How time can just ruin a man

I’m sitting here in the cabin with NFL Primetime on the television, Rudy outside barking, the wood stove emanating warm dry heat and a bluish moon rising over Cornbread Ridge. I spent the entire day with my buddy Curt. We drove into Princeton and ran errands which included going to Lowes and buying new bars and chains for our chainsaws and then driving out True Road in Summers County, visiting with my friend Josh, his wife Ginny and their two adorable youngsters. We took in breath-taking southern West Virginia scenery all day, driving back roads up and down and over mountain after mountain until finally dropping down beside Bluestone Lake. It was frozen over from shore to shore. Barren mountains formed a ring around the body of water.

We crossed over into Hinton and went to see Curt’s brother, Kevin, who is just a few years older than me, who is at a nursing home after a tragic and horrible motorcycle accident several years ago. I hadn’t seen Kevin since I lived up here when I was 23, over 15 years ago. Back then I had spent a good deal of time with him. I used to go cutting firewood with him. He cut it and I hauled it into the truck. One day I remember we brought back 4 regular-size pickup truck loads to the cabin in just a few hours. He was full of life back then, wiry and muscled, tan and more than a little wild. We used to listen to Bocephus in his red Chevy z71 truck while barreling around sharp curves on dirt roads above the hollow.

The man I saw today was just a husk of the man I once knew. I followed behind Curt as we walked down the hallways of the nursing home, past other men and women in advanced stages of decline. We arrived at Kevin’s room and found him slumped in a wheelchair asleep. Curt began crying as soon as we entered the room. He went to his brother and lovingly cooed words to him while petting his head and kissing it. I stood to the side and just witnessed. Curt is one of the toughest men I’ve ever known…perhaps the toughest. His hands are thick and strong and rough as sand paper. He held his brother and wept. I was grateful to him for letting me in, for not being ashamed or embarrassed to share this moment with me. He tried to wake him but Kevin only opened his eyes and looked at us. He was confused and distant, mumbled a few words and drifted back to sleep. We only stayed for 20 minutes or so. As we left I put my arm around Curt and patted him on the back. Once outside the depressing building where people go to die Curt’s spirit lifted and we took off again on mountain roads towards home.

We drove to Nimitz and then got on Ellison Ridge and dug the countryside as the sun began sinking in the western sky. Enormous meadows stretched out in open spaces between steep mountainsides. We talked about old times, Curt spinning yarns about being a boy in this country wrecking cars, hunting deer, growing weed and chasing girls. Later we filled jugs with gasoline and headed back to Wolf Creek Hollow. Back at my cabin we tuned up our chainsaws and went out into the cold night and sawed firewood.