Why One WV County is Building a Landfill While Its Neighbor Shuts Down

Unstable Ground, Divergent Fates: Why One WV County is Building a Landfill While Its Neighbor Shuts Down

Introduction: A Tale of Two Counties

In the mountains of southeastern West Virginia, a curious story is unfolding. Two neighboring counties, Greenbrier and Pocahontas, are built on variations of the same treacherous geology: a type of unstable, swiss-cheese-like landscape known as "karst." Yet, they are on completely opposite paths when it comes to managing their waste. Greenbrier County is investing millions to build a massive, state-of-the-art landfill expansion. Meanwhile, Pocahontas County is being forced to close its landfill for good.

They share the same ground and the same environmental risks, so why are their paths diverging so dramatically? The answer is a compelling story about the unseen economic and geological forces that shape our communities, revealing how managing the ground beneath our feet is often a question of dollars and cents.

1. First, Understand the Ground Isn't Solid

To grasp this situation, you first need to understand the unique landscape of this region. Both counties sit on karst terrain, a landscape formed by the slow dissolution of soluble bedrock like limestone. In this case, it's a formation called the Greenbrier Group of limestone.

Over millions of years, water has carved this rock into a subterranean world of sinkholes, sinking streams, and underground caves. This creates an extreme environmental risk for waste management. In normal terrain, soil acts as a natural filter, slowly cleaning water as it seeps downward. In karst, surface water—and any toxic landfill leakage it might carry—can plunge directly into a sinkhole, creating what geologists call a "high-velocity, turbulent groundwater flow regime that is fundamentally different from the slow, diffuse flow found in granular aquifers." Contaminants can travel for miles underground in a matter of hours.

As geological studies of the area grimly point out, the danger is absolute:

"anything which goes into a sinkhole or sinking stream will enter the aquifer and emerge at a spring or well" with virtually no filtration.

2. Safety Has a Million-Dollar-Per-Acre Price Tag

Building a modern landfill that can safely contain waste on such vulnerable ground is an immense and incredibly expensive engineering challenge. To prevent the kind of catastrophic contamination described above, regulations require a multi-layered liner system, like the one being built for Greenbrier County's "Cell 7" expansion.

This is not just a simple plastic sheet. A composite liner system designed for karst terrain includes:

A carefully prepared and compacted subgrade foundation.
A thick layer of low-permeability clay.
A geosynthetic clay liner (GCL) that can swell and self-heal.
A heavy-duty high-density polyethylene (HDPE) plastic geomembrane.
A drainage layer—essentially a network of pipes and gravel—to prevent a toxic "swimming pool" of contaminated water from building up pressure on the liners below.

The cost to engineer and install such a system is staggering, ranging from $400,000 to over $1,000,000 per acre. This immense cost is the central barrier separating the two counties and the primary reason for their different futures.

3. When It Comes to Landfills, Bigger Is Better

It may seem counter-intuitive, but for modern waste management, larger landfills are often more economically viable and environmentally sound due to economies of scale. A simple comparison between the Greenbrier and Pocahontas landfills makes this clear.

Metric	Greenbrier County	Pocahontas County
Waste Processed	~42,000 tons/year	~7,000 tons/year
Tipping Fee	~$61.00 per ton	~$95.00 per ton
Future	Expanding (150+ year lifespan)	Closing (<2 year lifespan)

Greenbrier's landfill processes a large volume of waste, nearly six times more than Pocahontas. This high volume generates enough revenue from tipping fees to fund the multi-million-dollar engineering, construction, and long-term environmental monitoring required to operate safely on karst terrain. The power of this scale is striking: a mere "5 surcharge" on Greenbrier's annual waste volume would generate over "200,000/year" for capital improvements.

In contrast, Pocahontas County processes just over 8,000 tons of waste annually. Even with a much higher tipping fee of $95 per ton, it simply doesn't generate enough income to afford the necessary safety upgrades. To raise the same capital as Greenbrier, it would need a prohibitively high surcharge, making its small scale economically unsustainable.

4. A Contamination Risk That Can't Be Ignored

While both counties share a karst geology, there is a subtle but critical difference in its structure. Pocahontas County's karst exists as a narrow band that functions as a "critical recharge zone" at the headwaters of the Greenbrier River. Here, runoff from the non-soluble clastic rocks of Back Allegheny Mountain flows downslope until it hits the limestone and immediately sinks into the ground, a direct injection into the aquifer.

Greenbrier's karst, on the other hand, is described as a "broad plain of sinkholes."

