Coshocton County, Ohio

It's been a few weeks since I visited Coshocton, so maybe my memory is already fuzzy. I left the weekend before the Morgantown City Council election. I was sick of the whole thing: the corruption that might never be investigated, that I had paid lots of money for ads hat were running on Rush Limbaugh's radio program, the snarkiness of the local talk show hosts, the candidates who ran as an informal group two years ago, but didn't want to work together this year, my opponent who signed up as a write-in six weeks into the process- all of it. Coshocton was my next county anyway, so I left town.

Cindy at the gym, who gave me my workout routine and has line dancing classes, told me that she and her husband had been to Coshocton on vacation, to see Amish crafts and be out in the country. There are fewer than 40,000 people in the county, and since it is 158 miles from Morgantown, it's worth one night out. I left Saturday, the 27th of April, technically the eighth day of Passover, but Reform Jews don't necessarily observe the eighth day. Anyway, traveling without Joe to another county where two-thirds of the people voted for the current President, I put on my white, possibly straight and Christian front. That's a privilege that others don't have, and I use it. Still, Coshocton is better than other places with similar voting patterns. Some counties are one-third African-American, especially in Virginia or Maryland, and if two-thirds of their voters pulled the lever for the President, it means all the white people voted for him. In this county, with an almost all-white population, it means things are more balanced.

I booked a hotel in a chain I had never heard of that seems to only exist in Ohio. It's near a river on the edge of downtown, so I thought it might be scenic, but it's mostly a commercial and industrial area with gas stations and fast food joints. They did have a bluegrass party Saturday night in the hotel meeting room. I didn't go, but it sounded fun.

It was warm and sunny when I arrived, but windy. A storm moved in and it rained later in the day and into the next day. My first sight in the county was near Plainfield, where a farm was up for auction. Cars were parked along the road, and I saw some bearded men in Amish clothing, white shirts, dark pants and suspenders.

There is a Main St. Historic District, mostly empty stores, as in much of Ohio, and a grand old courthouse. There was a furniture store across from the courthouse, with a table outside filled with stuff, including some CDs, cassettes, DVDs and VHS tapes. A sign said "Everything on this table 25 cents." I found a four-CD set from Reader's Digest called "Remembering the '60s." No rock and roll but hit records from Lawrence Welk, Pat Boone, Al Martino and The Letterman, but also Louis Armstrong, The Association, Brenda Lee and Mama Cass. I took it in to the woman at the register and said "This is four CDs." she said "It says 25 cents, so if you want it, that's it." A great bargain.

The former Newberry store on Main St., vacant for decades, has a mural with quotes from townspeople about there memories, things like "Me and my friends used to get tuna sandwiches at the lunch counter on Saturdays"  or "My mom worked here for many years. She cried when the store closed."

Being my usual forgetful self, I didn't bring my phone cord or the notebook where I made notes on what to see in Coshocton. I found a shopping center, the closest to a mall in town, near the hotel. It is U-shaped, with lots of parking, no greenery, and several empty stores. I ducked into Subway for lunch, and as I was fumbling for change, the young woman at the cashier chatted me up in a surprisingly friendly way. There was a Verizon store open, next to the closed Radio Shack. I wanted to get a new phone cord, but instead I got a USB-USC cable. Long story. The HYM (handsome young man) who helped me wanted my name and email for their records, which I didn't want to give him. I paid cash, and he printed up a receipt with, as it turned out, his own name and address on it. He put the cash in his wallet, and said "I'll see you later." I thought it was flirtatious, although I know 22 year olds can't be flirting with me. Still I said.  "It could happen." It didn't. I bought a new notebook at the dollar store in the same shopping center.

Roscoe Village is a historic district across the river and the old Ohio and Erie Canal. It looks like it predates Coshocton. There are touristy shops and people dressed up impersonating those from the early nineteenth century. You have to pay for a tour of that, which I didn't do. There is a highway separating the district from the canal now, which is too bad. I looked around there, but the weather was cooling and it was starting to rain. Since it ws getting to be nap time, I headed back to the hotel.

Many towns have Chinese buffet restaurants. The one in Coshocton is in the shopping center I visited earlier and I went there for dinner. It was not as good as most of them, but crowded anyway and I had enough to eat. I drove out before dark east and west of Coshocton, to Warsaw in the west, a settlement named for a rebellion by Polish patriots against Russian rule in the 1830s, and west to Lafayette, where there were two historic houses off the road that I couldn't find. I came back to Coshocton by way of Canal Lewis, a little suburb with a 19th century house.

