The Second Sunday Drive, Day Trip Five

Mount Tabor United Methodist Church

Near Wadesville, West Virginia

Day Trip Four ended just as had Day Trip Two.  I spent over three hours, covered approximately sixty miles, and never left Marshall County.  Day Trip Five, on the other hand, got me a bit further afield, even though it, too, ended with me being dissatisfied with my own progress.  Somehow my goals always seem to exceed my achievements.

On Thursday, August 23rd, I got an early start (7:20 am) and took off on the same roads I had used for Day Trip One.  That is I crossed the ridges of Marshall County, meeting U.S. Highway 250 at Bellton, then drove past the ruins of Littleton and the hamlet of Hundred.  This time, however, I turned north on West Virginia Highway 7 which led me into Monogalia County just a short time after leaving 250.

Monongalia County came into being in 1776 when the Commonwealth of Virginia divided up its West Augusta District into three counties, each named for the prominent river of the region—the Ohio, the Monongahela, and the Youghiogheny.  At the time, the line surveyed by Mssrs. Mason and Dixon had not yet been agreed to, and much of these three counties lay in what became southwestern Pennsylvania.  The section of West Virginia Highway 7 over which I was driving, is called the Mason-Dixon Highway as it parallels that famous division and is the closest highway to the actual line.

Once past the town (widespot) known as Wadestown, I saw a sign directing traffic to the Mount Tabor United Methodist Church, just two and a half miles off WV 7 to the north.  Why not capture another rural UMC, I thought and turned the Saab onto the dirt road behind the Shriver farmstead.  The road reminded me of the old joke about My Gal Sal—she lives on Tough Street.  The further you go the tougher it gets and she lives in the last house.  Just as I was thinking of giving up, I came around a bend in the road and there was the church, in perfect photographic light.

The Monongalia County Courthouse

Morgantown, West Virginia

After capturing several scenes of the church, the churchyard, the small cemetery attached to the church, the surrounding countryside (seemingly endless rows of ridgetops), and a herd of deer racing through the newer, larger Mount Tabor Cemetery, I climbed back in the Saab and found, to my amazement, that Nancy was now directing me, not back along the route I’d taken into the church, but forward, continuing along the same road, but now in much better condition.  In time, I came back out on WV 7, west of Wadestown, and I passed through that picturesque village a second time.

The highway brought me within several yards (I assume) of the Pennsylvania State Line, past the Mason-Dixon Historic Park and the site of the Catawba War Path along Dunkard Creek, before turning toward the southeast and delivering me to Morgantown, Seat of Monongalia County and home of West Virginia University—just rated the number one party school in the nation.  (Let’s hear it for higher education.)

You may remember that the last time I was in Morgantown, while looking for the county courthouse, I drove a circle route through downtown that took me past the same corner three times.  This time I had prepared myself with a street address for the courthouse, which only helped when I finally gave up and parked the Saab having driven the same circle as before with no luck.  Turns out the courthouse sits back from the street, behind a stand of trees in a small park.  The beautiful building is almost impossible to photograph because there is no place to get a clear vantage point.

By this time, I still hadn’t had breakfast, and had been looking forward to a “Morning in Morgantown” stop, but alas, I could find no place that was open, serving breakfast, and with a parking lot.  With no change in my pocket for the ubiquitous meters, I drove on, noticing as well that not just my stomach, but the Saab’s was getting empty.

As I crossed Interstate 68, I began to fear that I wouldn’t find any place to eat or fill the tank, so I turned back to the gas station/convenience store I had passed just a mile before the Interstate.  The pump wouldn’t latch, so I had to hold the handle while filling the tank, and then the pump shut off at $50, even though I could have used more gas.  Breakfast ended up being a bottled smoothie and some cheese I purchased at the local Walmart Supercenter.  Of course, once back on the road, this time U.S. Highway 119, I passed many gas stations and a few restaurants.  It’s what comes of not knowing the territory.

