His eyes are pale like old glass, flecked with bits of sandy spots, and often they appear lonesome. His eyes are the eyes of an Appalachian descendent of Polish immigrants. His eyes carry the weight of more than his own years. Some evenings his eyes seem to carry the weight of all of the occupations, depressions, and ruined dreams in Eastern Europe, and in those times there is little comfort anyone can bring, save a willingness to sit and drink wine and sit some more.
– from Small Things in My Hand, an extended semester project for WV Wesleyan