“Growing up, we’d make a weekly trek to my grandma’s house in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. Us boys would pile into the Rambler station wagon for a five-hour drive over some of the most winding roads in the country. About halfway, there was this little diner on top of Lens Creek Mountain, where we’d always beg our dad to stop, so we could “stretch” our legs.
We really wanted out of the car by then, for young boys are never content to be cooped up in back of a car during the heat of summer. Not to mention being car sick. I’d usually order a burger and fries, which was a real treat back then. After a while, we’d get back in the dusty old car and head down the other side of the mountain toward grandma’s.
Twenty years and what seemed to be several lifetimes later, I was driving through the area, when I passed an old battered road sign for the village of Lens Creek. All those happy memories that were etched in my mind came flowing by, just like the little creek for which the mountain was named.”