I walked around town in the morning in cold drizzle looking for places on the National Register of Historic Places, many of which had been torn down. I found some interesting architecture, often vacant. Coshocton is a sad town.

I was as usual, glad to get away, however briefly. I found the few people I spoke to be friendly, and the area, surrounded by hills, but mostly flat with many flooded waterways, to be interesting. I had breakfast in the hotel Sunday and was home by 1 P.M., before Joe finished Hebrew school.

Thomas Johnson House, Plainfield

Coshocton County Courthouse, 1873

Main St., Coshocton

Johnson-Humrickhouse House, Coshocton

Central Ohio Technical College, Roscoe Village

Roscoe Village

Lake at Roscoe Village

Towpath on the old Erie and Ohio Canal

Former warehouses in Roscoe Village

Lamberson-Markley House, Canal Lewis

Hotel Warsaw, c. 1903, Warsaw

I thought this was the Old Union School, 1855, but apparently that building was demolished and this  is a newer office building in a similar style.

Row houses, vacant, about to be torn down, apparently

Eldridge-Higgins Building, formerly a warehouse, now offices

Railroad depot, now vacant

Carnegie Library, 1906, now vacant

Art Appreciation

"Art Appreciation" is what it said on the purple rubber bracelets distributed to friends of Art Jacknowitz. Art took up being a docent at West Virginia University's new art museum after his retirement. He and his wife Linda renewed their vows on their fiftieth anniversary in September. He looked fine then, but after a dire cancer diagnosis, died April 18, the night before the first Passover seder.

Tree of Life always has a seder the first night of Passover, held this year at the temple, with a good turnout. Linda and Art often invited us for the second night, and my sister attended also sometimes. By Jewish tradition, the funeral could have been Friday before the holiday, but in modern America, people have to fly in for the funeral, and the funeral homes are not prepared to do funerals on short notice. The rules are that you can't have a funeral the first two days of Passover, and you can't observe shiva, the week of mourning, until the holiday is over. This happened in my family when my father's sister died on the first seder night in 1955. They had to have the funeral a few days later, but could not start mourning until after Passover ended. My mother recalled it as one of the worst two weeks in the lives of everyone involved.

Art's funeral was on Tuesday, the fourth day of Passover, with a "meal of consolation" at Tree of Life.  The funeral was in downtown Morgantown; the burial was a few blocks away, just down the street from the synagogue and Linda and Art's house. We observed three nights of prayer services for shiva at the Jacknowitz home, as the Reform movement allows more flexibility than more traditional Judaism. Our friend Donna, who is not Jewish but has a Jewish husband, put together, with some help from others, meals that were kosher and kosher for Passover.

Art and Linda are beloved in Morgantown. Art taught at the WVU School of Pharmacy for many years, mentored and advised students, and wrote papers on obscure topics, despite being low-key and down-to-earth. He and Linda were raised in Brooklyn and retain the charm and folkiness of Brooklyn in the fifties. At synagogue, Linda is the one who goes up to strangers and introduces herself, making them feel welcome.

There was a visitation at the funeral home for two hours before the service. Jewish funerals are closed casket. As the rabbi's spouse, I greeted people as they came in, and ended up standing in the back of the packed room. It was hot and stuffy there, and, fearing I would pass out, I moved into an adjacent room with a couch, where I could hear Rabbi Joe and the other speakers, but sit in a much cooler and air-filled room. Linda told me that five hundred people signed the guest book at the funeral home. At least thirty people came to house for services each of the three nights.

At the cemetery, I spoke with a young woman who told me she had been one of Art's students ten years ago, and that his career advice to her was spot-on. I thanked her for coming and told her (as I've learned from Rabbi Joe) that going to a funeral is rewarded in this world and the world to come, because the person whose funeral you attended won't be able to return the favor. She told me she is a religious Christian and asked what "the world to come' means in a Jewish context. I referred her to the rabbi. I met another woman one of the nights we were at Linda's house. She was also not Jewish, and didn't understand the service.  Art  told her when she got her undergrad degree and go out and work before going to grad school. She did that, and left for grad school at forty, coming back to Morgantown with a PH.D. and a teaching position at WVU. She was also grateful for Art's advice.

