It’s that time of the year. I go to Pennsylvania from South Carolina. It’s not the trip. It’s not the long drive. I like to drive. It’s not boredom or the losing radio stations in the mountains. While my wife sleeps, I turn the radio off so it doesn’t distract from my day- driving.

It’s West Virginia. John Denver lost all credibility with me with that “Almost Heaven, West Virginia” crap. It proved he’d never been there. If that’s almost Heaven, you have to wonder what almost Hell is like.

It’s fine if you stay on the Interstate. Never get off for any reason. Fill the tank up before you get there. I don’t know how many trillions of your dollars Harry Byrd swindled to put up that fake scenery but it looks good.

If you get off the Interstate, you’ll see West Virginia the way they see it. The pitiful thing is, they don’t see anything wrong. Aren’t all mountains black? Aren’t all shoes made with holes in the soles? Isn’t fresh roadkill the meat de jure?

I’m luckier than most. I married a Southerner. She says she can understand about every other word. We guess at the rest. Like, the “Big Road” is the Interstate, That’s what we really want to know when we accidentally get off the Interstate.

I have a brother that married a girl from there. The from there part is okay. It’s the still there part that gets my craw. We call him the lost brother. Guess every family has at least one twit. He’s ours.

I have another brother who won’t visit him saying, “Come on, there’s no such place”.

Oh yea, there is.