Chaos in the Holler

West Virginia is often stereotyped as a place of poverty and uneducated, backwoods hill folk. My experience growing up here was nothing of the sort. However, I have met cousins raised out of state who were more like the stereotype for West Virginians.

They came to visit one summer in the 1990s. The peace of the holler was disrupted during their visit. They pulled up in an old white car with seating for six, parked at the foot of the hill on the edge of the road. Four adults, four children, and a raccoon rolled out, putting me in mind of a clown car.

Mamaw immediately gave orders. "That coon is not coming in this house. Take it down to the workshop."

Heavy and hard to close, the wooden workshop doors were left open most of the time. The coon's cage sat on a workbench just inside the doors. Every time I walked by, the coon gripped the cage, hissing and growling. I was terrified of the thing and would not get close to it. Cousin Boone had no fear. He would open the door and toss in a can of tuna. The raccoon would wrap its baby-like hands around the can, devouring the fish.

Boone was the most unhinged of the bunch. He went to Papaw's tobacco barn for dried tobacco to smoke. He came back to the house and searched until he found a brown paper grocery sack. He cut out sections big enough for a cigar. Boone rolled the dried tobacco in the brown sack. He went out, sat down on the edge of the porch, and lit up. A worn-out leather, wide-brim hat sat on his head, a stained tan pocket T-shirt stretched over his big belly, and the smoke rolled as he took big draws. I waited for the hacking and coughing to start, but none came as the smoke continued to roll. I realized then this wasn't Boone's first rodeo.

At night, firelight flickered in the window into the early morning hours. Music blared, an occasional hoot 'n' holler, followed by bursts of laughter. The next day, I overheard the adults talking about the night before: alcohol, marijuana, and dancing on the picnic table.

One afternoon, all the cousins went ginseng hunting, taking their chaos to the woods... or so we thought. An hour later, we heard crying coming from the rolled-down window of their car. They had left the three-year-old to nap in the car parked by the road. My Aunt Joyce looked after her until they returned.

During the visit, the three-year-old ran free with the older kids. She pestered Papaw's dog, Ol' Sam, climbing on him and pulling his ears until Papaw had to chain up his dog. The child was unsupervised by her parents. Chaining the dog didn't stop her. She went to where Sam was chained and started crawling on him, pulling his ears, until he'd had enough and bit her on the bottom, leaving teeth marks that broke the skin.

The little one's screaming brought everyone running. Upon realizing Ol' Sam had bitten his toddler cousin, Clyde raged, beating Sam. Papaw was working the evening shift at the time. The following morning, Papaw had to take his best friend to the shelter to be put down. Papaw mourned Sam, missing his friend who never would have willingly left his side.

That day, the crew started packing up the car. Boone emptied out coffee cans, packing the bottom with Uncle Ronnie's marijuana, then covered the top with coffee to take it back home, along with a sack of ginseng. They all piled up in the six-seater with the growling coon and drove out of the holler, never to visit again.

It took a while for us to all calm down from the visit; we all talked about it for weeks. I cashed in, finding $10 in change under the couch cushions that had fallen out of Boone's pockets while he slept.