A Crack of the Whip

CHAPTER 7

A CRACK OF THE WHIP

“In love of home, the love of country has its rise.”
Charles Dickens

“Mother also told another tale. They moved from below the [Smith] mountain December 10th, 1910. She was 12 years old and she said about a year later, or somethin’ like that, Mr. and Mrs. Graves bought that farm down there where CP Graves lives now, where the store is. She said that she and Mrs. Graves, she was about 13, I reckon, went back over through the mountain to visit people that they had left when they moved up here. Momma said that Mrs. Graves drove a horse and buggy and her daddy told Ms. Graves to be careful because this horse would lay down in water. So, when they got to the river, I asked Momma what did Ms. Graves do to make him go through there. She said, ‘She put the whip to him.’ And also Mother said that she held Mrs. Graves’ baby, her first one, and oldest one. She held it all the way and Ms. Graves drove the buggy. And they stayed over there a week or 10 days. Anyhow, it was a long visit and Mother said that she wore her mother’s ring. Her mother let her wear it on the trip and she lost it somewhere. She said that almost ruined the trip for her.”

The Audio Journal of Harold Martin


My Grandma Martin was born in 1898. She would be in her early thirties before she rode an automobile. In her lifetime, the radio and television were invented. She watched the 1968 moon landing on TV and lived to learn about the computer age. Indeed, that ninety-four year span of history was eventful.
During her later years, she and my father would often make the same trip “back over through the mountain” by car that she and her friend had made so long ago by buggy. Always, she would first compare then marvel at the difference in travel time between the two modes of transportation. In her youth, she, like my father, rarely envisioned a future living in the country without horses to pull wagons.
At a critical juncture in the trip my father relates, the two ladies were faced with what would be a dilemma for a people unaccustomed to using horses for beasts of burden. Strike a horse with a whip? Do they put the whip to the animal and keep going, get off and try to coax it along, or just wait for the doggone thing to make up it’s on mind? For these hardened country women of a long-gone era, there was no question what had to be done.
Sometimes, to put our own selves into action, we have to crack a whip, too.
When I think of my grandmother’s trip back to her ancestral home, I see that “home” is where your family lives.
Once, it was hard for my wife to get me in the mood to travel. Until 1996, I had no desire to travel by airplane; flying was my greatest fear. Another fear was that I would live my whole life and never confront this fear. I spent a lot of time dreaming of far-off places from my hideaway at the Kasey House but was I doomed to be grounded forever? My job at WVTF Public Radio, though, was to provide an opportunity for me to do battle with a very big obstacle.

My first flight was to a convention of radio reading services in Memphis, Tennessee in June 1996. As the plane made its ascent from the Roanoke Regional Airport, my arms were frozen on the arm rests. I tried to raise them but they seemed glued down by fear. Although I managed to calm down enough to keep my fears between my wife and me and did not panic, I did consider renting an automobile once we landed in Charlotte, North Carolina to make our connection and then to continue the journey by land. Kathy, though, would not even consider the idea. I had to get on the plane, she said.
The second leg of the journey was much easier for me, and I was near ecstasy when those wheels touched down at Memphis International Airport. Now, I thought, I have finally won the battle. However, some fears are not that easy to overcome; I still had to get back home.
On Sunday morning, we boarded a flight that would take us first to Charlotte, then to Roanoke. I started getting nervous as soon as I woke up. I recalled our trip to Graceland and being on Elvis Presley’s jet, the Lisa Marie. The plane had a full-size bed in the rear. Who could ever get that relaxed on a plane that they could sleep? I asked myself. Perhaps we could drive home? I asked Kathy. She didn’t even answer me this time. She was laying the whip to her mule to get him to move. I thought of my mother persuading my reluctant father to undertake a risky business venture when he was fifty years old as I made my way on to the plane. This is something I had to do. But it would be far from easy.
I could even raise my arms as the plane made its ascent as it left Memphis, but I stayed in a state of near- panic for two hours. I took out a composition book and pen and wrote over and over “I will not be afraid,” until I could write no more. My wife worked on needlepoint and remained silent. As soon as the plane came to a complete stop on the tarmac at Roanoke Regional Airport, I vowed never to fly again.

If you have ever glanced out an airplane window just to make sure the propellers are turning properly or if you have listened in nervous anticipation for a jet’s landing gear to open as it prepares to descend, then you have experienced the almost-crippling fear some people have about flying. But I would soon be a board member of an international organization of reading services. In a few years, I would become it’s president. The responsibility required attendance at a yearly convention and a fall board meeting, so I would have to face my fear. I had given my word to my colleagues. The hardest part would be keeping my word to myself that I would overcome this fear.
But, what would I do? The doctor! I decided. Yes, I’ll go to the doctor!
In my pocket, on a key chain, I now carry a tiny pill bottle that contains several Ativan tablets, an anti-anxiety agent. Years later, I still do not fly without it. I keep it nearby if anxiety strikes, which, occasionally, it does, and I take it only when needed. The good news is that my level of anxiety has decreased over the years, even after September 11. Even better news is that I have had the opportunity to travel to many nice places throughout the United States and Canada. The more I fly, the better I am able to control my fear.
Slowly, I have grown to love to travel. When Kathy and I were in Phoenix at a conference, I was content to stay at the hotel while she made a trip to the Grand Canyon. Never have I ever been so glad that my wife threw a fit that day. Of course, I went. When we embarked from our tour bus, she reached for my hand and said, “This is something we’ve got to do together.” As we made our way up a hill, and looked over the 15-mile expanse in front of us, we both gasped at the same moment. It is a moment that I will always treasure. Here, I thought, is one of those places that I dreamed of while standing on the porch of the Kasey House.

I have heard it said that the more you travel, the more you appreciate home. Many people who have moved to Southwest Virginia to reside on Smith Mountain Lake say life could not be any better than it is here. One thing that attracts many residents to this area is the beautiful Blue Ridge mountains. I understand their sentiments; I never thought I would ever see a more beautiful sight than the pastoral view from that porch back home, but I have. The beautiful red rocks of Sedona, Arizona; the breath-taking view from the Grand Canyon; the majestic falls at Niagara; the seashore at Mission Beach, California. There are more beautiful places of which I used to dream from my porch, and I want to see them all!
I do not owe my good fortune solely to medication. I credit my desire to the one I used to have when I stood out on that Kasey House porch, in the silence, when I wondered about the places that were just beyond the horizon. However, a wonderful traveling companion, who did not mind cracking her whip, compelled me to pull myself out of the shallow water and to continue my journey to the other side of the shore.
I am not convinced that traveling has made me appreciate my boyhood home anymore than I already did. I have discovered, though, that Home can be anywhere. Home is not just land and a house. Home is memories of those whom you loved who have passed on. Home, too, is where your heart is at. Home is not just the past, but the present. Home is wherever the people you love and who are willing to crack the whip are at.