I’ve lived in Shepherdstown for 50 years. I never moved here. I just ended up here through a string of accidents, incidents, coincidences, and/or good luck, as in a few turns—wrong, left, and right—that landed me in Betty’s Restaurant one snowy morning in December 1974.
I sat alone in a rigid booth—built by sadistic Calvinists, I supposed.
Elca poured me a cup of hot brown water that Betty’s sold as coffee. At least it was cheap. (Fifty cents.) I sipped it while observing the cheerful clientele. Methodists, I supposed.
Elca asked whether I’d like a refill in a tone that made me think I’d better not. What a grouch. Lutheran, I supposed. I found out later that she was always grouchy. It was her trademark. Nobody in town held that against her.
Elca was loved for who she was as were many other peculiar people in this town. Silas, the gay mayor. Hazel, the town hypochondriac. Buck, the town drunk.
I finished my “coffee,” left a small tip (more than was deserved), and wandered around town gaping at store fronts, the quaint library in the middle of the street, the charming red-brick firehouse, and the Presbyterian Church that looked like a Quaker meeting house.
I saw a man (or was it a boy?) glide down Washington Street on a blue bike with a Shepherd College Ram’s flag flapping above his head. That was Charlie Kave, I found out later.
A clock struck twelve. The firehouse horn blasted. Noon time. Saturday. The village of the shepherd.
Where am I? Is this a movie set or an actual town?
Whatever it was, I liked it, and since I was a rolling stone with no place to call home, I instantly relocated myself from a single room in Harpers Ferry to a single room in Shepherdstown.
I was alone. A stranger. But not for long.
I was welcomed.
Such hospitality makes you want to return the favor over and over. And I did. But I must confess, I’m not feeling charitable these days.
Too many houses. Too many cars. Too many strangers strangling our quaint and charming village.
Lord, have mercy. I need a change in attitude.
In the meantime, let’s build a wall, draw up the bridges on both sides of the county, and stock both rivers with alligators and cottonmouths.
Ain’t no room left for urban refugees!
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See Paula’s photo on home page. Posted August 11, 2024. Scroll down to “visual explorations.”
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