, were there a personal god to speed him on. Or has he gone to hell as some religions cruelly — speaking of cruelty — dispatch the suicide? (No doubt, in all good faith, and sociologically speaking, trying to dissuade others not to reduce the herd and off themselves when the going gets rough.)

Still, hasn’t the suicide gone through enough without also being consigned to eternal damnation? I prefer the path of karmic consequence. May Paul untie the Gordian knot of whatever confusion and pain finally became too much for him. He is not lost for eternity. He has only relocated the identical issues to another life; he has perhaps found a moment’s relief. Whatever form his forward motion takes, he yet must face the same river of suffering.

And will. And so must figure out how to cross it, as we all must. Which is why he needs the merit. Which is why we all need merit. And teachers. And instruction. And spiritual friends. And much much loving-friendliness.

All is not lost, after all.

So, do not commit suicide, if you can avoid it. If you are reading this and aching with despair and confusion, if you are in terror for your life, stalking your own existence, go. Get help. Cry out for it! Go home. Get better. You can. Paul’s story might have been mine. Many of us have been pulled back from that cliff or muffed the plunge. I will tell you one man’s tale of being a failed suicide some day. It is the one thing in life it is really good to fail at.

Let me tell you: the frenzied mind — it can heal. To be able to sit in the forest before a candlelit Buddha and to watch the mind settle down.

Then, to keep watching.

This is the merit I direct Paul and Jerry’s way. Whichever direction they have gotten off to.

‘Monastery Nights’
Chapter 1: The Karma of Moths
Chapter 2: The Good Friend
Chapter 3: Just Breathe It
Chapter 4: All Is Not Lost, After All

'Yeah, yeah, I'm famous," says Tabitha Imbrogno McKeown. "Can I have a kitty treat?!'

Here is a rare photo of a cat posing with the article that brought her a degree of fame in certain corners of the State of WestVirginiaVille. That would be Tabitha, featured in a Dec. 29, 2011 Charleston Gazette article that I wrote, “When Cat Meets Housecat Meets Husband,” which was a rewrite of a blogpost originally published here, about Tab’s unfortunate encounter with a skunk. And my unfortunate encounter with de-skunking Tabitha.

The piece is also an authoritative account, backed with at least 10-15 minutes of Internet research, of how to de-odorize your skunked housepet. Although, if you read the comments to the article or the original blogpost you will note that several folks took issue with my dismissal of tomato juice as an effective skunk-canceling substance. Have at it, but do beware the tinting qualities of both tomato juice AND the chemical concoction described in the article. Tabitha is now a bit of a red-head…. well, a red-back. Below is a snippet of the article:

By Douglas Imbrogno | Of the many texts I have received since the Dawn of Texting, one of the least welcome texts of all showed up on my iPhone at exactly 7:19 p.m., Tuesday, July 12. It was from my wife back home and said:

“We think Tabs was sprayed by a skunk. Guess who gets 2 help soak her in tomato juice”

It helped that I had just wrapped up a session of the Meditation Circle of Charleston at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. I recommend thirty minutes of meditation in advance of giving a tomato juice bath to a cat. Namely Tabitha the Cat – now reeking seriously of  skunk.

A shot of George Dickel would be good, too.

I arrived home a bit later to the ominous sight of two large cans of tomato juice sitting on the porch. It was a clear telegram from my wife that apparently there is a sub-clause in the marriage contract that I was unfamiliar with and which states: ‘In case of domestic encounters involving skunks and housecats, the groom and not the bride, will be responsible for the cat tomato-juice bath which follows…’

Tabitha, it should be noted, is of the Zen School of Cat Personality. Patient, mellow, unflappable – an altogether Princess of Cats, However, we are talking here of depositing a stinking feline into a vat of tomato juice and giving her a head-to-paw rubdown. This couldn’t be good … | Read on

]]> http://westvirginiaville.com/2012/01/a-somewhat-famous-cat-poses-for-her-fans/feed/ 0 http://westvirginiaville.com/2012/01/how-to-properly-recyle-a-wedding-ring/ http://westvirginiaville.com/2012/01/how-to-properly-recyle-a-wedding-ring/#comments Tue, 10 Jan 2012 01:03:06 +0000 admin http://westvirginiaville.com/?p=5938

Blogalachia
appalachian blogistry at its finest
• suggest something

EDITOR NOTE: A lovely piece of writing about the best way to dispose of one’s wedding ring after a marriage has come crawling to a close. From Bill Lynch’s ‘Don’t Print This’  blog (which wins best tag line of the month award: “I’m Fine, I’m Fine, Really, I’m Fine.’)

Ring Cycle: An ending of sorts

By Bill Lynch | from ‘Don’t Print This’

I cradled the wedding band in the palm of my hand and watched some poorly dressed clown swing a bell as people dropped changed into a bright red kettle.

I’d made a decision about the ring. I’d come to it a while ago, but now we’d reached the point where something needed to be done, where I could no longer bear to keep it any longer.

For a while, before Christmas, I’d considered taking the ring to a pawn shop. Gold fetches a nice price these days. I could have traded it for cash, got a waffle iron or maybe bought a few Christmas presents, but hadn’t been able to do that.

