The Real Pyrrho of Martinsburg
One late summer morning I headed out on assignment for the local paper to put together a human interest piece about a local "character" who was starting to get a little outside exposure.
To get the full experience, I drove north out of Newark on Martinsburg Road, a small country road curving through the small hills we have here at the start of the Appalachian plateau.
Many of the fields were covered in late summer wild flowers like goldenrods and dark purple iron weed. I finally drove by a few Amish farms and into the small town of Martinsburg, a few square blocks of houses with a small restaurant, a gas station, a post office, a small Church of Christ painted white in the way of many of these rural churches, and a graveyard on the edge of town.
Continuing north out of town and down a few township roads I came to a mail box with the name "Pyrrho" on it in small black letters. I turned into a wooded area of about 20 acres and down a gravel driveway to a parking area for maybe five cars under some old ash and maple trees. Close by was a poll barn type out building with a detached wood deck close by and a small trailer home a little further off close to a fairly large vegetable garden.
I was greeted by a man in his late sixties in jeans and work shirt with a big grey beard who reminded me for all the world of Walt Whitman sauntering out. But his hair was short, unlike those pictures of the old Walt Whitman, and he had on metal frame glasses and wore tennis shoes.
We exchanged some friendly small talk, and he gave me a tour. The out building had a small store in the front, then a work area and office behind that with some evidence of shipping materials. At the back were two bedrooms with their own entrances and small decks.
We settled down on some white plastic lawn chairs on the large deck close to the out building with some bottles of iced tea from the store.
Reporter: Let's start with the basics. How did you get a name like Pyrrho?
Pyrrho: Well, my real name is Jacob. I started calling myself Pyrrho many years back because of some reading I was doing.
Reporter: Don't people think its kind of strange and have a hard time pronouncing it?
Pyrrho: Well, they may think it's strange, but they got used to it. I pronounce it PIE-ROW. Maybe they just think it's because I sell some of the Amish baked pies here sometimes to the tourists. [He winked.]
Reporter: You get tourists out here?
Pyrrho: Oh, a few. I do a little bed and breakfast business and I get some people who come out here for life retreats.
Reporter: Life retreats?
Pyrrho: To examine their lives. You know, an unexamined life is not worth living. [He smiled.]
Reporter: You get people interested in that?
Pyrrho: Oh, you'd be surprised.
Reporter: And you're what? Socrates?
Pyrrho: No, I'm Pyrrho. [Another smile.]
Reporter: OK. The reason I came out is because of this Web site about you. I understand that you just turned over the rights to some of your writings.
Pyrrho: Well, I thought those young folks might be able to do something with it.
Reporter: But what if they make money off it?
Pyrrho: Money? Off that stuff? If they can pull that off they are welcome to it.
Reporter: You don't care?
Pyrrho: Why should I? I'm doing OK here.
We talked some more, but not much about poetry or philosophy. Mostly about his mail order business, its ups and downs. And about some problems he was having with his garden. He sent me off with a big bag of squash and zucchini.