Most of the people at the services were in their seventies, long-time friends from the synagogue or from WVU, or just neighbors who knew Art and Linda. Art's brother, who came from Long Island to be with Linda, spoke at one of the evening services. He said he had no idea there was such a wonderful community of people here in Morgantown, so kind and so loving.

What I saw at the funeral and the house of mourning was grief over Art's death, and sympathy for Linda. But I also saw fear. People have had brushes with cancer and heart disease, wear hearing aids or have had cataract surgery. In one's seventies (five months away for me) death becomes a part of  life. It's east to think "Am I next?" We all looked at each other as Art's brother praised our community. It is a great group of people. Joe and I came late, only seven years ago, but we have been made to feel at home. I looked around the room and thought  "Who of us will be here in ten years?" I had to push that thought back and think about being kinder, more modest, helpful to others. I want to live up to the standards of the community at Art's funeral, and to continue to live by those standards, for as long as I can.

Craig County, Virginia

I try to be home for shabbat at Tree of Life here in Morgantown. I also try to get away once a month for two or three days to a different county within three hundred miles of here, any state, in alphabetical order. This hobby has been hampered by more and more responsibilities thrust on me (or taken on voluntarily) as a Morgantown City Councilor. I'm also getting over my fourth illness since Thanksgiving, and we are planning a much-needed and long-delayed trip to California to see friends and family at the end of the month.

 I've managed to see eighty-two counties in the months since we moved here in July 2012, and I'm nothing if not persistent. The eighty-third, scheduled for this month, was Craig County, Virginia, in the mountains near Roanoke and on the border of West Virginia. Usually, I schedule a three-day trip to a place more than two hundred miles from Morgantown. But Craig County has just over five thousand people, and its county seat and largest place, New Castle, has a population of 153. The others live out in the country somewhere.

I felt a need to get away. I love Joe and our cat and our temple and the people who go there, but sometimes I need to be off by myself, to not have to care for or listen to anyone, to not have to worry about the leaky drain in the upstairs sink or what I forgot to buy at the grocery store.

So I left Friday and planned to be back Saturday, taking back roads, increasing the time to New Castle by maybe a half hour, but reducing the mileage to 216, courthouse to courthouse. The only places I could find to stay overnight in Craig County were country rooming houses with a family or a couple who rent rooms or have a spare cabin on their property. I'm trying to get away, not meet new people, and in a county that voted seventy-eight per cent for the current President, I don't want to talk to or stay with strangers who might make me uncomfortable talking about my life.

So I booked the "Usual Chain" near Roanoke Airport, about twenty-one miles out of New Castle. It's an older (1960s?) resort-style place with rooms facing a garden with a swimming pool. I was delighted that there was a sign at the registration desk that they wouldn't rent to anyone who lived within thirty miles. I've been places like this where one person rents a room and invites sixty friends and family to drink by the pool on a Friday night. That didn't happen here.

The back roads yesterday (Friday) took me through Pocahontas County, one of the most rural and beautiful counties in West Virginia. I drove past the famous Green Bank Observatory, saw the sign for Snowshoe Resort, watched the shifting clouds and rain sprinkles, the passing parade of mountains, the new green of the trees and the purple and white wildflowers. I was near the Greenbrier Hotel, owned by our absentee Governor.

I brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple with me for lunch and I had lots of water. I saw a convenience store/restaurant/gas station on the road about noon and thought to get some iced tea. I was about to reach for a Diet Coke, there being only sweet tea in bottles, when I asked the proprietress if they had "unsweet" and she offered to get me a cup  from the fountain drinks, and even asked me if I wanted "Sweet 'n' Low." I declined that, but I was touched by her kindness.

The last stretch of the trip into New Castle is through Jefferson National Forest, over mountains on a slow, twisty road. It was sunny and warm and scenic enough to get me to turn off the CD player and open the windows.

New Castle has basically two streets downtown, each about three blocks long. There is. a grand Courthouse, with the obligatory statue of a Confederate soldier out front, a small community store, and a larger market (not super), two convenience store/gas stations that will make you a pizza, an ancient hotel, now a museum run by the local historical society, some restored log cabins, a new building with a dentist's office and a Subway, a post office, city office building and a library.