Once upon a time, I’d had a different ring, nearly as blameless as this one and done just that: sold it off for a few coppers to a guy in a cut off shirt in a dimly lit shop. The memory of watching a greasy, stringy-haired clerk toss that ring in a fat JFG coffee can along with several dozen others still haunts me.

It was a mass grave.

A marriage shouldn’t be dispensed with so cheaply, I thought. Even the corpse of the thing deserves some manner of respect.

I always regretted selling that ring and this one, it deserved a better fate.

Truth be told, the ring never quite fit. This is not some existential statement, but a basic fact. I lost weight right after I purchased the thing and the ring wouldn’t stay on my finger. I had it resized, gained some weight back and the ring wouldn’t fit. Eventually, I lost the weight again, but took up lifting weights and the ring just never rested comfortably on my hand.

I talked about getting it resized a hundred times, but never did. There are a dozen reasons for that, none of them very good.

Still, I was ready to give this one up, but I didn’t want it to go cheaply. I didn’t want it to pay for dinner or even for the start of my new life. I wanted it to perhaps find its way to a new hand, a new marriage and a new start.

I could hope the same things for myself one day, I supposed. Why not that for me, too?

If I took it to a pawn shop, I figured they’d probably just sell it to a gold buyer. It would be melted down, turned into wiring or tooth filings, perhaps, but the Salvation Army is a church. They believe in marriage –acknowledged: their definition of marriage is a bit more conservative than mine, but I didn’t think they’d cast the ring aside or boil it down to its brute material. They deal with charity and the poor. Maybe they’d find someone who wanted to get married, who didn’t have a ring.

I hoped so. In my way, I was trying to give the ring a chance to move on, too.

So, I wished it well and slipped the ring into the kettle as I went in to the grocery store to buy Granny Smith apples, flour and sugar. The man standing at the door wished me a Merry Christmas. Almost correcting him, I said, “Happy New Year.”

More Blogalachia:

‘Why My Hand Sometimes Shakes’: A Personal Tale | Karan Ireland

Found Video: ‘What Happened to the Bull’s Jewels’ | Lost in Calhoun County blog

How to Get Young Folk to West Virginia? No Foolin’ Around | Elizabeth Damewood Gaucher

Remembering Hazel Dickens and what her singing taught | Becky Kimmons

Part 2: Surviving the Great West Virginia Flood of 1985 | Matthew Burns

Surviving the Great West Virginia Flood of 1985 | Matthew Burns

The Power of the Worm Wand: A Cautionary Tale | Elizabeth Damewood Gaucher

800 Miles To Go Before I Sleep | Douglas Imbrogno

Readings

Country Road, W.Va. ~ westvirginiaville.com

EDITOR’S NOTE: The excerpt below comes from a Rick Bass essay, “Bonfire,” from the Summer 2001 edition of Tricycle: The Buddhist Review. It speaks to his activism to preserve the wildness of the Yaak Valley where he lives near the confluence of the Montana-Idaho-British Columbia borders. Just as important, if not more so, he addresses the activist’s weary heart from the long fight, wondering how to balance the need to keep up the fight against the need for solitude, recuperation and stillness within that wilderness. Bass writes from the fierce — if winded — and throbbing heart of the trueblood activist-artist-seeker-protector of wild places. I offer it to those who work and struggle, who create and advocate, on behalf of the wildness of West Virginia.

“Fiercely, I believe that every ounce of energy counts. The future of this wild place, and indeed of this wild state, is up for grabs. Hope still exists for this bioregion. Not the distant hope of the future, but hope in the moment, hope now, that the wildness of this place can be preserved. Hope that even just one more person’s voice, no matter whether strident or calm, can help tip the balance of time and circumstance for this relatively unpeopled landscape; hope that one ore poem, photograph, song can help tip the cant of fate toward the preservation of of the wild, the thing itself, rather than away.

“The situation demands that I hurry up and work harder and so I do — and yet even far within me, like the sound of metal banging against metal in a high wind, I hear, and feel, that yearning to slow down and step back; and I do not know what to do except to jeep doing both things, the thong and the shadow of the thing — making pretty little pictures, and continuing on with the slogging grunt-work of the hardcore activist — until one day, I assume, nothing will be left. There is nothing that cannot be tossed into the bonfire of awareness …”

~ Rick Bass, from “Bonfire,” Tricycle: The Buddhist Review, Summer 2001

I like to start every new year off with a woodland walk. While out in Barboursville Park this Jan. 1, 2012, I was transfixed by the whisper of wind through the trees, the ambling clouds, nature’s general ambient symphony. Then, a train lumbered around the corner. I started recording with the mini-HD camera inside my iPhone 4, then pulled the footage into a 30-day trial version of Final Cut Pro X that I’ve been trying to learn (7 days left!).

So, this is a test edit, my first video using the next generation of Final Cut, now that Apple cut off the feeding tube to Final Cut Pro and Final Cut Express and left them to die. Lots of fun stuff in Pro X, but a whole new paradigm. Here’s what a couple hours was able to yield.