The implication of this difference is profound. A contamination event in Pocahontas County, right at the river's source, would be catastrophic for the entire downstream watershed, including communities in Greenbrier County. Given its inability to fund the robust engineering and monitoring needed to prevent such a disaster, closing the landfill becomes the only responsible decision to avoid this risk.

5. It's All Part of a Statewide Strategy

This local story is not happening in a vacuum. It is part of a deliberate, state-level policy of "regionalization." West Virginia's solid waste management plan explicitly favors having fewer, larger, and better-funded regional landfills over numerous small, underfunded local ones that pose a greater environmental risk.

The expansion of the Greenbrier landfill cements its role as a regional "hub" for waste disposal. Consequently, the closure of the Pocahontas landfill forces it to become a "spoke" in this system. This move is enabled by a specific state mechanism: the Landfill Closure Assistance Program (LCAP). By being accepted into the LCAP, Pocahontas County hands over the long-term environmental liability and management of the closure process to the state, ensuring it is handled properly while allowing the county to export its waste to a facility better equipped to manage it.

Conclusion: The Real Bottom Line

The different fates of the Greenbrier and Pocahontas landfills are not the result of a lack of will or a fundamental difference in their geology. They are determined by the critical variable of economic scale. Greenbrier County's larger economy and population generate enough waste—and revenue—to afford the expensive technology needed to manage its geological risk. Pocahontas County, smaller and more rural, simply cannot.

This tale of two counties poses a difficult question that communities across the country will have to face: As environmental standards become stricter and more expensive, how will small, rural communities manage the essential infrastructure we all depend on?

Political Research

Research the history of the Pocahontas County, West Virginia. Focus on the fiscal aspects. Analyze the 2026 fiscal situation with that of the the previous years. Explore the decisions which led to the current inability to afford a new landfill and the necessity to haul the material via a transfer method.

Research the history of the Greenbrier County, West Virginia. Focus on the proposed expansion of their sanitary landfill. Is there karst terrain in the area? Compare this to the karst terrain of Pocahontas County. Discuss the rationale for the expansion of the Greenbrier County landfill but not the Pocahontas County landfill.

Research the impact of Covid on Pocahontas County Schools. Focus on the quality of educational programming, fiscal impact and personnel.

The Great Marlinton Cow Crusade

Climate Warnings, a War on Cows, and a Fallen Surgeon: 4 Astonishing Stories Hidden in a 1960s Appalachian Journal

Old archives and forgotten journals are more than just dusty records of the past; they are time capsules, holding stories that can feel surprisingly relevant and powerfully human. The personal writings of Norman Price from the 1960s offer just such a window into the history of Appalachia. His handwritten pages are filled not with dry dates, but with vivid accounts of the people and events that shaped a community.

This article shares a few of the most impactful and unexpected discoveries found within these pages—stories of startling predictions, local feuds, personal tragedies, and hidden histories that resonate as clearly today as when they were first lived.

An Eerily Prescient Climate Warning from 1960

In a journal entry dated January 5, 1960, Norman Price noted a report he read in The Tribune. He recounts how reporter Roy Gibson quoted the President of the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS), Dr. Chauncey D. Leake, who issued a chillingly specific warning about the potential for a "disastrous flood" that would be caused by the "melting of the Polar ice cap."

The journal entry goes on to identify the cause with remarkable clarity: a "change in climate" resulting from the "accumulations of Carbon Dioxide gas in the atmosphere." Even more surprising was the solution proposed over six decades ago and noted by Price: "The 'remedy', planting more trees to absorb Carbon-dioxide." To find such an accurate and timely warning tucked away in a personal journal from 1960 is a startling reminder that the concerns of our present were being voiced long in the past.

The Great Marlinton Cow Crusade

Not all history is written on a global scale. Price’s journal captures a delightful and intensely local conflict that unfolded in the village of Marlinton around the year 1912. The story centers on Mrs. Martha Wilson, who led a passionate "Crusade" with a singular, transformative goal: to "banish Cows and other live stock from the Streets and Commons of Marlinton."

Price adds a personal note to the tale, admitting that as a "cow keeper," he was firmly on the losing side of this "municipal issue." He captures the outcome of this clash between rural tradition and modernizing sensibilities with a memorable quote from his journal:

"...the more refined who objected underhandingly to the useful Cow leaving her 'Calling Card' (dung) on Streets and side-walks, prevailed and the milk-Cow banished the City!"

This anecdote is a charming and specific illustration of a universal struggle—the tension between the old ways of life and the relentless push for civic progress.

The Tragic Fall of a Prominent Surgeon

The journal also contains stories of profound personal tragedy. Price recounts the life of Dr. Kenneth J. Hawrick, who for about twenty years served as the chief physician and surgeon at the Pocahontas Memorial Hospital—an institution he had helped establish as a "public trust." He was a pillar of the community who had acquired a "lauded estate, including the Shearer ranch of nearly one thousand acres."

