by Tony Cook, editor
Nearly four years have passed since I moved to Morgantown as a "trailing spouse"—the half of a two-career couple who didn't initiate the move. Not that coming here was a hard decision to make.
For five years beginning in 1990, my wife and I had weathered an existence in Syracuse, New York. Let me explain that Syracuse is a fine city. I loved the Italian neighborhood where we lived. Syracuse University, which lured me with a creative writing fellowship, is an outstanding school. Some of the best barbecue that I, a Southerner, have ever savored comes off the pit at Dinosaur BBQ in Syracuse. Perfect summer days in the tranquil Finger Lakes. Fall colors on the peaks of the Adirondacks.
But that snow! Three back-to-back record snowfall winters in the snowiest city in America. We shoveled, and shoveled, and one day—I think it was during the Great Blizzard of 1993—we decided we'd had enough.
Donna had trailed me twice in our six years of marriage, so it was her turn to take the lead. It wasn't long before she had an offer. Virginia? I said, imagining Tidewater, like the area where I grew up along the South Carolina coast. No. West Virginia. Coal mines. Mountaineers. John Denver.
All right, then. West Virginia.
I first saw north central West Virginia on a fine summer evening as we drove north on Interstate 79, coming up after a vacation at Hilton Head to search for a new home in Morgantown. The mountains, tall and rugged to the south, began to smooth out a bit near Clarksburg, reminding me of the hilly Scottish countryside I'd seen around Edinburgh. Green, peaceful, and inviting. The land made a good first impression on me.
At the Holiday Inn that night we tried to take a swim in the pool. Too chilly! And it's July. Still, this would beat six months of winter in upstate New York.
Next morning I left the motel to go out and find a newspaper, look around town. First I saw the Coliseum, thinking it a very unusual structure compared to the frame houses we'd seen along 200 miles of West Virginia highways the day before. I turned left onto Patteson Drive. A Kroger supermarket, fast-food restaurants, some nice-looking churches. Pretty typical stuff, nothing special.
Then, I turned right onto University Avenue and got my first view of the Monongahela River valley with the houses of Morgantown and Westover on the surrounding hills. Wow, lots of stuff down there. Guess I'm up pretty high. In West Virginia.
I don't know what I was looking for, nothing in particular. I just wanted to find answers to a simple question: What kind of place is this I'll soon be living in?
Down the hill and up again, I came upon the Woodburn Circle area with the Mountainlair across the street. A classic American university campus. Historic buildings and modern ones side-by-side. Nicely landscaped grounds.
I parked the car and walked around. Saw the Mountaineer statue, the mast and bell of the USS West Virginia, the names of the state's flowers and trees on all the rooms in the Mountainlair. And it was obvious right away that this University belonged to people who take great pride in themselves, and in their collective accomplishments as citizens of their state.
I have learned that I was not wrong in my impression about West Virginia University that morning. As editor of your alumni magazine, I've come to know that this is an institution built and supported by people with a strong sense of who they are, and of what they might become through collaborative effort and vision.
Not that this is rare in American society. But the way Mountaineers feel about their state and their state's flagship university is special. It's why my neighbors out in Cheat Neck, lifelong residents of this area, emphasize the West in West Virginia when speaking of home. And it's why I do the same whenever I talk to a friend about this place—these people—to which we feel such a growing sense of belonging. Finally, it is why West Virginia University at age 132 still has, it seems to me, a marvelous optimistic exuberance.