Nothing could be finer...

MYRTLE BEACH, S.C. - I'm thinking about auditioning for one of those Corona beer commercials. That seems like a wise career move.

WTA - Part 2

By Justin D. Anderson
BLB Guest Blogger

HURRICANE, W.Va. - My wife and I are in the process of moving out of our little country house here in Hurricane, about 25 miles west of Charleston. We're headed for Morgantown. My landlord called the other day while we were up in Morgantown getting our new place ready to live in. He said he'd found some people from Kentucky who were going to rent our place. Would I mind if they stored a few boxes under our carport? After all, they are coming from a long way.

“Hell no, we don‘t mind,” I said.

When we returned to our little house a couple days later, there were boxes and old decrepit furniture piled up to the ceiling of the carport and covered with tarps. We figured, who cares? We're leaving anyway. Then, last Tuesday, me and the dogs were out in the yard and this van pulls up in my driveway. My dogs start going berserk when an older fellow pops his head out of the driver's side window and says in a heavy twang, "Is it safe?" I had to ask him again what he said.

"Is it safe? Wit' dem dawgs?,” he says again.

"It all depends," I said. "Who are you?"

He pointed a dirty finger at the pile of stuff under the carport. Figuring they were just there to check on their stuff, I put the grouchier dog in the house. The driver and a young kid dressed like Fred Durst popped out of the van. The driver's got some kind of thrift shop polo on with a sallow turtleneck underneath. Ballcap with a dingy mesh back to it on his sweaty head. He introduces himself and Durst, his daughter's boyfriend.

"You guys drive all the way from Kentucky to check on your stuff?" I ask.

"Nah,” the driver said. “We's staying up over the hill there with my cousin. You'all need any help packin'?"

I thought this was a strange question. Hell no I didn't want some weirdo from Kentucky helping me pack.

"Well, y'all just let me know if y'all need any help gettin' outta here," the driver says.

Meanwhile, Durst is messing around with my dog's ears. "He's a beagle," he says.

"No, he's not a beagle," I say.

"Yeah he is,” Durst asserts again. “Look at these ears here."

"He's a beagle all right," the driver agrees.

The dog's not a freaking beagle, but I let it go. Eventually, we part ways. I head into the house to get packing and they head back to their van. I figure they are leaving. But white trash never do what you expect them to do. They're ironic in that way. I watched from my window as they take turns emerging from the van, walking through my yard to their pile of junk and sifting under the tarps. They pull out hats and shirts and other stuff and carry it slowly back to the van. Leisurely. Like they were already living there. I let it go on for an hour or so, my dog growling and barking inside the house going from window to window before I went outside.

"Look, I don't mean to be an jerk, but how long you guys plan on being here?" I ask Durst, who's rummaging through the pile.

"What you mean?" he says.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask. "I'm trying to work in there and my dog's going nuts."

Then the driver walks up and says, “She just needs some clothes and thangs,” gesturing to his daughter, who's also rummaging through the pile.

"Well, you guys need to move on," I said. "You can't just mess around in my yard all day. This is MY house.”

"What he say?" Durst asked

"He say he don't want us here," the drive said. "We'll be on in a while."

"You guys need to move along now,” I said. “Not later."

The driver got humble suddenly and started apologizing. "We ain't going to bother you no more," he said.

I turned around and headed back into the house. After another five minutes of rummaging, they slowly backed out of my driveway. But I wondered how long would they have stayed if I hadn't tossed them? What was next? Stringing a clothesline and building a campfire? Asking if they can come in and use the phone and the bathroom?

That's white trash ignorance for you.

Justin D. Anderson previously worked as a reporter with the Charleston Daily Mail in West Virginia. He is planning to move to Morgantown, W.Va., and can be reached by e-mail at j_d_anderson70@yahoo.com

WTA - Part 1

By Justin D. Anderson
BLB Guest Blogger

HURRICANE, W.Va. - I grew up in the Northern Panhandle of West Virginia. Imagine a landscape scarred by rusted steel and coke mills and half-vacant strip malls with dark mountains as a backdrop. I love it, and always will.

It's the kind of place that makes people hard. But they're hard in a good way. They don't expect nothing from no one. They work. They're good people. They'll give a filthy hobo the last dollar they have in their pocket, for instance. They show each other respect. They don't blow their horns and cuss if the guy in front of them hasn't immediately noticed the green light.

Having lived near Charleston, W.Va., since 2005, I can say the landscape is about the same as up north, but the people, by and large, are total jerks. Bunch of white trash. The late Hunter S. Thompson once mentioned a phenomenon called "white trash arrogance." He didn't get into the details of what it was, but if you spend any time in the Kanawha River Valley, you come to recognize it really quick.

The worst drivers on the interstates around here are not the be-suited yuppies in their BMWs. No. They are the 23-year-old women in beaten up Chevy Cavaliers with a cell phone hanging out of their ear and two unrestrained toddlers romping around in the backseat. They'll cut you off at 80 mph and throw you the finger at the same time ... just because you were holding them up from getting to the free clinic on time for their hepatitis treatment or bailing their child's father out of jail.

White trash arrogance.

In my former line of work, I had to deal with the courthouse. Most people are polite and respectful when they're waiting on the clerk to give them their documents. But sometimes you'll get a person pounding on the counter screaming about how "That ol' piece of trash ain't gittin' nothin' from me!" or "They done told me my fine for dog-tetherin' was all paid up! Y'all people don't know what you doin'" and then leave the courthouse in a huff.

WTA.

Of course, this attitude isn't just in the ‘hollers of Southern West Virginia. And it's not confined to arrogance.