His standing, however, came to a sudden end. In 1933, the community was shaken to learn that his surgical license had been suspended by the State Board of Health. The reason, stated directly in the journal, was "Confessed drug-addiction - Narcotics."

The consequences were swift and total. Public protest was of "no avail," his "fine Manors and lands" were liquidated, and after a divorce, he and his son moved away. This entry is a powerful reminder that archives preserve not just public triumphs and community milestones, but also the deeply human and often painful struggles of individuals.

The Pioneer Who Fled a Fatal Duel

Delving deeper into the region's past, Price tells the story of John McNeel (1744-1826), one of the area's early pioneers. The journal reveals the surprising and violent reason McNeel first came to the area, fleeing from Frederick County "to the wilderness." His flight was prompted by a duel in which his opponent was "supposed to be fatally wounded." Believing he had killed a man, McNeel escaped into the frontier.

Price reflects on this piece of family history, noting that he could have written more but chose not to, stating, "It is no credit me to write that early Progenitors... ran around wounded duelists." This brief but revealing anecdote peels back the romanticized veneer of pioneer life, exposing the complex and brutal realities behind settlement stories. It's a stark reminder that history is an act of selection, where the storyteller, consciously or not, shapes legacy by choosing which truths to illuminate and which to leave in the past.

Conclusion: History Is Closer Than You Think

From stark climate warnings to neighborhood battles over livestock, these stories show that personal journals are treasure troves. They prove that history is not a collection of distant, abstract facts, but a rich tapestry of human experiences that are surprisingly modern, deeply emotional, and powerfully resonant. The past is not just in museums; it’s recorded in handwritten pages, waiting to be rediscovered.

What unexpected stories about our world—and ourselves—might be waiting in an old box in your own family's attic?

Brutal Realities of Our Past

What a Handwritten Archive Reveals About the Brutal Realities of Our Past

There is a unique thrill in discovering old, handwritten documents—the faint smell of aged paper, the elegant script from a world before keyboards. These personal records are more than just artifacts; they are unfiltered windows into a past far removed from the sanitized versions found in history books. They connect us directly to the thoughts, fears, and daily struggles of those who lived before us.

Recently, a personal archive from rural America offered just such a window. Its pages don't recount grand battles or political movements in the abstract. Instead, they capture the often-harsh realities of life through the eyes of one individual. The journal entries detail the lingering bitterness of war, the terrifying prospect of a toothache, and the sudden, brutal nature of everyday existence. This post shares four of the most surprising and impactful takeaways from these remarkable records.

The Civil War's Wounds Ran Deeper Than We Imagine

Decades after the Civil War officially ended, the personal and community trauma remained vivid and raw. The archive introduces us to Mr. Clark Killeson, a career soldier who served in the regular cavalry. His memory of the war was not one of distant glory, but of profound devastation, shaped by years of conflict that extended far beyond the battlefields of the 1860s.

Killeson recounted how General Philip Sheridan's army desolated the Valley of Virginia in 1864, a strategic move designed to cut off a key supply source for the Confederate Army. For the people who lived there, it was an act of total destruction. Mr. Killeson’s assessment of his former general, stated with emphasis long after the war was over, is a powerful testament to this lingering bitterness.

"a very bad man, in burning and desolating the Valley of Virginia in 1864, effectively cut off the principal source of supply for the Confederate Army."

This simple, damning statement carries immense weight, especially when we learn Killeson's service didn't end in 1865. He remained in the cavalry, and the journal notes that a battalion of his Seventh Cavalry was "wiped out under Colonel Custer in 1872." His harsh judgment of Sheridan wasn't just a memory of one war; it was the perspective of a man who witnessed decades of American conflict, from the Shenandoah Valley to the Great Plains.

A Trip to the Dentist Could Be a Terrifying Ordeal

The journal provides a stark look at the state of early dentistry, a field of jarring contrasts. On one hand, there were skilled professionals like Dr. James H. Weigmorthy, whose expertly placed gold fillings made the author "very proud." This was the best care one could hope for.

On the other hand, the more common experience was far rougher. The author notes that "Country doctors were expected to extract teeth" using forceps, despite the fact that they were "not trained to the business." The standard fee for this often-unskilled work was a shockingly tangible sum: twenty-five cents per tooth. For more serious cases, the solution was even more crude. The journal describes the use of Chloroform for "mass extractions," a risky procedure sometimes administered by a "nervous Nellie." The image this conjures—of multiple teeth being pulled for a dollar or two under primitive anesthesia—is a chilling reminder of the physical grit required for everyday life.

