Hands Across the Ridge Sharyn McCrumb (bio) "Southerners will be polite until they are angry enough to kill you." –Hodding Carter, Jr. The heavy-set woman with cropped white hair and a dress like raspberry sherbet took hold of the young man's arm and steered him into the hall of the college arts building. Her name tag said, Maxine Urusai, Program Chair. She herded him along as if she were a Border Collie and he was a particularly backward sheep. "We are just so excited to have you here in Ohio, Mr. Bromley," she said in breathless tones. "You are only our third guest in the Artist Lecture series. We thought we ought to have someone from Appa-lay-cha this year, since so many of our students come from over in West Virginia. Last year we had a blow-pipe carver from Borneo, and I'm sure that you'll be just as fascinating as he was." "Well, I'll do my best," murmured the artist. The reception was well underway. Groups of middle-aged people in business attire were milling around in the high-ceilinged hallway, some chatting in small groups and others waiting their turn at the punch bowl, presided over by a student waiter in a white coat. On a glass serving dish beside the punch bowl was a selection of hors d'oeuvres, cheese and crackers, raw vegetables, and dip. He stopped to look at the row of brightly-colored quilts hung from easels in the tiled hallway. They were just fabric squares haphazardly sewn together in blocks, but without the complex patterns that usually formed the design of a traditional quilt. He leaned in for a closer look at the nearest one, a brown and coral and turquoise pattern with figures of Kokopelli, the flute-playing god of the Navajo, appliqueed diagonally across the front. Polyester? He said carefully, "I'm a landscape painter, you know." Mrs. Urusai gave his arm a playful tap. "Why of course we know that!—Oh, you mean because of the quilts. Why, we just wanted [End Page 63] to make you feel at home, that's all. You know, because you're from West Virginia. Now, these quilts are local, mind you. They were done by some of the local ladies when they heard you were coming. We thought this would be a perfect way to celebrate your heritage, Mr. Bromley. Aren't they colorful?" "Colorful," agreed the artist, still staring at the line of marching Kokopellis. "We just think they're so pretty and quaint. And I hear that they only took a couple of hours to make on a sewing machine. I'll bet you have quilts all over that adorable little cabin you live in back in West Virginia." "I'm sorry? Cabin?" "Why, the one in that book of photographs of your paintings. I saw that sweet little log cabin you painted. The caption said it was located on your land, and I just knew that it was where you lived. It just looked like an artist's shack. So simple and unspoiled." She took a deep breath and ended in a hesitant whisper, "Tell me, Mr. Bromley—do you have electricity?" "Umm. Not in the cabin, no." By the time he added, "It's out past the swimming pool. We keep the riding lawnmower in it—" his hostess had drifted away, devoting her attention to a nearby circle of people holding wineglasses and chatting. "I was right, Barbara!" she called out to the woman in blue. "He doesn't have electricity on his farm. Isn't it wonderful! So authentic, somehow." "Well, we do in the house," he murmured. "We have the three heat pumps, one for each wing of the house, and a limestone fireplace in the great room." But no one was listening. They were all talking excitedly at once, and he was momentarily forgotten. "Well, I've never heard of him," said the elderly man in the bolo tie. He glanced over at the artist to make sure the fellow wasn't right at his elbow, but, as he was a little hard of hearing himself, he didn't...