It's only 9am and crowds of people are flooding downtown. Downtown is a generous word to describe the stretch of Main Street which consists of maybe 3 or 4 blocks of local attractions. Must be the biggest weekend of the year: college students occupying each corner in festive colors, drunk and happy. Families piling outside the limited options of restaurants, waiting to be tipsy and entertained. Cars inch down Main, bumper to bumper. Even the police are here to direct stop and goes, and to later patrol the drunk population from getting too rowdy.
Any other weekend I’d join in the fun, but today the liveliness feels overwhelming. My house on Main starts to become packed too. Claustrophobic and cranky, I get in my car and join the line of cars. I finally reach the golden exit, passing the incoming stand-still traffic.
I drive down the highway with no destination in mind. The blue shadow-like mountains bordering the skyline gradually become more defined as I approach Western Virginia. The busy highway dwindles to a one-way state route that takes me over railroad tracks, up steep mountains, down valleys, and onto unmarked gravel roads. The farther away from established civilization I get, the more relieved I begin to feel. The diminishing service prevents my phone from blowing up with emails and notifications.
My radar pings from the back of my head. A quick U-turn and I pull over on the side of the road. I double knot my hiking boots, swing my backpack over my shoulder, and make way into the thick forest. A trail of deer dance through the trees and disappear into the distance. I smile. 40 miles back where I came from, the deer look left and right before crossing Main, just like us pedestrians.
I hike an overgrown path and pass three mobile homes. One mint colored trailer that clearly belonged to a working man- filled with boots and bud lights. One shack on wheels posted “CONDEMNED”. And the last- a vibrant neon green hippie van.
Eager for more, I continue the trek uphill to discover a rotting home, with English ivy growing over the French porch as if trying to swallow the house into the ground. I love ivy. She works diligently; doing the work of fungi and other decomposers, eating up wood, wiggling and widening small cracks, all while being admired from the outside. The invasive species will outlast us I’m sure, one day maybe even consuming all the brick buildings of cities.
The whir of a vehicle car from in the distance startles me and I dart inside. I am immediately greeted with trash bags full of clothes and bins full of junk- the family was in the process of moving out. The kitchen is littered with glasses and dishes we now consider antiques. A box labeled “china” with newspaper wrapped stacks of fancy dinnerware sits on the dining room table. Also, on the dining room table lies a guest book. Neat! I flip through the pages and examine signatures from deceased patrons of the house. A cut out from their local newspaper bookmarks the last used page.
Before closing the book and moving on with my search, I reach into my overall pockets for a pen, and sign my first name and date. I make my way through the kitchen to the stairs, or what's left of them. I tip toe my way up to a teenage girl’s room. Jackpot. This girl loves clothing and crafting. My jaw drops while admiring her collection of dresses, blazers, and blouses. One dress in particular remains hung up. A beautiful deep hunter green velvet gown with a rather scandalous V-neckline. The sun leaking through the eroding roof caused permanent patches of discoloration over the decades, but I could still envision the girl ecstatic over her brand new prom dress.
I spot crochet needles and squares of fabric all over the floor. When the contents of someone’s room is thrown around and destroyed for display, you get to know the person who occupied it, more than you would if you just met them upfront. I think we would make great friends. I move into her office and find a calendar laid out on the desk. April 28th is circled and marked, “Dad passed away”. The news of Mr. Osborne’s death sinks in. I’m not surprised- abandoned homes usually come with a depressing narrative like this one. My eyes scope over every dusty surface searching for more answers, more parts to the story. Sure enough, I dig out her dad’s army commendation medal from under the debris. A green booklet holding a certificate recognizing, “Platoon Sergeant Kenneth M. Osborne for meritorious service while serving with the 20th engineer brigade in the Republic of Vietnam during the period September 1968 to April 1969.”
The death of the father left the wealthy family on their own, which must be the reason for moving. That or eviction kicked them out before they could get their things. My 6th sense signals it's time to go.