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    The unmolested forests were full of gigantic trees 40 dsting 50 feet in circumference, and the foot-deep daating would have provided living space of about square feet, the equivalent of a by room. The brothers survived the frigid Buchannon on plentiful game, waiting out the war until they ran out of gunpowder. John Pringle traveled miles for supplies and returned with news that amnesty was declared. The brothers moved to settlements farther south, but Samuel returned with a wife and other settlers whose names are common in Buckhannon today: Buckhannon adolescents still visit a third-generation descendant of the original sycamore on field trips. Inmy eighth-grade class drove to the meadow along Turkey Run Creek.

    The buses bounced and groaned, and we all lined up to walk into the tepee-size opening of what is still officially designated the Pringle Tree. I remember the loamy smell rising from the earth, damp, fertile and hidden. The town was truly a rural paradise; even into the s, some 2, farms, averaging 87 acres each, surrounded Buckhannon. Such small, nearly self-sufficient farms survived through the Depression and two world wars. Miners and farmers kept Main Street alive, and the town rituals, seasonal and dependable, provided a world. There were churches of every Protestant denomination and one Catholic parish. A week in the middle of May is still devoted to the Strawberry Festival.

    The populace lines up on the main thoroughfare to watch hours of marching bands, homemade floats and home-crowned royalty. The year my cousin was queen, I was 6 and one of the girls in her court. The parade wound its way through town, slowly, for hours, as though populating a collective dream. Doctors, especially respected and revered, made house calls. Even the kids called him Jake. He was tall and bald and sardonic, and he could produce dimes from behind the necks and ears of his young patients, unfurling his closed hand to reveal the sparkle of the coin. The waiting room was always full and the office smelled strongly of rubbing alcohol.

    My mother insisted on flu shots every year, and we kids dreaded them, but Jake was a master of distraction, bantering and performing while the nurse prepared slender hypodermics. After our shots, we picked cellophane-wrapped suckers from the candy jar, sauntered into the dim stairwell and floated straight down. The rectangular transom above the door to the street shone a dazzling white light. Out there, the three traffic lights on Main Street were changing with little clicks. The car was aqua and white, big and flat as a boat. He came back to Buckhannon after the war and met my mother at a Veterans of Foreign Wars dance in The big city was exciting, she told me, but the food was so bad all the girls took up smoking to cut their appetites.

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