Berkheimer grew up during World War II. Her father died in a coal-mining accident shortly after her birth, and her mother worked in a plane factory in New York. Her Pentecostal grandparents raised her as they planted churches in the hollows of West Virginia. Like so many others of that era and that place, Berkheimer's family survived the Great Depression through thrift and ingenuity. She paints a vivid word picture: Chickens run through the yard with their heads cut off. An uncle digs through the dump for paint cans. Grandma sews towels and pedal pushers out of feed sacks.
But that colorful depth is nothing without the Appalachian culture that is celebrated in Running on Red Dog Road. Her grandparents baptize new converts and speak in tongues, but they draw the line at handling copperhead snakes. Moonshiners drive cars without door handles. Berkheimer sneaks out to dance around a campfire with gypsies.
It was her grandparents' faith, I think, that was passed on to Berkheimer -- and has outlasted even moving away from that place and time. But in so many ways, that place and time and faith have been crafted together to create a marvelous storyteller: Running on Red Dog Road is not a book to be missed.
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