Big Stone Gap Read Free

Her house is way up in Cracker’s Neck Holler. There are lots of twists and turns to get there, and I sort of fly around the curves like Mario Andretti (another great Eye-talian). There’s an element of danger in mountain roads—there are no guardrails, so it’s you and your rack-and-pinion steering. If you lose your concentration, you could go over the mountain. One foggy night the Brightwell brothers lost control of their truck and drove off the cliff. Luckily, the trees broke their fall. A state cop found the boys hanging in the branches like fresh laundry the following morning. They lost their truck, though. On impact, it fell off of them like pants. Now it rests at the bottom of Powell Valley Lake.
    The Gap, or “down in town” as the holler folks call it, is in the valley. The hollers are little communities nestled in the sides of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I couldn’t give you directions to places up in the mountains, but I could take you there. There are no signs anywhere; you have to know your way. When you climb to the highest peak around here, you can see the borders of five states: Virginia, Kentucky, North Carolina, Tennessee, and West Virginia. You can’t actually see the divider lines of course; you just know that you’re looking at five states because there’s a plaque that says so and because we were taught that in school. Tiny Miss Callahan, my fourth-grade teacher, would be very happy that I retained this information and shared it.
    Each holler has its own name and singular history. Families found pockets that suited them in these hills and never left. Where people settle tells a lot about them. This is the only place I’ve ever lived, except for college. I went away to school, all the way up to South Bend, Indiana, to Saint Mary’s, a small women’s college. It was just big enough for me. When I got my B.S., I came home and took over management of the Pharmacy. I was needed here. My father had gotten sick and had to quit, and Mama couldn’t handle it alone. It wasn’t that she was a weak woman; she just couldn’t handle change.
    I’ve made it up to Cracker’s Neck in record time. The MacChesney homestead sits in a clearing. It’s a square stone house with four chimneys. Hearth fires smell better in stone houses, and Mrs. Mac always has one going. I park and wait for the dogs to circle. We have hundreds of wild dogs in the mountains, and they travel in packs. Most aren’t rabid, and when they are, they get shot. I count six thin dogs sniffing my wheels. Buying time, I unzip my window and toss out the sign that identifies me to customers. It’s a white plastic square that says: THE MEDICINE DROPPER . (I sprung for the extra artwork, a silhouette of a nurse in a rush.)
    I usually find the guts to get out of the Jeep when I see Mrs. Mac peeking out of her window. The last thing I want to appear to customers is chicken. Truth is, I appreciate her watching out for me as I open the door and swing my legs out. Ever so casually I pull myself to a rigid standing position and walk confidently through the yard to the front door, like Maureen O’Hara in every movie she ever made with John Wayne. Maureen O’Hara is short-waisted like me. She is my inspiration in wardrobe and courage. I’ve even taken to wearing my hair like her—simple and long in a neat braid. I pack less punch though; my hair is brown, hers lustrous red.
    The porch is freshly painted gray without a speck of dirt anywhere. The firewood is stacked neatly to the side of the house in a long row, in a lattice design. I try not to have favorites, but Mrs. Mac and her orderly home definitely top my list.
    “Took you long enough!” Mrs. Mac exclaims as she snaps open the screen door.
    “Iva Lou and I were chatting.”
    “I done figured that.” Mrs. Mac points to the fire. “Is that a good un, or is that a good un?” The flames lick the grid in hungry yellow bursts.
    “That is the best fire I have ever seen.” And I mean