Writing Contest Winner ~ April 2005

Writing for Life: Creating a Story of Your Own The therapeutic power of journaling, proven and embraced over the last century by doctors and psychologist, is an effective tool to improve health and achieve healing of the body, mind and spirit. The journaling and scrapbooking techniques taught in this course provide a creative way to connect with the inner self and heal emotional wounds while documenting your story, your life, in a fun and unique way.
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Confronting Ghosts

By Kenneth W. Bledsoe

I had forgotten how long the drive is. Getting from Manhattan to the cabin in West Virginia was faster when Lori was alive. Today, with Johnny Cash in the CD player keeping me company, it s taking forever. Now as the four-lane becomes a two-lane, it s only an hour further. Once in Alpina, I turned off the main road as snow began to fall. With thirty miles of steep, twisting dirt road ahead, I hurried. Pretty snow can quickly become deadly out here where the roads are wide enough for one lumber truck and nothing else. The drop can be 200 feet, and there are no guardrails, road signs or reflectors to guide the way.

It took about thirty minutes to navigate the lonely, pitted dirt road into Glady, population 18. I remembered when the sign read, Welcome to Glady. Population: 9. It's doubled in size over the last twenty years. Imagine if New York grew at that pace, I said to Johnny Cash. His reply was something about bending spoons and counting time on death row.

There is a crossroads in the center of Glady. If you turn right, it's the road to Durbin, a town of about 400 on the Cheat River. Durbin is a lawless place where lumbermen go to drink away their wages and find prostitutes. There's a bar fight almost every night, and someone always comes out bloodier, wiser and more humble after a weekend in Durbin. Turn left the road leads into oblivion. There's nothing but forest, logging camps and the occasional hunters tent when the slaughter is in season. The only building at the crossroads is the Glady post office, bar, liquor store, grocery store, outfitter and barber. The tiny structure dates to 1810 and is run by Sweet Emma, who was in her forties when I was a kid, so she must be pushing eighty-five by now. They call her Sweet Emma because she got real mean after losing her right arm at twenty-six in a logging accident. If the lights had been on, I would have stopped in to say hi. Sweet Emma has watched me grow from a child of five to child of forty-two, and has always been very kind to me, despite her moniker. She plied me with free candy as a child, and it was she that made the phone call to the state police four years ago after the incident. Being in tears and hysterical, I was unable. Of course there s no phone or electricity in the cabin, so I had to ride out to Glady in order to get the police. I hadn't seen Emma since that night.

I crossed the road and began the fifteen-mile trek through the fast accumulating snow to the cabin at Wildell. From the 1880's through the 1930's, Wildell was a thriving town of about 100 men, women and children. The cabin originally belonged to the owner of the lumber company, my great-great-grandfather, Opus. It has been handed down to the eldest son for four generations and used as a gathering place for hunting and family outings. The economy of the town was dependent on the lumber mill, so when it burned down in 1938, the town disappeared. Even the railroad tracks have been pulled up for the scrap iron. The only thing left in Wildell is our cabin, the old one room school used by the bear hunter in season, and six grave markers of the people who died there, including one man who was hanged. One more death at Wildell occurred a century later, but we buried Lori in New Jersey, near the place she was born.

I parked the car at the south side of the cabin, near the creek and trudged through the snow to the porch. Once inside, I lit a fire, knowing I was going to be spending the night, and it would get pretty cold before the snow stopped. It was unusual for this much snow to fall in mid-April. Lighting the fire reminded me of the first time I was at the cabin without family. I was a senior in high school and brought my girlfriend, Lori for a weekend in October 1983. We were in love and she would become my wife years later, but that Friday night, by the fire we lost our virginity together and cemented a bond that would last forever.

My family was surprised that I volunteered to make the trip to Wildell. Dad had insisted that he be buried in his beloved hunting outfit, and when the cancer took him ahead of schedule, somebody had to go get it. That I hadn't been in the cabin since the weekend Lori died was on everyone s mind, and they were concerned that it would be too much for me to overcome, but it was time to confront the past. After all, I still blamed myself for her death.

I fell asleep on the plush old couch in front of the fire. It was good to be there in the warmth with the sky crying white outside, the crackling of burning wood like mini gunshots disturbed my sleep little. I dreamed of times past; the feel of wet warmth inside Lori that first time, the Fourth of July when dad dressed up as Uncle Sam, bringing Roger, our son to the cabin. He loved the fish in the pond outside.

I awoke in the predawn light sensing someone watching me. In my sleepy peripheral vision, I caught sight of a translucent being with sparkling blue eyes filled with life, just as Lori s had always been. It WAS Lori! She had a peaceful smile, and the gunshot wound through her left eye was gone now. "You didn't know the gun was there, Sean. Roger thought it was a toy. I miss you baby, but I am happy. Be at peace and take care of our boy".

Her voice was beautiful. I went back to sleep, happier.


Copyright © 2005 Kenneth W. Bledsoe. All rights reserved.


Honorable mention in our writing contest goes to Desba C. Silvers for the story titled: The Cabin.