Lucy's Journal

Lucy’s Journal — May 6, 2025

This morning started with one of those bright, golden Appalachian suns that practically orders you outside. The kind that makes even the laziest among us (I’m looking at you, Quackers) feel like stretching their legs and pretending we’re the outdoorsy type.

So naturally, we decided to head down to the rail trail in Morgantown.

Now, getting everyone organized is always an adventure. Squeakers insisted on bringing snacks (which he ate before we even reached the trailhead), Quackers kept asking if there would be “rest stops with bread,” and Marvin—well, Marvin just stared thoughtfully at a stick for a good ten minutes before declaring it “a walking companion.”

Eventually, we made it.

The trail was alive today—joggers, cyclists, and folks just out enjoying the day—but once we got a little farther out toward Van Voorhis, things settled into that quiet, peaceful rhythm you only find along the rails-to-trails. The kind where your footsteps and the occasional bird call are the loudest things around.

That’s when old Mr. Jenkins, who seems to appear out of nowhere whenever a story is about to be told, slowed his pace and pointed down toward a small, weathered house tucked just off the trail.

“You see that place?” he said.

Of course we did. It wasn’t much to look at—just a modest little house, the kind you might pass by without a second thought. But something about it felt… still. Like it was holding onto something.

“That’s where Ellis Hall used to live,” Mr. Jenkins continued. “Best fiddle player you ever heard.”

Now that got everyone’s attention.

Even Quackers stopped asking about bread.

Mr. Jenkins told us that Ellis Hall wasn’t famous in the way you’d hear on the radio, but around here, his music carried. Folks said you could hear his fiddle drifting down the valley in the evenings, bouncing off the hills like it was part of the land itself. On summer nights, people would sit on their porches just to listen. No invitations, no tickets—just music finding its way to whoever needed it.

Squeakers asked if Ellis played fast tunes or slow ones.

“All of ‘em,” Mr. Jenkins said with a smile. “But the slow ones… those are the ones folks remembered.”

Marvin, still holding his “walking companion” stick, asked if the music is still there.

Mr. Jenkins didn’t laugh at that. He just looked back at the little house and said, “Some say if you walk by here quiet enough, you might still hear it.”

Well.

You can imagine what happened next.

We all got very quiet.

No crunching gravel. No chatter. Even Quackers held it together (a minor miracle). We stood there, listening to the breeze move through the trees, the distant hum of the trail behind us…

…and for just a moment, I swear, there was something else.

Maybe it was just the wind catching the right angle. Maybe it was imagination. Or maybe—just maybe—it was a faint, lingering note of a fiddle that never quite left.

We didn’t say much after that. Just nodded to each other and kept walking.

Sometimes the best stories aren’t the loudest ones.

Sometimes they’re the ones you have to be quiet enough to hear.

—Lucy