I am still in West Virginia, the alternate America. Almost everyone over 21 is obese, except the cigarette smokers and a 
few wiry workmen in blue jeans.
The other day I went to the county courthouse with my mother, and while I was waiting for her, nosed around the building. There was a distinct air of the South in that courthouse, with its turning fans, opaque-glass-fronted office doors, and dark wood staircases-- it reminded me of my childhood in Jim Crow Louisiana, when the water fountains were still marked "White" and "Colored"; but although it is Southern, West Virginia has very few African-Americans (or any other minorities): 3.2 %, almost all in the few large towns. Few recent immigrants have made it over the mountains to West Virginia, either. Most of the natives are descended from Scotch-Irish settlers of the late 18th century. They still use quaint expressions that died out in British English hundreds of years ago and are marked "obsolete" in the dictionary. They tend to be truculent, blond and loyal.
On the wall above my bench was a large framed poster with photos of the two dozen or so sheriff's deputies. Every single one was a white man with an English or Scottish name.
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