News and Journal
By Jim Hunt for the News and Journal
Like many people, I’m tired of the rain. Not the occasional April shower that brings May flowers, but the kind of unrelenting, sideways, soak-you-through-in-30-seconds rain that seems to have taken up a lease in our region. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone started building an ark in the Walmart parking lot.
I recently drove up to Burgettstown, Pennsylvania which is a stone’s throw from Weirton, West Virginia and the drive up from Clarksburg had me on the edge of my seat. With the considerable road and bridge construction, driving next to a huge tractor trailer in a lane much smaller than normal, I had my heart in my hands as the big truck threw up a spray of rainwater that nearly obliterated my car.
But beyond the soggy lawns and ruined picnics, there’s a darker side to all this water. This spring, the rain has brought more than inconvenience—it has brought heartbreak.
In Fairmont, an apartment building collapsed, displacing dozens of people who will have to find a new place to live. And in the Wheeling area, eight people, among them a three-year-old child, lost their lives to the flooding. These are the kinds of stories that stop you in your tracks, even if you’re ankle-deep in standing water trying to unclog a storm drain.
We often joke about the weather—how the forecast is wrong half the time, or how we’ve got more mud than pavement. But events like these pull the punchlines from our lips. They remind us that behind every news story is a family now missing someone at the dinner table or living in a shelter, awaiting relocation to a new home.
Still, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my many years living in West Virginia, it’s that we are a people who endure. We sandbag, we mop up, we rebuild—and we show up for our neighbors.
Whether it’s a hot meal, a dry place to sleep, or just someone to listen, West Virginians have a way of showing their best selves when the sky is at its worst.
So, while I may grumble about my swampy backyard or the gravel that has washed into my driveway, I’m also thinking about the families who have lost far more—and hoping we all take a moment to count our blessings and lend a hand.
The rain will stop. The sun will come out. And we’ll hang our rugs over the porch railing like we always do. But let’s not forget the lessons this spring has brought: to prepare, to check on each other, and above all, to never underestimate the strength of a community that refuses to be washed away.