As a sideline on this travelogue, I recently read that the single largest private employer in West Virginia is Walmart.  It seems that every town of any size at all has one of the stores, and most seem to have a Supercenter—all of which make our Missoula Supercenter look small.

Highway 119 led me back to Grafton, in Taylor County, where Nancy had misled me so many times on the last trip through the county.  This time I determined to use the signs posted by the state, and thus was able to find Tygart Lake State Park with no problem.  

Tygart Lake State Park

Near Grafton, West Virginia

I spent a little time at the lake itself, and more at the site of Tygart Dam which forms the reservoir out of the Tygart Valley River, then drove back to Grafton and on westward using U.S. Highway 50, which took me right through the center of Harrison County and its seat, Clarksburg.

Once more I was relying on Nancy to lead me to the Harrison County Courthouse, and she directed me off US 50 right at the site of the First United Methodist Church.  (I can’t avoid them even if I wanted to.)  Just a couple of blocks away, I pulled up in front of the courthouse, finding a loading zone where I could park without worrying about feeding a meter.  Downtown Clarksburg is much like downtown Wheeling.  There are lots of beautiful old buildings I’d love to have pose for me.  But as with Wheeling, I decided to leave that for some future trip, and got back on U.S. 50 heading west.

My parents used to talk about driving between Parkersburg and Clarksburg.  I can only imagine what the road must have been like before West Virginia Senator Robert C. Byrd starting bringing federal money into the state.  Today, that section of U.S. 50 west of Clarksburg is part of the Robert C. Byrd Appalachian Highway System, a four-lane divided road that makes the trek much easier than what my parents faced.

There were two buildings I wanted to photograph in western Harrison County, both of them Methodist churches.  The community of Wolf Summit lies just off U.S. 50, and back in the 1940s it had at least two Methodist Churches.  Today I couldn’t find one.  Well, there was a building that quite obviously had been a church, but it had no sign of any kind, and the only church sign I did find led to a Wesleyan Methodist Church, not one my father would have served.  Seeing a man working in his driveway across from the “church-like structure,” I asked if he could direct me.  Unfortunately, he had lived in Wolf Summit only twenty some years, so had no idea what things were like back in 1942.  He did confirm that the building I was seeing had been, at one time, a Methodist Church, but now it was in private hands.

Relying this time on my map, and not Nancy, I crossed  Highway 50 and headed south toward Jarvisville.  Well, I thought I was heading toward that town.  Turns out I was on route 31 instead of 33, and while I passed beautiful countryside, I could not find my objective.   Directing Nancy to find Jarvisville, I ended up in a construction zone where I admitted to the flagger that I was lost.  Asking where I was headed, he agreed with my assessment, and directed me to turn around and wait for the truck traffic on the one-lane road I had just traversed.

Most Definitely NOT the Jarvisville United Methodist Church

Once back on U.S. 50, I passed the turn-off for the Jarvisville Road and continued on into Doddridge County.  The Doddridge County Fair was open for business at the fairgrounds south of U.S. 50, but I was beginning to feel the hours I had spent driving, and had determined that my original goal of seeing Doddridge County, Ritchie County and Pleasants County was a bit too ambitious.  Taking the exit for West Union, the County Seat, I looked for the courthouse.  Not hard to spot, as it is the largest structure in town and set on top of a hill.  It was, however, very difficult to photograph as it is an enormous building and again I found it almost impossible to fit in my frame from any conceivable angle.  I tried though.  Lord knows I tried.  I got lovely views of the back and sides of the building, but when I finally found a spot that would allow my widest angle setting to get the whole building, of course I was looking into the sun.  

The Doddridge County Courthouse is the kind of structure that grabbed my attention in Stanford, Montana, and started me on my project of collecting county courthouses.  It is hard for me to imagine why a county that at its peak had fewer than 14,000 residents (the 1900 U.S. Census counted 13,689 people in Doddridge County, and with few exceptions it’s been downhill ever since), why would they need such an extravagant building?  There were other beautiful buildings on the same hilltop, including (of course) the local United Methodist Church, but the streets away from the courthouse were peppered with parking meters, so it was back in the car to head north on West Virginia 18 toward Middlebourne, New Martinsville, and home to Roseland.