The story continues tomorrow…

Justin D. Anderson previously worked as a reporter with the Charleston Daily Mail in West Virginia. He is planning to move to Morgantown, W.Va., and can be reached by e-mail at j_d_anderson70@yahoo.com

White Trash Arrogance

While in transit to Myrtle Beach, S.C., over the next couple of days, I'll be handing the reins to an old buddy and colleague of mine from the Charleston Daily Mail. What follows is a two-part satirical essay on what he argues becomes of the chronically unemployed. In his words: Those who stand in the bread line and then complain when they find a tiny piece of mold on the crust.

Justin D. Anderson spent the past four years in Charleston working at the Daily Mail and West Virginia Record. He is originally from Moundsville, W.Va. and graduated with an English degree from West Virginia University. He is planning to move from Hurricane, W.Va. to Morgantown.

His essay, entitled "White Trash Arrogance," will begin Tuesday.

The Last Story

A couple weeks before exiting the newspaper industry, photographer Celeste Van Kirk and I traveled about 10 miles down U.S. Route 40 to Scenery Hill, Pa. It's such a unique town, so I wrote about it for the "Favorite Places" segment in July's edition of Living in Washington County magazine produced by the Observer-Reporter. What follows is my final story for the O-R.


Century Inn: A Scenery Hill Landmark

SCENERY HILL, Pa. - The stunning view is the first thing that strikes a motorist traveling down U.S. Route 40 into Scenery Hill. But it’s the people and charming shops in this historic town that keep visitors coming back.

Originally known as Springtown, it later became Hillsborough to honor Stephen Hill, who designed the village in 1819 after the completion of America’s first national road. The obelisk mile markers that dot the National Road still count down the mileage to Hillsborough, even though the name permanently changed to Scenery Hill in the late 1800s.

The village has become a hodgepodge of consignment shops, craft stores and antiques dealers. Quaint homes and churches are sandwiched between these unique shops, but one of the most interesting attractions might be the Century Inn.

Hill built this home in 1794, and it soon became an inn and tavern, according to server William Harvey.

Gordon and Mary Amanda Harrington bought the building for a "hefty sum" of $17,000 in 1945, Harvey said, and the family from Charleroi refurbished the house. The Harringtons’ daughter-in-law, Megin Harrington, currently operates the restaurant and inn.

Harvey, who has worked at the Century Inn since 1973, thinks there are a few reasons why Scenery Hill has become a tourist attraction.

"The view is obvious," Harvey said. "The people here are very friendly, and we work as a team. Being that it started as a frontier town, I think everyone here is very accepting of people who are different or new."

A short walk down the road brings visitors to Jan’s Tea Shop.

The owner, Jan Dunker, has lived in the area most of her life and opened this store in 1980. The building at times has housed a grocery store, ice cream shop and car dealership showroom.

She said the village sprouted along the National Road because it took a full day to navigate the trail from Washington or Brownsville, meaning travelers needed a place to stay the night before continuing their journey.

Those same 12-mile trips take less than 20 minutes today.

"To me it’s home," she said while fiddling with a coffee bean roaster.

Her friend, Linda McCracken, usually sips coffee while chatting in the shop. She is originally from Monessen and moved here 20 years ago after meeting her husband, Skip.

"It’s quiet," McCracken said. "People are friendly, and I enjoy visiting friends like Jan. You get a lot of people passing by."

So in that respect, not a lot has changed in this village along the National Road.

"Only that the roads are in a little bit better condition," McCracken said.

Dunker added: "And the mode of transportation has improved."

T + 1 Month

So it's been exactly one month since Jonesy's wild and wacky summer bash began, and there really isn't a lot happening. The job search has been slow. I have four resumes out thus far, but have received acknowledgment from only one company. It might be time to get staff phone numbers and start calling the supervisors to remind them of my resumes.

I've since settled into a nice - although maybe not entirely productive - morning routine. The daily pot of coffee with the newspaper has kept me connected with the goings-on. Unfortunately, my afternoon walks have been limited ever since that fascinating Mayview jaunt tore a nasty blister into my heel.

But it's now crunch-time. My benefits run out next week, and that generous month-long severance check will be depleted soon with my next mortgage payment (You're welcome, by the way, Mr. Fargo). So maybe this is the wrong time to be heading to Myrtle Beach, S.C. with my girlfriend for a pre-pink slip planned vacation. We'll be staying at my aunt's house, so it should be a nice (and cheap) vacation. I'll be blogging from the Palmetto State, and I'm thinking about temporarily changing this Web site's name to "Travel with a Bread Basket."

I appreciate all of your feed back on this blog over the past month. It's been nice to share stories and keep in touch with old friends.

The Transition

"Hi, my name is Mike Jones and I'm with the Observer-errrr... a freelancer for the Trib."

I've caught myself saying that sentence a few times now that I'm back on the beat with the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review. Reporting is the same, regardless of which paper employs your services. The AP Style Book reads the same and a lead still is supposed to grab the reader, right? The trouble is remembering the paper for which you actually work.

After the Observer-Reporter rolled off my tongue for nearly three years, it's a little tough to transition into the new phrase/phase. The same thing happened for a couple of weeks when I left the Charleston Daily Mail for the O-R in November 2006. But with the phone cradled on my shoulder and curled cord practically wrapped around my body, it soon became natural to deliver the new spiel, which I am now trying equally hard to break.

The real question is: Which company name will I be blurting out next week?

(The above photo of an eager and intrepid reporter was taken by Scott Beveridge in the O-R newsroom)