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Page 7 · column 4 of 6 · from the scan, no model involved
“Say, fellow! Tell me the name of that mountain over there,” said the U.S. Geological Survey mapmaker to Buster in front of the Keyser Farm in the 1920's. Buster told him the mountain did not have a name but was owned by his family.
“Good enough for me,” said the mapmaker, “You just named yourself a mountain, Keyser Mountain it is.” Buster remembered that moment like it was yesterday.
Time travel with Mr. Keyser in the latter years of his life was not spent visiting the momentous occasions or major turning points. Rather, his were the kinds of memories you would expect to well up at the place where you were a kid almost a century ago. The fun stuff. The best times. Like the time he caught 24 bull frogs in one day. Or making chestnut shingles—shakes— with Ed Coppage and selling them for three cents each.
He told me about a particular day spent rabbit hunting in the hollows around Keyser Mountain.
“I smelled smoke and saw this little blaze. And I thought now who the hell is building a fire in these woods. I look and saw an old an old manreading the Bible. I went up to him and started talking to him. It was Bill Smedley! You know what? He gave me two gallons of the best Apple Brandy I ever had. There we sat, reading the Bible and making Rrnndv!”
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