When I was about 18 months old, I had two favorite foods. Coal, which was strictly forbidden, and Wheaties. Later on in life I also came to love peanut and jelly sandwiches, and Bit O Honey candy bars. But at that age, Wheaties were at the top of the food chain for me. It wasn't because they were "The Breakfast of Champions"...I couldn't read and we didn't get our first television until 2 years later. I just loved the taste, and the crunch when I ate them.
Like most kids, I never knew I was hungry until about 10 minutes after it happened. So, I'd play for hours, and then suddenly be struck by overpowering hunger pangs. I couldn't talk much, but was very mobile and played hard in our yard.
One day the usual happened...I got run over the hungry truck, and went in search of mom to feed me. Mom stayed really busy with two kids...doing laundry, cooking, cleaning and such. But she also loved to just sit with our neighbor Mrs. Bentley from up the street. They'd smoke and drink coffee and talk and talk. I had no idea what they found so interesting in all those words, but I did know that mom did not like to be interrupted when she and Mrs. Bentley was visiting. But, I really had the hunger pangs, and I knew that I just had to have a bowl of Wheaties to make the world right again.
I went up to where mom was sitting at the kitchen table, and pulled her dress. That was my usual way to get her attention, and of course she towered over me like a giant. She looked down at me and said "Not now honey." I thought about waiting, and dismissed that idea, so I yanked on her dress harder this time, and did my best to say Wheaties or Eaties or something close to it. Mom stopped in mid-sentence, and looked down at me again. She said "I told you....not now honey". I was a loss for what to do now. I considered pulling Mrs. Bentley's dress too, but wasn't sure if that would work. I liked her well enough, but she was not familiar with my lingo or dietary needs.
I toddled off into the living room for a bit, and hoped the hunger would subside...but it was getting worse and worse. So, knowing my mom would not be happy about it, I headed for the kitchen again. I yanked my mom's dress yet again...and this time she got a bit angry. "What is that you want, that you can't wait just a little bit for?"...in a frustrated tone. I felt the tears coming to my eyes, and I mumbled again my need for "eaties". This time my mom actually listened. She put down her cup of coffee, and her cigarette and got up from the table. She said "I guess he won't leave us alone until he gets what he wants." and then sighed.
She picked me up and put me in my highchair. It was the same one that Ingrid had used, and was pretty beat up already. She pulled the tray over my head, and went about getting my cereal. I could hardly wait, and my stomach started rumbling in anticipation of getting fed. Mom first put a bowl and spoon down in front of me, setting it down maybe a bit hard since she was a bit put out that I wouldn't leave her alone. Next she went to the kitchen cabinet, took out the box of Wheaties, and poured some in my bowl. Last of all, she got the glass bottle of milk out of the Frigidaire (that's what they called all refrigerators in those days - no matter who made them), and splashed some in my bowl. Then she put the milk away, and rejoined Mrs. Bentley at the table.
I took a big breath, and stuck my spoon in the Wheaties. To be honest I wasn't much good with a spoon, but knew better than to use my hands to fish out the flakes. For one thing it made mom mad, and for another I liked to get both flakes and milk in the spoon and then in my mouth at the same time...it just tasted better. As I stirred the cereal though, something surprising happened. Little red dots started popping up on the surface. Hmmmm? Looking closer, I could see that they weren't just dots, they were alive and wiggling like crazy.
I continued my puzzled inspection of my meal, and finally realized that I'd seen these red things before - outside in the yard and on the sidewalk. I didn't know what they were called, but I was pretty sure that they had no right being in my Wheaties, and that they were not on my list of approved foods or spices. Of course they were ants, but I wouldn't learn their name for quite awhile.
I looked down at the bowl one last time to be sure, and decided that I was not going to be able to eat the cereal in that condition. So, I raised my gaze to my mom as she was sitting and talking. She was totally focused on her friend, so I banged my spoon down on the tray. No response. I banged it again, still with no response. So, the next time I pounded it pretty hard for three or four times. This time it worked, and my looked up at me startled at my behavior. I had never done that before. She said "What are you doing?". I made a sad face and tried to say something. Mom said..."Settle down and eat your Wheaties"...but I shook my head and said "No".
I was trying my best to figure out to explain to mom about the little critters who were drowning in my bowl, but when I said "No" her eyes flashed with anger. She told me again to eat and be quiet, and I tried and failed to say something other than "No" again. This time she really got cranked, and stood up quickly. She walked over to my chair and snatched away the bowl of cereal...and then dumped it into the sink in one quick movement. She turned back to me, and lifted the tray, took the spoon away from me, and set me down on the floor. She bent over and gave me a firm pat on the rear and said "Henry Queen Junior you get yourself out of here and go play. And you won't get a thing to eat from me until dinner time now.". Then she turned back to Mrs. Bentley saying something about how we just about drove her crazy sometimes.
