Empty water glasses crowded the white tablecloth, extending from edge to edge, maybe 15 feet or so.
I felt out of place and slightly embarrassed as I walked into the banquet room for the judges of the Berkeley Springs Water Tasting competition.
People ask me, “Where do you come up with your ideas?â€
There’s a lot of folklore and quack cures out there — maybe more than ever, thanks to the internet.
After a couple of weeks of coming around to Appalachian Tea to sit down at a table across from Sasha and talk tea, I’d come up with a few questions that didn’t really fit into a cup.
A mossy-green goo clung to the bottom of my cup. It reminded me of sludge I’d found once at the bottom of an iguana terrarium.
Sasha Strader at Appalachian Tea in ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä started me off with a series of cups and mugs on a table in her tea shop.
I looked at the haphazardly filled grocery bags in my trunk and couldn’t help but feel a little proud. At long last, I’d finally managed to remember to bring my assortment of reusable shopping bags into the grocery store.
The trunk of my car popped open and I stared at the wad of still unused, practically new, reusable shopping bags.
A few nights after Christmas I was out in front of my house swearing like a sailor and scooping up wet garbage from the road. As is normal, trash pickup in my neighborhood had been delayed because of the holiday — first one day, and then a second day, and then no one had come at all.
Downtown ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä on Christmas morning was dreamlike and peaceful.
My foot touched the pavement. I turned my head and then quickly stepped back on to the sidewalk, muttering another obscenity.
I slipped on the flimsy harness and then took it off.
The two bold lines on the COVID test floored me — and not just because it potentially derailed my plan to try and run all 300 miles of ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä’s city streets.
The gas company woman crouching on the sidewalk looked up at me as I passed her for the second time. She nodded a greeting, but she looked suspicious.
I locked the camera carefully onto the top of the tripod. Then, I pointed the lens in the general vicinity of the sky.
I looked up at the fire tower and held my breath for a second.
Saturn, they said, kept drifting out of sight. I looked up.
The call came through just as classes shuffled at ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä Ballet.
April Richardson Morgan met me in front of the rock near the corner of Brooks and Kanawha Boulevard in ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä, at the place where ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä essentially began and where I’d started this month.
I should’ve, could’ve picked a better day to take a walking tour of ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä.
The thing about history, Dr. Billy Joe Peyton told me, is that you could start anywhere.
Every once in a while, someone will ask how I wound up in ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä, as if finding yourself here is somehow like being shipwrecked and marooned.
A little over halfway through Monday night jiu jitsu class at Butch Hiles Brazilian Jiu Jitsu in ÂÒÂ×ÄÚÉä, Butch pointed out Ethan, a purple belt in a black robe.
