You know you’re in West Virginia when:
The local pop station plays “Jungle Love” by Morris Day and the Time after “Summer Love” by Justin Timberlake.
When you signal to make a left turn, the car immediately behind you will put his signal on as well (and probably the person behind him will do so, too), so that any other cars behind *them* know they shouldn’t try to pass.
The speed limit on the interstate is 70, but you can barely do 55 on some of the climbs through the mountains.
At the end of many driveways, there is a large wooden box frame on stilts, which are often concreted into the ground. The box is often covered in chicken wire or other reinforcement, but sometimes is simply made of plywood. The boxes have lids which are fastened shut tightly, either by padlock or other mechanism. Three guesses what the purpose of the box is.
You have to drive an hour for decent wireless, and by “decent” I only mean “a little bit faster than dial-up.”
Cell phone signal = joke.
You are in the midst of the most beautiful state parks in the East, even though you cannot pronounce their names–and nor can the locals when you ask them to parse for you. (Monongahela!)
You realize there is no better place to hike with children. Lots of boulders for them to scramble on, lots of rivers to dip their feet in, lots of mushrooms and creatures to discover, but light on the midday high-elevation storms.
The depth of the quiet, the thickness of stars: nighttime is enchanting, exhilarating.
You must ask the cashier at the grocery store to repeat herself three times when she inquires, “Are these gripes seedless?”