I got tears again...but only from frustration. I knew I did the right thing by not eating the little ants, but just could not explain my contrary behavior to mom. Mom waved the back of her hand at me again to shoo me out of the kitchen. So, I walked out slowly and went outside. I cried a little, and then just squatted down on the sidewalk. There were those little things moving happily along, without a clue that some of their kin had pretty much ruined my day.
I was thinking about what happened, and knew that the outcome just wasn't right. I learned a new feeling that day, but not the word that went with it. Years later when I came across the word "injustice" in school, I really understood it when our teacher explained it to us. And my mind went back to that day in Lando when I first experienced injustice in this world.
Lesson Learned: Always try to do the right thing, but accept that things don't always work out the way you'd hope.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Walking Tall
This is a story about my brother Ed. He was the third child in our family, and was born while we were living in Lando Mines.
When he was born, Ingrid was a little more than two, and I was about 15 months old. Ingrid and I both learned to walk when we were nine months old....long before our brains were ready for such a risky skill. I'm sure we kept our mom constantly busy trying to keep an eye on us, and keep us out of danger.
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Ed was different. He was quieter, and more patient than either of us. His curious eyes often just studied those around him, and you could tell he was thinking deep thoughts and reflecting on life - even at a very early age. He was different too in that he wasn't walking yet when he hit nine months old. That was no big deal, but when he still wasn't walking at 12 months, mom became a little concerned. But not enough worried yet to seek out help.
He continued to show little interest in walking, and as he approached 18 months without a step, mom got increasingly worried. She finally took him into the doctor to find out what was wrong with him. The doctor talked to mom, and about what she did at home. With two small kids already running all over, she said that she spent the day chasing after us and doing her chores. When the doctor asked what she did with Ed, she said she carried him everywhere on her hip.
Well....the doctor said...how do you expect him to learn to walk when he's almost never on the floor where he can learn? Mom admitted that maybe she was contributing to his delayed development, and committed to putting him down a lot more. So she did. The only problem was that since Ed was used to getting carried everywhere, he got bored and started fussing and crying to be picked up again. Mom was inventive if nothing else and so she wracked her brain to find a way to keep Ed both on the floor, out of trouble, and happy too.
Her solution was actually kind of crazy, especially considering that Ed was just a baby. Somehow mom stumbled across the best distraction she could invent for Ed. She'd put him down on the front porch, start a nail into the floor boards, and then give Ed the hammer. Small as he was, he was still strong and coordinated for his age. With the nail sticking up between his splayed legs, he'd stare hard at the nail, then slowly and methodically lift the hammer and "bang!" drive it a little further into the floor. It would take him forever, but eventually he'd drive the nail completely flush with the boards. Then he'd look around to see who had witnessed his triumph and start fussing for another fresh nail to pound on. I remember dad saying that some day Ed would work in construction.
He did this day after day, week after week, and soon that area of the porch was carpeted by shiny nail heads. Remember that we lived in cheap, rental house and so there wasn't much you could do to damage it. So, Ed enjoyed himself very much. Maybe too much, because he was perfectly happy to sit there for hours pounding away. Totally satisfied, he lost his desire to even try and move, and so continued to show no interest or skill in walking, or even crawling.
That all changed in one day. It was pretty much like every other day, with me and Ingrid running here and there, playing our imagination games. Ed was parked in his usual spot, slowly and methodically driving yet another nail into the porch. Mom was sitting on the far end of the porch, taking a smoke break and gazing out at the trees.
There were a lot of dogs in our neighborhood, and we even got one of our own later. But by and large they didn't get in our yard because we had a fence and a gate our front. The gate must have been left open that day though, because a large black friendly dog who conveniently went by the name of Blackie wandered into the front yard. He sniffed his way around, and raised his leg periodically to claim his new territory. He was drawn to the porch by the periodic bangs of Ed driving nails. As he started up the steps, Ed saw him coming.
Ed was no stranger to dogs, but Blackie was three times the size of Ed...and from Ed's seated perspective, towered over him. Over the next few seconds a remarkable event transpired. Ed's eyes got really big, and he dropped the hammer with a clatter. He put his hands down together in between his legs, and pushed down hard swinging his feet underneath him. He took another look at the approaching Blackie, and then down the long porch at mom. He made his decision, turned to his left and ran the entire length of the porch at high speed - no stumbles, no wobbles - just pure life saving speed.