West Virginia 18 follows the path of Middle Island Creek, the longest creek in the state.  I followed along as well, taking a brief side trip at Alma to photograph Ripley Chapel UMC and the lake at Conaway Run Wildlife Management Area.

After a stop at the New Martinsville Walmart (which Nancy knew how to find) where I picked up some food supplies for the next week, it was back up on the mountain to Roseland and my home away from home.

The Doddridge County Courthouse

West Union, West Virginia

Today’s drive covered 258 miles and took ten hours and twenty minutes at 25 m.p.h., a new high-speed record.

The Second Sunday Drive, Wetzel County WV

According to the state history sign at the Wetzel/Tyler County line, Wetzel County was “formed in 1846 from Tyler.  Named for Lewis Wetzel, the great frontiersman who, with his brothers during Indian days, ranged the settlements from their home in Marshall County throughout northern West Virginia.”    This sign tells us two things, both indirectly.  First is that Wetzel County was one of the original eighteen counties that voted to separate from Virginia during the War Between the States.  The second is that Lewis Wetzel, that “great frontiersman,” was in today’s terms a psychopathic serial killer who made it his life’s goal to exterminate the Native American race.   Of course for 18th and 19th century European-Americans, that would make him a hero.  (See James P. Pierce’s biography of Wetzel, “Lewis Wetzel, Dark Hero of the Ohio,” by clicking on the link.

The Wetzel County Courthouse

New Martinsville, WV

The New Martinsville City Hall

The Wetzel County Chamber of Commerce

New Martinsville, WV

Ruins

Littleton, WV

19 - Exchange Bank - 06

Littleton, WV

Littleton United Methodist Church

Littleton, WV

Hundred, West Virginia

Hundred United Methodist Church

Off U.S. Highway 250

Wetzel County Farm

According to the 2010 U.S. Census, Wetzel County has 16,583 residents, of whom 5,366 live in the county seat, New Martinsville.  The county is 98.8% white.  Less than half the county residents are church-goers, a fact which surprised me in West-By-Gawd-Virginia, but of those, twenty-seven percent belong to the United Methodist Church, the largest single denomination in the county.  Average size of Wetzel County farm is 146 acres, and the average value of agricultural products sold per farm is $2,137.  Since the average total farm production expenses per farm amount to $4,173, farming would seem to be a losing proposition here.  The largest industry in the county is the chemical industry with Bayer Material Science and PPG Industries both being members of the Chamber of Commerce.

Informative Web Sites:
Wetzel County
US Census Bureau
City-Data.com
Wetzel County Chamber of Commerce

3. Yellowstone County, Montana

3

Yellowstone County was created on February 26, 1883, and by 1890 the US Census showed 2,065 people living in the county. Land for the county came from Gallatin, Meagher, Carbon and Custer Counties. While the county lines were changing pretty much constantly during the early years, in 1892, Yellowstone County covered over 6,000 square miles. By 1930, the census showed 30,785 county residents, which put the county in 3rd place at the time the county number scheme was implemented in 1934. Today Yellowstone County is the most populous county in the state, with a 2008 estimated population of 142,348 people, up 10% from the 2000 US Census count of 129,350. The land area today covers 2,635 square miles for a 2000 population density of 49.1 people per square mile. The county was named for the Yellowstone River which flows out of Yellowstone National Park and traverses the county flowing from southwest to northeast and serving as the principal source of irrigation water for the county's agriculture. The Yellowstone River in turn was named by the French trapper/explorers who misunderstood the indigenous Crow Indians. The Crow had always called the river the Elk River, but apparently in the Crow Language, Elk and Yellow Rock sound enough alike that the French were confused.