Medicine Was a Wild Mix of Discovery and "Quackery"

In an era before standardized medical training and regulation, the line between legitimate medicine and folk remedies was often nonexistent. This is perfectly embodied by the eccentric character of Dr. George Irvine, a man known locally as "Cedar oil" George.

Dr. Irvine was a study in contradictions. He was "very deaf and almost blind," yet he worked for many years as a "surveyor's assistant" to the County Surveyor, navigating the rugged local terrain. He had a "natural bent for medicine and surgery" and made a "discovery" of cedar oil as a botanical medicine. He produced this remedy himself by distilling a "tar or disagreeable acrid extract" from cedar stumps.

However, the author of the journal, while acknowledging Irvine's natural talent, ultimately described his practice as "quackery." Dr. Irvine's story highlights a fascinating period of medical history, where earnest discovery, local tradition, and questionable practices all coexisted, and patients often didn't know which one they were getting.

Everyday Dangers Were Sudden and Brutal

The journal vividly illustrates just how fragile life was. With little in the way of modern safety measures or emergency medicine, fatal accidents were a shockingly common occurrence, and the stories reveal that the initial injury was only the beginning of the battle for survival.

The end of Dr. George Irvine’s own life was as unconventional as his career. His badly decomposed body was found on a railway track, where he was "apparently killed and dragged by an engine." Tragedy also struck his son, Edward Irvine, years later. Edward was crushed when a large flat stone rolled down a hill, leaving him with a "fracture of several ribs, extensive bruises, and concealed hemorrhage in the pleural cavity." When the author finally reached him days later, he found the young man "in extremis; traumatic pneumonia and septic infection." The accident was brutal, but in a world without antibiotics, the real killer was the infection that inevitably followed.

These accounts are shocking, but the author reflects on the incredible resilience required to survive such a world.

"Note: I can well understand the type of endurance in bodily injury practiced by those living in primitive sections. Having survived serious injury, contusions, bruises and putrifying sores - without benefit of surgery, other than first aid."

These stories are a powerful reminder that for our ancestors, survival depended as much on sheer endurance and luck as it did on skill or medicine.

Conclusion: History Is Written in the Details

Grand historical narratives give us the outline of the past, but it is in these personal, unfiltered accounts that we find its true texture. The memories of an old soldier, the fear of the dentist's chair, and the stories of sudden, tragic accidents provide a visceral and deeply human understanding of what it was truly like to live in a different time. They show us a world of hardship and resilience that is both alien and intimately familiar.

These glimpses into a forgotten world prompt a final, lingering question: What forgotten stories of hardship and resilience might be hiding in our own local archives, waiting to be rediscovered?

Principle, Protest, and a Closed Door

Principle, Protest, and a Closed Door: Three Shocking Stories from a 1920s Doctor's Mailbox

Imagine finding a dusty box of old letters. You might expect faded ink, formal salutations, and quiet updates about daily life. But sometimes, these fragile pages hold entire dramas of personal conviction, systemic injustice, and human struggle that feel shockingly familiar. This is what happened when exploring a small collection of correspondence from the 1920s belonging to a doctor named Norman Price.

These century-old documents are more than just historical artifacts; they are windows into deeply personal battles. They reveal modern-day struggles with systemic barriers, the crushing weight of personal principles, and the universal fight for a fair chance. What seems like a simple exchange of mail reveals profound stories of protest, exclusion, and bureaucratic heartbreak.

Here are the three most impactful stories uncovered in Dr. Price's mailbox, each a powerful vignette of a person fighting against a system that seemed determined to leave them behind.

1. A Father Resigned His Military Commission in Protest

In a letter dated July 7, 1927, Dr. N.R. Price lays bare the emotional cost of a two-year battle for his son's future. The dream was a place at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. The reality, after what Price called "two years of determined effort," was definitive exclusion. His frustration radiates from the page as he recounts the perceived injustices. While his son was blocked, another candidate—the son of an Arkansas senator—seemed to have an easier path. More pointedly, Price highlights the infuriating detail at the heart of the unfairness: his son's alternate was given a special allowance he was not. The alternate, Price writes, "was admitted by conditional certificate granted six months before his qualification at the boys prep school where he was a student."