Mom had turned to look when Ed dropped the hammer, and her jaw dropped when she saw him sprinting to her. She reached down and scooped him into her lap, and laughed out loud. Blackie lost interest at that point and trotted down the steps and back out through the gate.
So...Ed bypassed all the usual parts of learning to scoot, crawl, stand, totter, walk and then run. He'd watched everyone else do it for a long time, but never really felt the need to do it himself before. But now that he'd done it, he never went back. From that day on, he walked or ran everywhere he wanted to go. But he still loved pounding nails, and continued decorating the porch with his handy work until we moved a couple of years later.
Lesson Learned: Never underestimate the power of motivation to motivate, or my brother Ed when he decides to do something.
When he was born, Ingrid was a little more than two, and I was about 15 months old. Ingrid and I both learned to walk when we were nine months old....long before our brains were ready for such a risky skill. I'm sure we kept our mom constantly busy trying to keep an eye on us, and keep us out of danger.
.jpg)
Ed was different. He was quieter, and more patient than either of us. His curious eyes often just studied those around him, and you could tell he was thinking deep thoughts and reflecting on life - even at a very early age. He was different too in that he wasn't walking yet when he hit nine months old. That was no big deal, but when he still wasn't walking at 12 months, mom became a little concerned. But not enough worried yet to seek out help.
He continued to show little interest in walking, and as he approached 18 months without a step, mom got increasingly worried. She finally took him into the doctor to find out what was wrong with him. The doctor talked to mom, and about what she did at home. With two small kids already running all over, she said that she spent the day chasing after us and doing her chores. When the doctor asked what she did with Ed, she said she carried him everywhere on her hip.
Well....the doctor said...how do you expect him to learn to walk when he's almost never on the floor where he can learn? Mom admitted that maybe she was contributing to his delayed development, and committed to putting him down a lot more. So she did. The only problem was that since Ed was used to getting carried everywhere, he got bored and started fussing and crying to be picked up again. Mom was inventive if nothing else and so she wracked her brain to find a way to keep Ed both on the floor, out of trouble, and happy too.
Her solution was actually kind of crazy, especially considering that Ed was just a baby. Somehow mom stumbled across the best distraction she could invent for Ed. She'd put him down on the front porch, start a nail into the floor boards, and then give Ed the hammer. Small as he was, he was still strong and coordinated for his age. With the nail sticking up between his splayed legs, he'd stare hard at the nail, then slowly and methodically lift the hammer and "bang!" drive it a little further into the floor. It would take him forever, but eventually he'd drive the nail completely flush with the boards. Then he'd look around to see who had witnessed his triumph and start fussing for another fresh nail to pound on. I remember dad saying that some day Ed would work in construction.
He did this day after day, week after week, and soon that area of the porch was carpeted by shiny nail heads. Remember that we lived in cheap, rental house and so there wasn't much you could do to damage it. So, Ed enjoyed himself very much. Maybe too much, because he was perfectly happy to sit there for hours pounding away. Totally satisfied, he lost his desire to even try and move, and so continued to show no interest or skill in walking, or even crawling.
That all changed in one day. It was pretty much like every other day, with me and Ingrid running here and there, playing our imagination games. Ed was parked in his usual spot, slowly and methodically driving yet another nail into the porch. Mom was sitting on the far end of the porch, taking a smoke break and gazing out at the trees.
There were a lot of dogs in our neighborhood, and we even got one of our own later. But by and large they didn't get in our yard because we had a fence and a gate our front. The gate must have been left open that day though, because a large black friendly dog who conveniently went by the name of Blackie wandered into the front yard. He sniffed his way around, and raised his leg periodically to claim his new territory. He was drawn to the porch by the periodic bangs of Ed driving nails. As he started up the steps, Ed saw him coming.
Ed was no stranger to dogs, but Blackie was three times the size of Ed...and from Ed's seated perspective, towered over him. Over the next few seconds a remarkable event transpired. Ed's eyes got really big, and he dropped the hammer with a clatter. He put his hands down together in between his legs, and pushed down hard swinging his feet underneath him. He took another look at the approaching Blackie, and then down the long porch at mom. He made his decision, turned to his left and ran the entire length of the porch at high speed - no stumbles, no wobbles - just pure life saving speed.
Mom had turned to look when Ed dropped the hammer, and her jaw dropped when she saw him sprinting to her. She reached down and scooped him into her lap, and laughed out loud. Blackie lost interest at that point and trotted down the steps and back out through the gate.
