December 2003 – February 2004
If we ever needed a sense of urgency to get the farmhouse habitable, it was facing down a cold West Virginia winter. Especially when winter meant living in a 5th wheel. There was no warning when the propane ran out—no sound, no sputter—just the creeping chill that spread like a thief in the night. My parents would eventually pack up and head to the Best Western in Fairmont, leaving me cocooned in my sleeping bag like a swaddled baby. Oreo, faithful as ever, pressed his warm little cat body against me. I didn’t mind them leaving, honestly. In some ways, it felt like a win—I knew in the morning I’d drive over to their hotel and treat myself to a hot shower in a warm bathroom. Small mercies in a season that offered so few.
We worked on the house through the cold, space heaters humming against the drafty walls, drywall dust clinging to our clothes. The kitchen was gutted, so eating out became survival as much as escape. There was relief in sliding into a warm booth after hours of cutting two-by-fours, even if guilt nipped at us for losing precious time. Our routines became rituals. Near White Hall, the Middletown Mall had two staples we never strayed from: the Chinese buffet right at the entrance and Mi Pueblo, the family-owned Mexican place with enchiladas that seemed to taste better after a long day’s labor. The other two were non-negotiables. Cracker Barrel—right off Route 79 at the Kingmont exit—was practically my parents’ second home, two to three nights a week. And then there was Colasessano’s. The place was a legend in Fairmont, a family-owned diner that made pepperoni buns unlike any other. Most pepperoni rolls were stuffed with thin slices; theirs were bursting with thick sticks of pepperoni, baked into golden buns, filled with mozzarella and chili sauce, with peppers and onions if you dared. The walls were covered with photos of famous visitors through the years, though it was the pictures of Urban Meyer that always caught my eye. He grew up in nearby Mannington, a local boy who made it big. There was comfort in these food rituals, as predictable as they were. In truth, we were creatures of habit. But between feeding alpacas, eating out, and collapsing into bed exhausted, progress on the house crawled at a snail’s pace.
That’s when I decided to take another semester off from college. The more time I spent up here, the louder the thought whispered: maybe I should just move to the farm. I loved South Carolina—the weather, my friends, my routines. The thought of a 5th wheel in the dead of winter didn’t fill me with excitement. And still, I didn’t dare voice this to my parents. If I had, they would have pounced, urging me relentlessly to move. My silence was its own shield.
Christmas that year was back in Spartanburg, at my Aunt Beck and Uncle Gene’s house. Chaos is probably the best word for it. My mom’s side of the family has always been… colorful. Dysfunctional, even—but they’d say the same if you asked them. Arguments, sharp words, laughter spilling over one another. Still, there was warmth in it. It was messy, but it was family. A week later, at Serbian Christmas on the farm, the tone shifted. My dad’s cousins from over the hill—Aunt Jean and Uncle Danny—hosted with their usual energy. Stories flew across the room, siblings teased each other, and laughter seemed to roll endlessly like a hymn. I loved it. To me, celebrating both holidays didn’t feel redundant—it felt like a festival, a season stretched out instead of just one frantic day. I felt doubled, like I belonged to two families at once.
The afterglow didn’t last. In mid-January, Pepaw fell gravely ill and was hospitalized. Fear hit me like a punch in the chest. His body had been failing for years, and this time it looked like it might finally give out. He was unconscious, hooked up to a forest of machines, and only two people could visit at a time. We stood by his bed, talking to him as if our words might coax him back. I tried to reassure Memaw, though truth be told, I was trying to convince myself just as much—that Pepaw was a fighter and would pull through. He wasn’t just my grandfather; he was my hero. A WWII veteran, a man of quiet strength. We’d gone to see Pearl Harbor together, and I’d lost count of how many times we sat side by side watching Master and Commander. In those hospital hours, the memories came like a tide, and I clung to them.
By the grace of God, he woke. Weak, but alive. My parents stayed at the hospital nearly a week, my mom planted at his side, while my dad and I drove back to the farm. It was February 1st, and I remember it well—we listened to Super Bowl XXXVIII on the radio, Patriots against Panthers, the crackling play-by-play filling the cab of the F250 as snow piled along the roadsides.
The farm greeted us with silence and snow, temperatures in the low teens. Staying warm was a battle we never won. One morning, as we eased down the driveway for supplies, the back end of Dad’s truck sank. The road had given way. The ceramic pipe that had carried creek water under the road for eighty years had finally collapsed. We climbed out into the bitter wind, our faces stung raw, our fingers numb to the bone. In fifteen-degree weather, we hooked the F250 to the tractor and dragged it free. Then, instead of getting wood as planned, we spent the day hauling a new pipe, digging in the frozen ground, repairing the driveway in short, frantic bursts of work—no more than fifteen minutes at a time before running back inside to thaw. I was glad to be there, glad Dad wasn’t alone. But I couldn’t shake the anxiety: what if he’d been by himself when the road gave way? What if he’d gotten hurt and no one was there to help? The farm was a place of beauty, but it was also in decay, neglected since the early nineties. Every project uncovered another failure, another setback. It wore on us.
Through all of it, the thoughts of moving to the farm grew louder. Yet, I couldn’t quite commit. The only part that mattered to me was helping Dad. Everything else—college, South Carolina, my own life—seemed trivial by comparison. And still, something in me held back, refusing to cross the line into permanence.