The timing of the final rejection notice was a cruel twist of the knife, arriving on the tenth anniversary of the day Price himself reported for active duty in the War. This final blow led him to an extraordinary act of protest. Believing the system had wronged his son, he refused to remain a part of it. This was not an idle threat; a separate, formal letter in the archive confirms he tendered his resignation that very day. In his own words, the conclusion was stark:

Altogether, two years of determined effort to break into the U. S. Military Academy has resulted in humiliating failure, and I have advised my son to turn his attention elsewhere and work out a career. As for myself, I have forwarded my resignation as Major. Med-O.R.C.

In this single, defiant act, a father chose to dismantle a piece of his own identity—his rank as a Major in the Medical Officers Reserve Corps—rather than condone a system he believed had failed his family. It was a profound statement of principle, placing his honor above his commission.

2. Medical Schools Were Actively Trying to Keep Poor Students Out

A 1925 letter to Dr. Price from a man named William McCaffrey Dillon reveals a chilling and deliberate barrier being erected around the medical profession. For Dillon, medicine was not just a career choice; it was a birthright, "a calling that four generations of my maternal ancestors have followed in this country." His quest to enter medical school was a deeply personal one, a mission to continue a family legacy. But as he tried to find his place, he made a disheartening discovery: the very institutions meant to train the next generation of healers were actively working to keep people like him out.

Dillon states the reality he uncovered in plain, unambiguous terms. This wasn't a passive consequence of high costs; it was an active policy of discouragement from the top down.

Unfortunately, however, I have learned to my sorrow that the door to all medical institutions is now closed to poor boys--worse, the deans of many of the medical schools are advising the poor boys to keep out of the medical profession.

This statement cuts directly against the American ideal of opportunity and the vision of medicine as a noble calling open to anyone with talent and drive. It reveals a conscious effort to create a professional elitism, building walls around a field and closing the door on a man who sought only to follow in the footsteps of his forefathers.

3. You Could Be 'Legislated Out' of Your Medical Career

William McCaffrey Dillon's letter was not just a general complaint; it was also his own personal case study in bureaucratic heartbreak. His story illustrates the maddening reality of how a person could do everything right and still be shut out when the rules of the game were changed mid-stream.

Dillon explains that he had successfully qualified as a medical student under the existing laws in 1913. Forced to leave after one year for financial reasons, he attempted to re-enter in 1917, only to be refused admittance. The reason? The requirements had been changed during his absence. He had been effectively legislated out of a career path he had already legitimately begun. The injustice of his situation—of being punished by new rules applied retroactively—is captured in the poignant questions he poses to Dr. Price:

My contention is that since I satisfied the requirements in 1913 I should be governed by the laws of that year. What do you think about this? Are medical laws retroactive? Can a enrolled student be legislated out of school?

His dilemma was not abstract. Dillon concludes his letter by laying out his only remaining options: "to either enter a Class C school in Boston or do two years premedica1 work." The choice was between attending a lower-quality, possibly unaccredited institution, or starting his entire educational journey over from the beginning. It was a specific, grueling, and potentially career-ending roadblock born not of failure, but of bad timing and bureaucratic indifference.

Conclusion: Echoes in the Archives

A father's quiet protest, a system designed for exclusion, and an individual's battle against retroactive rules—these are not just stories from the past. They are powerful vignettes of personal principle and individual struggles against impersonal forces.

These hundred-year-old letters feel surprisingly relevant, serving as a stark reminder of timeless challenges. They compel us to ask: which doors might be closing today, and who is being left behind by the changing rules of our own time?

Outlaw Cows

Outlaw Cows, Hidden Wine, and an Unbreakable Will: 4 Astonishing Stories from a Forgotten Appalachian Diary

Introduction: Unlocking the Secrets of a Bygone Era

What secrets lie dormant in the old chests and forgotten boxes of our family homes? Tucked away in handwritten letters, journals, and diaries are the unvarnished stories of those who came before us—stories that are often far more complex and surprising than the official histories we read. These documents are not just records of dates and events; they are windows into the daily struggles, private thoughts, and extraordinary resilience of everyday people.

We recently had the privilege of exploring such a window: a handwritten archive from a man named Norman Price. His diary, penned in the mid-20th century, is a remarkable chronicle of life in a small community. It captures not just the weather and local happenings, but the intimate details of a life lived, from hiding a secret stash of wine from State Police on a rocky hillside to celebrating the raw strength of unforgettable characters.

What follows are not grand tales of famous figures, but small, personal stories that make the past feel startlingly present. From clandestine activities to enduring unspeakable tragedy, these accounts reveal a world of humor, heartbreak, and incredible personal will, proving that the most powerful histories are often the ones that were never meant to be published.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1. A Bootlegger's Lament: The Perils of Hiding Wine During Prohibition

The era of Prohibition often conjures images of speakeasies and organized crime, but for many ordinary people, it was a more personal matter of navigating new laws. In his diary, Norman Price details his varied activities in 1925. On one hand, he was engaged in "trafficking by proxy," a year-long project helping a local family sell their "furniture and effects." But when the State Police began conducting raids on private houses in search of "alcoholic beverages," Price had a more personal secret to protect: his own supply.