So...Ed bypassed all the usual parts of learning to scoot, crawl, stand, totter, walk and then run. He'd watched everyone else do it for a long time, but never really felt the need to do it himself before. But now that he'd done it, he never went back. From that day on, he walked or ran everywhere he wanted to go. But he still loved pounding nails, and continued decorating the porch with his handy work until we moved a couple of years later.
Lesson Learned: Never underestimate the power of motivation to motivate, or my brother Ed when he decides to do something.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Lando Mines
I've talked in my posts about Lando Mines, and it might help to share a bit more about the place. I was born in a bigger town about 80 miles away called Williamson, and we lived in Lando Mines until I was about four and them moved on to East Kermit (see the Bit O Honey story).
In the those days, mining companies provided housing for the miners and their families. They'd build a small town, along with a company store, and they'd name it after their company. When the deep mine they were working would run out, they would bulldoze all the houses down, burn the rubble, and them rebuild the town at the next mine location. So, there was more than one Lando Mines town location, and the one I grew up in doesn't exist anymore. All that's left is a bridge across Pigeon Creek and a road to nowhere.
The houses were crude and unpainted. The yards were packed dirt, some were fenced with wire fencing, and all of them faced onto roads paved with crushed coal. Some of the houses had indoor plumbing ($25/month), and others ($15/month) just used outhouses. If you're not familiar with outhouses...they are just a little shack with a swinging door, set down over a big, deep hole in the ground. They're cold in the winter, and smelly and fly infested in warmer weather. All the houses were heated by fireplaces that burned coal. So, they all had quite a pile of coal outside to use as fuel. The coal burned with an acrid smoke, and a pungent sulfur smell. I thought it was amazing that black rocks could burn, and can still see the red glow of the coal in my mind. With coal on the roads, and burning in the houses, the air was always dusty and smelled bad.
The mining companies printed their own money and made their own coins too, and they called it "script". My dad and grandfather were paid half in cash and half in script. Script wasn't worth as much as regular money because you could only spend it at the company store and the company gas station. To get to the company store, we'd walk down to Pigeon Creek, and go across a swaying, hanging bridge to the other side. These bridges were commonly referred to as monkey bridges, because you had to hang on like a monkey when you went across. They were easy to get swinging pretty violently, and it made for treacherous walking - especially when other people on the bridge wanted to give you a scare. The federal government finally stopped the companies from printing script, when the federal courts ruled it was minting money, and only the government has the right to do that.
The company store wasn't much to look at, but to me as a kid was a wonderland filled with all kinds of things to admire and long after. The floors were the same as in the houses, oiled unfinished wood and sawdust. This kept the dust down I guess. They had glass displays of all kinds of goods, and high shelves on the other side also filled with canned food and dry goods. They even had some racks of hanging clothes and some shoes...but these tended towards working gear. If you wanted to buy anything, you had to ask a clerk to help you. They would take it out of the display case, or off the high shelves and ring it up for you. If you didn't have any money, they would put it on your bill, and some people got way behind in payments.
One thing they sold that I really liked was carbide and carbide lamps. The miners worked in the darkness, and wore carbide lamps on their heads. These consisted of a can with the headlamp screwed on top. There was a headstrap on the can, and you could adjust it to fit your head or miner's helmet. The headlamp was a polished metal reflector with a small hole in the center. To make the lamp work, you loaded the can with fresh carbide, added some water, screwed the headlamp back onto the can top, and lit the flame at the reflector hole. Carbide resembled a soft, gray gravel...and when you got it wet it would fizz like Alka Seltzer, and release carbide gas. It came in big cans like paint cans with a sealed lid to keep it dry. The lamps didn't make much light, but enough to work by in the total blackout in the mines. Besides having to reload them all the time, their biggest downside was the open flame. Not a good thing to have in a mine when methane or natural gas leaked into the shafts, or fine coal dust accumulated in the air. So they were the most common cause of mine explosions.
Lando Mines was a step ahead of other mining towns because they also had their own gas station. It was called Red Head gas, and it had a big red woodpecker sign out front. My dad was the co-owner and operator of the station, trying to make some extra money for a growing family. He also had managed to get out of direct mining, because of his business studies - and did payroll and assaying the coal. I think gas was about 18 cents a gallon, and you could buy it with either script or cash. People always used script though, because it was worth less than cash except at the company store or the station. People would sometimes trade script for money, and there was a loose exchange rate, Three dollars of script would get you two dollars of cash.