I visited the library, small and crammed with books and DVDs. There is a sign outside that says "Visitor Information" so I came in. The librarian gave me a street map of the county. I asked about the Appalachian Trail, which passes through the county. It's far and off bad roads from New Castle, but she pointed out a parking lot along 311, the main road from I-64 to New Castle and then to Roanoke. That part of the trail is in Roanoke County, just over the line, so I was doubtful. I noted that the librarian had a pack of Marlboro Golds on her desk. I bought a VHS tape of "Midnight Cowboy, " which Joe has never seen, and a paperback copy of John Irving's The Hotel New Hampshire from their "Library Friends" sale. It was 4 P.M. and 84 F., so I thought I would check into the hotel, sleep for an hour, and maybe come back to town for pizza or a sub for dinner, then hike a bit when it was cooler. I had trouble following the directions to the hotel and wandered through Salem, ending up sleeping from 5;45-6:30, once I located the hotel. There were expensive restaurants nearby, which didn't interest me, and a place called "Country Cookin'." I decided to go there. You order a meat dish and a side, then they have a salad bar with other sides and dessert. Too many desserts. I was good at first. I had a piece of salmon with a dry baked potato, and just a little macaroni and cheese and a lot of salad. Then I went overboard on the desserts. Feeling like I should exercise, I checked the time of sunset (8:18) and decided to head out to the part of the Appalachian Trail just inside Roanoke County. It was farther than I remembered and I pulled into the parking lot just at eight. A board at the trailhead warned about how steep the trail is, the need for water and good shoes, how easy it is to get lost. I only had a few minutes before dark, so I went ahead without all that. There were two groups of campers out in the park; one had a fire. Mountain laurel was blooming. I panted up a not-too-steep incline, crossed a bridge, and came to a stream. From there, the trail switched back and up a steep hill. That's where I turned back.

I got lost again driving back to the hotel. Luckily, I have a smartphone and Google maps. I watched a bit of "Meet The Fockers" a silly movie that I saw when it came out because Barbra Streisand and Dustin Hoffman play a married couple. I turned it off after a half-hour. Normally I would have checked emails or Facebook, but it was Shabbat, and lately, social media has become just another responsibility, so I didn't look at anything.

Google Maps said it was 267 miles from the hotel home. Going back to New Castle would cut the mileage to 250, and add very little to the time. It was 74 F. when I left Roanoke, but it soon started to rain, and things cooled off into the 50s as the rain came down and the elevation went up. I stopped for gas in New Castle  (cheaper than in West Virginia) and I was surprised that I didn't have to pay before pumping. I asked the woman inside at the convenience store and she said "I know just about everyone around here, and I know their car, so no one can get away with anything." While I was there, two men came in together, one pushing a stroller with a baby in it. I'm not going to speculate about that.

I left the motel just before nine, and I was home by three this afternoon. I went on I-64, US 19 and I-79, faster, a little longer, but less time than the way I came yesterday. Less interesting, too. The weather was much cooler, mostly in the 50s, with periods of severe rainstorms. I was in our newer Honda, a pleasure to drive.

I was glad to get away, and I don't mind driving. I need to make more time for myself, to not devote so much effort to social media. Like everyone else, I fret about climate change, and worry that I'm not doing enough, especially as much as I drive. I take a reusable water bottle with me, I don't use plastic straws, our car runs relatively clean and gets over 40 mpg on the road. That's what I can do. I'm an American, and I like road trips and Diet Coke. That's just who I am.

I plan to write three more blog posts: one about our friend Art, who died the night before Passover, about the disturbing Morgantown City Council election, which I won by a hefty margin, and one about my April trip to Coshocton County, Ohio. Hopefully, I'll find time to get them done.

Craig County Courthouse, with the obligatory Confederate statue.

Inscription on the statue. "His Race"?

Old Hotel, now a museum and headquarters of the Craig County Historical Society

Me on the Appalachian Trail. The camera corrected for how dark it actually was.

Overlook on Highway 311 on the way in to New Castle, Friday

Victorian House in New Castle, Saturday morning

Main St., New Castle

Log cabins, restored, Court St., New Castle

Craig County Library. The librarian told me she's hoping for a new building

Protest signs against Mountain Valley pipeline, proposed by Dominion Energy