To protect his stash, he describes caching "several gallons of wine" in jugs and hiding them "among the rocks on the hill-side." This clandestine operation, however, had an unexpected and humorous postscript. Years later, when he went to retrieve his treasure, one jug was nowhere to be found. In his own words, he could only speculate on its fate:

...it had exploded, or else I had not marked the site or funicial pressure sufficiently well.

This small, personal anecdote—of wine hidden, lost, and perhaps spontaneously exploded on a hillside—makes the historical reality of Prohibition feel immediate and vividly human.

2. The Remarkable Resilience of "Aunt Jemima" Buzzard

Every community has its legends, and in Norman Price's world, one of the most unforgettable was Jemima Buzzard, a woman he considered a personal friend for fifty years. Her story is a powerful testament to the strength of human character, beginning with the foundational choice of her marriage. Her husband, Joseph Buzzard, was considered "a hopeless cripple" in his youth after his left leg was so severely shattered by a falling tree that physicians debated amputation.

Yet, Jemima saw beyond the physical. In an act the diarist notes "of itself speaks volumes of her beloved ability and strength of character," she persuaded Joseph to marry her. This early choice to build a life based on character over circumstance foreshadowed the immense fortitude she would later require. She proved to be a "strong and capable" woman throughout her long life. Even in her later years, she could be found working barefoot in her garden and was tough enough to treat the serious injuries her husband received—several fractured ribs and bruises—while "corraleing the unruly live stock" at their daughter's home after being run over by an "outlaw wild cow." Her wit was as sharp as her will, often summing up life's troubles with a simple, homespun adage:

"Pills, Bills, and Doctors' Bills!!"

Price concludes his admiring portrait by describing her as a "thoroughly strong-minded independent & intelligent woman," noting that throughout her long life, her "will was superior."

3. A Family Enduring Unspeakable Tragedy

Jemima Buzzard's incredible strength is cast in an even sharper light when the diary reveals the immense tragedies her family endured. Her story of resilience is layered with profound heartbreak, as she outlived both of her sons, who met shockingly tragic ends.

The eldest son, William Joseph, was a "Master Sryeant [Sergeant] in the Regular Army" who served with the U.S. Army's First Division in France during World War I. He survived the horrors of the battlefield and the conclusion of the war, only to face a cruel twist of fate. Following the Armistice, while preparing to return home, he was "killed in a brawl by a French Soldier." The irony of surviving a world war only to die in a random altercation is staggering.

The family's suffering did not end there. The younger son, Harry Buzzard, died in 1940 at "aged forty years" from a "self-infected rifle shot." The diarist notes that the tragic act was "ascribed to a fit of temper." A bold and active man "employed at the local buigle and farming as well," he left behind a widow and children. These losses add a deep and poignant context to Jemima's story, revealing that her remarkable strength was not just a personality trait but a necessary shield against a life of unimaginable sorrow.

4. The Diarist's Own Candid Confessions

What makes Norman Price's diary so compelling is that he doesn't merely record the lives of others; he turns the same honest eye upon himself. The pages are filled with candid confessions that transform him from a simple chronicler into a complex, relatable human being wrestling with his own flaws and convictions.

He shares his personal struggles with a surprising frankness, noting an "abnormal craving for carminities - Cloves, pepper, cinnamon," and admitting to a lifelong battle with an "abuse of appetite for food and drink." These intimate details reveal a man conscious of his own vices and humanity.

Price is equally direct about his political motivations. When the governor was scheduled to appear at a local bridge opening, Price decided to go. He didn't attend out of civic pride or admiration for the politician, but for a much more pragmatic reason. In his journal, he recorded his reasoning, likely meaning he went to gather information or show strategic support rather than genuine enthusiasm:

"I attend, to 'pick up' because of 'Loyalty - Not Popularity'"

It is these moments of unvarnished honesty—about appetite, compulsion, and political calculation—that breathe life into the diarist. He is not just an observer of history, but a participant with his own story to tell.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Conclusion: History Is Written in the Margins

A lost jug of wine, a resilient woman who defied expectations, two sons lost to tragedy, and a man's private confessions—these are not the headlines of history books. They are, however, the substance of real life. Norman Price's diary is a powerful reminder that history is not just a collection of great events, but a mosaic of millions of small, personal stories filled with humor, heartbreak, and an enduring will to carry on.

