Weston, We Have A Problem

Weston State Hospital photo by Arden Staubly

Every couple weeks, we grab our books, stuff our entire family into the van, plug our headphones into our ears, and drive an hour to visit my in-laws in Weston, WV.
First off, I have to say that my in-laws are wonderful people. They are kind, generous, supportive. All you women who have Satan for a mother-in-law?
That's not me.
Weston, though...
My husband grew up there, and has a lot of fond memories. By living there all his life, and then working summers as a mail carrier, he knew who lived in every house, on every street. So, as we drive through the streets of Weston, it's a nostalgic event, for him.
I, however, did not grow up in Weston, and so when I drive through the streets, all I see is a town that used-to-be:
My husband played tennis in high school. If you drive by the school, the tennis courts are crumbled and the nets are torn or absent.
Neighborhood grocery stores are all closed, furniture stores are boarded up, and what was once clothing stores are now pawn shops that sell Velvet Elvis.
There is a Farmer's Market, but I never see any cars in the parking lot; the Smoker Friendly lot is usually full, though.

After nearly twenty-two years, I just can't get excited about visiting that town.
A typical visit to the in-laws goes like this:
We arrive sometime after noon, on a Sunday.
We all sit in comfortable furniture in the spacious living room.
We catch up on what has happened over the past couple weeks.
I talk about the kids, and homeschooling, mostly.
My husband talks about projects he's working on around the house.
About the time this conversation is wrapping up, the kids drift off to go watch tv.
By an unspoken agreement, I am expected to stay.
Once the kids are off entertaining themselves, the fun begins. I call it the "Sassafras Conversation", named after a well-known road in Lewis County.
The conversation usually goes like this:

MIL: Do you remember Mr. Johnson? He goes to our church-

DH: Is he the one that taught at the junior high?

MIL: No, he lived in the green house next to Mrs. Smith. Didn't you used to cut her grass?

DH: No, I think Chris Maiocco did. I cut the grass for Mrs. Brown, over on Third Street.

MIL: Well, anyway, Mr. Johnson wasn't at church the past two weeks-

DH: I think I remember him! Did his brother have that auto body shop?

MIL: I'm not sure-

DH: I'm pretty sure he did... out on Sassafras.

Two guarantees:
No matter who or what, it always ends up out on Sassafras. Always.
And, we never get to find out what happened to poor Mr. Johnson. Ever.

All the while, the children bicker and fight and need parented.

Since I am not involved in the Sassafras Conversation, I get up and deal with the children.

After such stimulating conversation, my husband usually picks up the Sunday paper and reads it until he falls asleep in the chair.

Since I am not reading the paper, I get up and deal with the children.

And... since I am not napping... Well, I think we see where this is going.

At this point, he will likely insist that he does not fall asleep in the chair, and that I'm lying.







Around 6pm, it will be time to eat dinner (the kids and I help my MIL make dinner and set the table).
At this point, DH wakes up from his nap, and eats the food.
After dinner, we go back into the living room for more Sassafras Conversation.
I am expected to continue my role in sorting out the children's arguments.
Around 9pm, we start packing up to go home.
We get everyone back in the van, where we are all in a grumpy mood and often the kids fight all the way home.
I used to yell all the way home, too. DH used to ask me what was wrong, and why I was snapping at him. When I explained I was resentful that he spends the visit reading the paper and napping in the chair, while I tend to the children, he would get angry and insist that he does not nap in the chair.
So I don't bring it up, anymore.
Now I just put in my headphones and seethe all along I-79.