Yellowstone County Court House

Billings is the county seat and Montana's most populated city. Founded in 1877 and incorporated in 1882, the city was named for Frederick Billings, then President of the Northern Pacific Railroad. Fifteen miles west of Billings is the town of Laurel where the Northern Pacific had their largest rail yard between Minneapolis and Seattle. The Billings/Laurel area is also home to numerous oil refineries, including ones run by Exxon/Mobile, Conoco/Phillips, and Cenex (Farmers' Union Central Exchange). Because the region outside of the Billings metro area is so sparsely populated, Billings serves as the commercial hub for eastern Montana, northern Wyoming and the western part of North Dakota.

Laurel Montana United Methodist Church

In June, 1949, when my mother was 4 months pregnant with me, my father was transferred to the yoked parish of Laurel and Park City. I was born in October in the Billings Deaconess Hospital. (A Deaconess is a type of Methodist nun, largely active as nurses and teachers. Today, with female clergy the norm in the United Methodist Church, the order of Deaconess has all but died out.) While my father served the Laurel parish, it was separated from the Park City parish, and a new physical plant was constructed (shown above). My father was always proud that the church burned the mortgage 2 years and 9 months after breaking ground for the new church structure. The sanctuary seats 700, and the first service in the new building had standing room only.

Detail from the original Billings Chamber of Commerce Building

Despite the modern look of the court house, Billings and Yellowstone County have many lovely older structures, including the original Billings Chamber of Commerce building located across the street from the Court House. Built in 1910 as the Elks Lodge, the building was sold to the precursor of the Chamber of Commerce, who continued to use the building into the 1960s. Threatened with demolition in the early 70s, and again in the 90s, the building still stands today and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Yucca with dried pods

Despite being the most industrialized county in the state, Yellowstone remains predominately agricultural. Livestock sales in the county ranked #1 in the state in 2004, and principal crops include wheat, barley, corn and sugar beets. The land is dry and farmland has to be irrigated for production to succeed. The main landscape feature is the sandstone bluffs on either side of the Yellowstone River. Rising above the northern edge of the city of Billings, the Rimrocks form a natural barrier to expansion. Logan Field, the Billings airport, sits on top the bluffs, and should you fly into town, you may be surprised when your plane lands without seeming to descend from the clouds. As you approach the airport, you look down on the city and magically you're on the ground.

Billings is home to Montana State University-Billings, formerly known as Eastern Montana College, and to Rocky Mountain College, a private 4-year school jointly owned by the Congregational Church (UCC), the Presbyterian Church and the United Methodist Church.

Photo Information:

Note that double clicking on any image will open that image in a larger format on a new screen.

Yellowstone County Sign: Taken 3/25/2010 on the Yellowstone/Big Horn County line on Montana Highway 47. Nikon D80 DSLR, Nikkor 16-85 mm wide angle/tele/zoom lens set at 62 mm. ISO 125, f /11.0, 1/10 second. Finished in Photoshop CS4.

Yellowstone County Court House: Taken 3/24/2010 in Billings, Montana. Nikon D80 DSLR, Nikkor 16-85 mm wide angle/tele/zoom lens set at 16 mm. ISO 125, f /5.6, 1/8 second. Finished in Photoshop CS4.


Laurel United Methodist Church: Taken 3/24/2010 in Laurel, Montana. Nikon D80 DSLR, Nikkor 16-85 mm wide angle/tele/zoom lens set at 28 mm. ISO 125, f /11.0, 1/10 second. Finished in Photoshop CS4.

Detail of the Chamber of Commerce Building: Taken 3/24/2010 in Billings, Montana. Nikon D80 DSLR, Nikkor 16-85 mm wide angle/tele/zoom lens set at 24 mm. ISO 125, f /5.6, 1/4 second. Finished with a water color filter in Photoshop CS4.