These fragments from a forgotten archive offer an authentic glimpse into a past that feels both distant and deeply familiar. They prompt us to wonder: What extraordinary stories of everyday life are waiting to be rediscovered in our own communities and family histories?

The Living Breath of the Mountains

Salt Shaker Press: ARTS & HERITAGE

The Living Breath of the Mountains: Pocahontas County’s "High Lonesome" Heritage

MARLINTON, WV — In the deep folds of the Allegheny Mountains, where the wind whistles through the spruce as often as any flute, the music of Pocahontas County is not merely a pastime; it is an ancestral language. From the ancient fiddle tunes of the Hammons family to the "high lonesome" harmonies of the Black Mountain Bluegrass Boys, the county's sonic landscape serves as a living archive of the American frontier.

The Hammons Dynasty: Curators of the Ancient Sound

For over a century, the Hammons family has stood as the "Cultural Guides" of the region. Inducted into the West Virginia Music Hall of Fame in 2020, members like Edden, Burl, and Maggie Hammons preserved a repertoire of songs and stories that predated the American Revolution.

Folklorists from the Library of Congress flocked to the county in the 1970s to record what they called a "striking cultural synthesis." Their music—characterized by intricate, off-beat "syncopated" rhythms—carried echoes of the British Isles, West Africa, and even the indigenous tribes of the mountains. "When Maggie Parker sang a ballad, she wasn't just performing," says a local historian. "She was summoning the voices of three generations."

The Opera House: A Cultural Heartbeat Restored

At the center of this musical revival is the Pocahontas County Opera House in Marlinton. Built in 1910 by timber businessman J.G. Tilton, the building has survived lives as a roller rink and a car dealership before being restored to its former glory in 1999.

Today, the Opera House serves as a lighthouse for Appalachian culture. While it hosts international acts ranging from Cuban boleros to classical jazz, its soul remains firmly rooted in local tradition. It is here that the Black Mountain Bluegrass Boys, the state's longest-running bluegrass band, still draws crowds that rattle the original chestnut accents of the balcony.

A Crossroads of Tradition

New research into the county’s musical roots has highlighted a hidden history: the interracial exchange that helped define "Old-Time" music. Legend tells of Grafton Lacy, a Black fiddler and railroad worker in the logging town of Cass, who mentored Burl Hammons in a unique three-fingered guitar style and shared tunes like "Darky's Dream."

This blending of styles—the European fiddle paired with the African-originated banjo—is what created the distinct Appalachian sound that continues to evolve today.

The Torchbearers: Jake Krack and Beyond

The tradition is far from static. Young virtuosos like Jake Krack, an award-winning fiddler mentored by the legends of the previous generation, ensure the "mountain music" isn't a museum piece. Along the Mountain Music Trail (Route 219), the sound of the clawhammer banjo still echoes from the porches of Hillsboro to the stages of Green Bank.

"You can’t separate the music from the timber, the rivers, or the solitude," notes one local musician. "As long as these mountains stand, someone’s going to be picking a tune to match the rhythm of the woods."

Would you like me to research a specific musical family from the county or perhaps find a schedule of upcoming jams at the Opera House?

The Hammons Family

This video provides a deep look into the Mountain Music Trail and the legendary musicians like the Hammons family who shaped the cultural identity of Pocahontas County.

Legends of Pocahontas

Salt Shaker Press: SPECIAL INVESTIGATIVE REPORT

Whispers in the Pines: The Unsolved Mysteries of Pocahontas County

MARLINTON, WV — In the high country of Pocahontas County, where the fog clings to the Monongahela National Forest like a shroud, the line between history and hauntings has always been thin. As the "Birthplace of Rivers," this rugged terrain has nurtured more than just the headwaters of the Greenbrier and the Gauley; it has cultivated a century-old crop of legends that continue to baffle locals and visitors alike.

The Eternal Sentry of Droop Mountain

The silence at Droop Mountain Battlefield State Park is often described as "heavy." It was here, on November 6, 1863, that the last major Civil War battle in West Virginia claimed nearly 400 lives. Today, park visitors and rangers report more than just historical markers.

Reports of a headless Confederate soldier wandering the cliffs remain the area's most persistent legend. "You’ll hear the gallop of horses where there are no horses," says one local enthusiast. "And sometimes, when the wind dies down, you can still smell the acrid tang of black powder." Some hikers have even reported seeing a lone sentry sleeping against an oak tree, only for the figure to vanish as they approach.

