Peace Gathering in Spencer, WV

February 15, 2003
Photos by Vivian Stockman

ALL WE ARE SAYING
c2003 Margaret Smith Volkwein

The Peace People gather at the Peace Gathering. Not a protest march, or a demonstration. Most of the people here remember the Vietnam War. Some think of Korea or of World War II. Two mothers hold little babies bundled up against the cold. Few teenagers, or twenty-year-olds. The first ones to be drafted in time of war.

It's February 15, International Protest Day. Lots of people went to New York City to march and demonstrate. We come to the county seat of Roane, Spencer, West Virginia. This small town had had a protest in 1976. None before or since. A hundred people drift by and stop to listen. Some people have come from Wheeling, a hundred miles away.

The Calhoun County Kitchen Band sets up and starts playing. We adjust the sound system as the people gather. Banjo. Electric bass. An assortment of drums. We play "The Seeker." We play "The Rights of Man."

The first speaker stands up.

Sister Jane Frances prays for the end of war. Larry Cottrell points out that this is looking a lot like the start to Vietnam. Logic and emotion. Love and hate. Peace and war.

A couple of teenagers pass by. The young man and woman stare curiously and slow down. They stop and move up to the back of the crowd listening to the impassioned speaker. Another teenage couple walks by and hails the listening teens. "Want to stop by at our place?" one suggests. All four teenagers stroll off, arms full of blue plastic bags filled with things. The speaker continues to address the problem of sending to war teenagers just like the ones who had walked off.

A small woman, her mask carved of unending sorrow, wears the black of mourning and carries a tiny baby puppet. She has a sign that says WAR KILLS in big red letters on her back. She moves slowly but continuously, like grief.

The counter-protesters stand on the other side of the main street by the old bank building, in front of the extinct shoe store. The blank dusty windows reflect the four men. They hold up signs, smeared by the rain. They stand mutely angry, as if they blame us for making them stand in the snowy street. The four men who want war morosely hold up their signs to passing cars. Give Nukes A Chance. Dead Arabs Mean Cheap Gas.

I put my camera away and warm my chilly hands up under my arms. A lady sitting on a folding chair offers me a pair of gloves to wear. "No, I'm fine," I say.

"Put em on for a minute, you must be froze," she says adamantly. I warm my hands in the soft white wool and hand them back. I thank her. "Oh, gwan, tain't nothin'," she says with a broad smile. I get the camera back out again.

The woman in black oozes down into a puddle of grief. She moves, barely perceptible movement. She cradles the baby puppet in her arms. Her sorrowing mask looks down, then up. Slow and steady like the movement of the sun and moon.

People pause to see the spectacle of hippies and yuppies and old folks all standing in the snowfall. They stay to hear the speakers. One by one they come and then drift away in the snow, scurrying around the courthouse, heading for home.

The last speaker finishes and Sarah thanks people for showing up, listening, helping, and the like. We begin to play. "All we are saying.." we sing/chant in John Lennon's immortal words. "Is give peace a chance..." We sing and play. More drummers take drums and sit in. The courthouse porch throbs with the drums.

The people sing and sway back and forth and sing some more. Many have their eyes closed.

We pick up our instruments and our dreams. We carry Larry's PA system and everyone's good wishes out to his car. J carries the five string banjo out to our truck. We carry chairs and packs and drums out to the Degen's car.

Only the footprints remain from our Peace Gathering. The courthouse is blank and still. Teenagers walk by idly, blue plastic bags filled with nameless packages dangling from their hands.

Snowflakes fall, then turn to rain.