Yucca Plant: Taken 3/25/2010 off Montana highway 47. Nikon D80 DSLR, Nikkor 16-85 mm wide angle/tele/zoom lens set at 85 mm. ISO 125, f /11.0, 1/10 second. Finished in Photoshop CS4.

Father's Day, 2007

Poppa (Clarence Gilbert Spellman), 8/16/1912-3/20/1988
With Hans (1968-1980)
Taken at the family cabin near Stevensville, Montana
Summer 1973

Faith of our fathers, living still,
In spite of dungeon, fire, and sword,
O how our hearts beat high with joy
When e’er we hear that glorious word!

--Frederick W. Faber, 1849

I never came out to my father. By the time I gained the courage to be honest, my father was no longer mentally competent. Mother tried to explain my living situation the one time my parents visited my partner and me in our Montana home, but neither Mother nor I were ever sure just how much Poppa understood.

Maybe I should get one thing out right in the beginning. I’m a PK. Now you all know what a PK is, don’t you? Poppa was a minister in the United Methodist Church. I’m a Preacher’s Kid, a PK for short. At fifty-seven years of age, I’m ready to accept that fact. It’s taken a while. As a kid, I didn’t think too much about it. It was my life and I lived it.

Growing up I quickly became aware that I was not the son my father wanted. My parents had been married for fifteen years when I was born. They had lost two children, boys both, at birth or shortly after. I grew up being told that the doctors had said Mother couldn’t have children. And indeed, her pregnancy carrying me almost killed her and me both. When my father was transferred from Stevensville to Laurel, Montana, in June before I was born in October, Mother’s doctor told her that she would have to stay in Missoula until after the birth. Mother refused, saying that her husband had been transferred and she would be going with him. The doctor replied, “You’ll lose the baby.” I’m here to tell you the doctor was wrong.

Poppa really wanted a son. When I was six months old, Poppa came home with a gift for his boy—a 30.06 rifle. I still own it. If you can appreciate the beauty in a well turned piece of wood, this particular killing machine is beautiful. I’ve even shot it—twice. I doubt that I’ll ever fire it again, but I keep it because it came from my dad. On the other hand, I’ve been told that the first “toy” I asked for by name was a vacuum cleaner. Can you sense some disconnect here?

We got our first television when I was in second grade. There was only one channel in Billings, Montana in 1957, and we watched everything. I enjoyed the variety shows. I really enjoyed the male dancers on Red Skelton’s show. I wanted to be a male dancer, but Father let me know that Men don’t dance.

St. Mary's in the Bitterroot Mountains
Our land west of Stevensville, Montana
Taken April 23rd, 2007

After we moved to the Bay Area, Mattel introduced a new toy. I didn’t want Barbie myself, but I wanted to design her clothes. Father was livid. If he’d only known how much money the big designers make, he might have changed his tune, but I doubt it. Men didn’t do that sort of thing. I put away the cloth, the scissors, the sewing machine, and gave Barbie back to the girl down the street.

I was always very close to my mother. I got my civics lessons from her. I got my reading lessons from her. Ironically enough, as a PK, I got my religious training from Mother. Over the years I would remind Momma of just how much she had taught me. A year or so before her own death, Mother asked, “Didn’t you get anything at all from your father?” I had to think about that, but yes, indeed I did.

My father was an avid fisherman—on the river before dawn and out until after dusk. He tried taking me along, even as a toddler, but the hours and the tedium were too much for this child. His statement, “Just one more hole”, became a family joke. I never became the fisherman Poppa would have wanted, but I learned that a day spent on the water is never wasted.

As should be obvious from his early gift to me, Poppa was a hunter. I grew up eating elk, venison, antelope rather than beef. We always had a freezer full of game. But shortly before my fourth birthday, my grandma was hospitalized with pancreatic cancer and Momma went east to look after her. Momma stayed in West Virginia for six weeks, long past my birthday and into hunting season. Poppa knew he had to look after me, but it was his nature to be out in the woods. Was it his fault that Walt Disney had just put Bambi in the theaters? Was it his fault that I had seen the movie just before Poppa took me hunting? Was it his fault that four-year-old Bryan screamed when Poppa shot Bambi?