The "Apple Devils" and the Marlinton Beast

In the 1960s, a different kind of fear gripped the county seat. Residents near Marlinton began reporting encounters with "Apple Devils"—fast-moving, bipedal creatures covered in long hair that reportedly raided local orchards. Unlike the standard Bigfoot lore, these "devils" were said to have a particular craving for apples, leaving behind half-eaten fruit and a foul, musky odor.

While the Department of Natural Resources maintains that mountain lions have been extinct in the region for a century, "panther" screams and sightings of "bipedal beasts" continue to be whispered about in the hollers.

The Doyle House Specters

In the historic logging town of Cass, the past is a living thing. Specifically, in Company House No. 518, known as the Doyle House, guests have long reported the sightings of a woman and two small children walking the wooden boardwalks late at night. These spectral residents are described as peaceful, almost melancholic, seemingly stuck in a loop of the town's industrial heyday.

A Legacy of Blood and Silence

The county’s lore isn't limited to ghosts. The very landscape carries an ominous weight:

The Devil's Backbone: A jagged sandstone formation on Route 39 that early settlers believed was forged by dark forces rather than erosion.
The Hollow Tree Feud: The legend of Marlin and Sewell, the county’s first European settlers, who grew so tired of arguing over religion that Sewell moved out of their cabin and into a hollow sycamore tree nearby.
The Quiet Zone: In modern times, the National Radio Quiet Zone in Green Bank adds a layer of eerie silence. With cell service and Wi-Fi restricted to protect the world's largest steerable radio telescope, the "Great Silence" has birthed its own modern myths of government secrets and celestial signals.

"In these mountains, we don't just tell stories to pass the time," notes a local historian. "We tell them because, in a place this wild, you never quite know what's watching from the treeline."

Would you like me to compile a guide on how to visit these specific legendary sites in Pocahontas County?

The Hauntings of Droop Mountain

This video explores the history and reported paranormal activity at the Droop Mountain Battlefield, providing visual context to the legends of the fallen soldiers mentioned in the report.

Pocahontas County, often called the "Birthplace of Rivers," is a region where the deep, rugged valleys of the Allegheny Mountains preserve both the natural landscape and a collection of eerie, historical folklore. Exploring these legendary sites requires navigating narrow mountain passes and, in some areas, leaving modern technology behind.

Echoes of the Civil War

“A fun place to explore and see some good views! To have a old '90s playground that hasn't been touched so you can try a metal slide like we used to as kids”

Will T

is the location of West Virginia’s last major Civil War engagement and is widely considered one of the state's most haunted locations. The park offers a somber, atmospheric experience where visitors often report a "heavy" feeling near the burial sites, particularly when the mountain fog rolls in.

Haunted Landmarks: Visit the Confederate cemetery and the lookout tower, where sightings of a headless sentry and the sounds of phantom horses have been reported for decades.
Visitor Services: The park features a small museum located behind the park office that displays artifacts from the 1863 battle, providing historical context to the reported hauntings.
Hiking Trails: There are over 3 miles of hiking trails that loop through the battlefield, allowing you to walk the same terrain where the spectral "sleeping sentry" is said to appear.

The Haunted Logging Town

“Absolutely loved our Christmas train. The trains were warm and the food after was delicious! Their staff is fun and friendly. Highly recommend for all ages but especially if you have young kids.”

Haley

is an authentic, preserved 20th-century logging town where the past feels remarkably close. The town is famous for its restored company houses, specifically Company House No. 518 (the Doyle House), where guests and staff have reported sightings of a woman and children from the town's industrial heyday.

Guided Walking Tours: Historical tours of the town are typically led Tuesday through Sunday at 12:00 PM and 4:00 PM, covering the town's lore and the daily lives of the loggers.
Stay the Night: For a truly immersive experience, you can rent and stay overnight in the historic company houses, including those where spectral activity is most frequently reported.
Heritage Trains: Ride the steam-powered Shay locomotives to Whittaker Station or Bald Knob to see the rugged terrain that birthed the county's most enduring wilderness myths.

The Great Silence

Directions

serves as the gateway to the National Radio Quiet Zone, a 13,000-square-mile area where radio transmissions are strictly limited. The resulting silence creates an eerie, "off-the-grid" atmosphere that has fueled modern legends about government secrets and signals from the stars.

The "Quiet" Experience: Note that cell service and Wi-Fi are non-existent here; it is essential to download your maps or bring paper directions before entering the Green Bank area.
Science Center Tours: The Science Center offers docent-guided tours that take you close to the massive Green Bank Telescope, the world's largest steerable radio telescope.
Tech-Free Zone: Visitors are often required to turn off all electronic devices (including digital cameras in certain areas) to prevent interference, heightening the sense of isolation.

Ancient Formations and Pioneer Spirits