And while I have never shot Bambi myself, except with a camera, I enjoy hiking the hills in crisp fall weather. From Poppa I learned how to walk with a rolling gait that makes no sound in the forest. From Poppa I learned that a day in the woods is a treasure. Frankly I feel closer to God in the mountains than I ever do in church. And I like to think Poppa might have felt the same.

Momma and Me
Taken by Poppa on the Boulder River, South-Central Montana
1950

Poppa was an amazing photographer. He shot Ektachrome in his Kodak 35mm range-finder camera. I grew up watching all those slide shows—and they were good shots. As an adult I met a man in the camera department of a big box store. When he saw my name, he asked if I were Clarence Spellman’s son. He told me that Poppa had done the earliest color work in the Yellowstone Valley and that he himself had processed all of Poppa’s film. As I reinvent my life for the fourth time, I am studying to be a travel writer and photographer. I look at Poppa’s images for my own inspiration.

And Poppa taught me one other thing—probably the most important aspect of my life to date. Poppa taught me about “vocation.” He always said that he did not choose the ministry. In fact he fought the “call” for ten long years. The hardest thing he ever had to do in his life was ask Mother to give up their newly-built home, so that he could go to college and then seminary. I believe that we each have a vocation. Some people are called to ministry, some to education, some to being Chevrolet mechanics, but all are called. That has been my guiding principal for the past forty years, and the main impetus behind my activism in Montana gay politics.

Faith of our fathers, we will love
Both friend and foe in all our strife;
And preach thee, too, as love knows how
By kindly words and virtuous life.

I will never forget early September, 1976. I was headed to Santa Rosa for the annual Highland Games sponsored by the San Francisco Caledonian Society. I was going to dance. Just before stopping at my parent’s home in Smith River, California, I pulled into the gas station to fill up. Sitting at the pumps, the Cougar wouldn’t start, and I had to have the battery jumped. When I explained to my parents what had happened, Poppa said, “C’mon. We’ll get you a new battery.” Driving north to Brookings Oregon, Poppa asked me to stop at the pharmacy. He’d eaten something at Kiwanis that didn’t agree with him, and he needed some antacid. Looking him over, the pharmacist said, “I’ll give you antacid, but I’m also calling the doctor. I think you’re having a heart attack.”

The doctor couldn’t tell what was happening and decided to hospitalize Poppa for observation. By the time I collected Momma and continued on to Gold Beach, Poppa was resting comfortably in his bed. The doctor sent us home saying that he’d release Poppa in the morning.

Smith River (California) United Methodist Church
Poppa's Last Parish
Taken Spring, 2007

It was dark when we pulled into the parsonage driveway in Smith River. One of Poppa’s parishioners was standing on the porch. She had received a call from the hospital and we were to return immediately. “Mr. Spellman has taken a turn for the worse.”

Poppa had suffered two cardiac arrests and was in a coma. He remained comatose for three days. Momma never left his side. Curry General is not a large facility. It has twenty-four beds. Sitting in the waiting room, I overheard two girls discussing their hospitalized friend. “He’s not too bad. It’s that old man in there who’s in trouble.” I wanted to scream “HE’S NOT OLD. He’s only sixty-four.”

Faith of our fathers, holy faith!
We will be true to thee till death.

Poppa lived twelve years after that episode. There were so many things I wanted to talk over with him, but it was too late. I can only hope that now, now that I’m the only one left, he can hear me when I talk. My parents are gone. My grandparents as well. Most of my first cousins have now passed on. I feel truly an orphan, which is an odd feeling at fifty-seven years. I want to tell Poppa on this Father’s Day, “I am your son. Whatever our differences, I am your son and I love you. I miss you. I want to get out on the river and talk. I want to tell you who I am.” I want to come out to my father.