Miners were very well paid compared to other work in the area, but they ended up having to give a lot of the money back to the mining company for rent, food and gas. So, they often just barely got by from paycheck to paycheck. When they'd run out of money before the next check, they'd trade something in if they could. I remember my dad showing me a veritable armory of weapons at the gas station. I think he had something like 50 rifles and shotguns in the back that people had traded for a tank of gas. Sometimes they'd buy their guns back when they got paid, but often as not dad would get stuck with them. He'd sell the ones he could, and kept a few of the better ones. A lot of them were souvenirs from the recent war...from Japan, Italy, or Germany. I later learned to shoot one of the rifles to help get us food...but that's another story. Dad always used to grumble about the station, and I heard him tell mom more than once that they'd lost money that month on it. He eventually gave up on it, and with no one else interested in taking if over, it was closed for good.
One of my favorite things was to stand out by our fence in the mornings and greet the miners as they walked down the hill going to work. They'd say "Mornin' Henry!", and I'd lower my voice as low as possible, and growl back at them "Mornin' boys". That made them laugh every time. I'd do the same thing again that evening as they came home from their shift. The crew coming home was much different than going in. Now they were filthy black with the coal dust, and their faces were a black and smudged. Their shoulders were rounded from stooping all day, and their gait was slow and their feet dragging. Still they'd say "Evenin' Henry", and I say "Evenin' Boys" and they'd all smile like it was the first time, with their teeth startlingly white against their black, exhausted faces.
Their work in the mines was hard and dangerous. The coal ran in seams or layers and was sometimes only 3 feet thick. So, they rarely had room to stand while they used their picks to break to coal loose from the face, and load it into their bushel baskets. They put timbers in to keep the slate rock ceilings from collapsing...but sometimes that didn't work. Depending on the company, they got paid per bushel, or by the hour. Many of my relatives were hurt in explosions, or slate falls.
The coal was brought out of the mines in low slung, coal cars running on narrow tracks. It was crushed, washed and then graded. The water was mostly kept in holding ponds, but sometimes ran back into Pigeon Creek, and it was often totally black. Big steam engines that also burned coal would load up their cars at the mine steeple, and then haul it away several times a day. Coal was selling for about $2 a ton in those days, depending on the quality of the coal. The quality was determined by doing an assay on samples to measure how much rock content vs pure coal there was in that day's mining. The higher the rock content, the lower the price...and when it got too much rock in it, they would declare that the mine had run out, and they'd close the mine and move on.
Mining was a very hard life, and most would say that Lando Mines was not a very nice place - but I loved it there, and saw only beauty in the hills, trees, and in the hearts of the people who worked their lives away there.
In the those days, mining companies provided housing for the miners and their families. They'd build a small town, along with a company store, and they'd name it after their company. When the deep mine they were working would run out, they would bulldoze all the houses down, burn the rubble, and them rebuild the town at the next mine location. So, there was more than one Lando Mines town location, and the one I grew up in doesn't exist anymore. All that's left is a bridge across Pigeon Creek and a road to nowhere.
The houses were crude and unpainted. The yards were packed dirt, some were fenced with wire fencing, and all of them faced onto roads paved with crushed coal. Some of the houses had indoor plumbing ($25/month), and others ($15/month) just used outhouses. If you're not familiar with outhouses...they are just a little shack with a swinging door, set down over a big, deep hole in the ground. They're cold in the winter, and smelly and fly infested in warmer weather. All the houses were heated by fireplaces that burned coal. So, they all had quite a pile of coal outside to use as fuel. The coal burned with an acrid smoke, and a pungent sulfur smell. I thought it was amazing that black rocks could burn, and can still see the red glow of the coal in my mind. With coal on the roads, and burning in the houses, the air was always dusty and smelled bad.
The mining companies printed their own money and made their own coins too, and they called it "script". My dad and grandfather were paid half in cash and half in script. Script wasn't worth as much as regular money because you could only spend it at the company store and the company gas station. To get to the company store, we'd walk down to Pigeon Creek, and go across a swaying, hanging bridge to the other side. These bridges were commonly referred to as monkey bridges, because you had to hang on like a monkey when you went across. They were easy to get swinging pretty violently, and it made for treacherous walking - especially when other people on the bridge wanted to give you a scare. The federal government finally stopped the companies from printing script, when the federal courts ruled it was minting money, and only the government has the right to do that.
The company store wasn't much to look at, but to me as a kid was a wonderland filled with all kinds of things to admire and long after. The floors were the same as in the houses, oiled unfinished wood and sawdust. This kept the dust down I guess. They had glass displays of all kinds of goods, and high shelves on the other side also filled with canned food and dry goods. They even had some racks of hanging clothes and some shoes...but these tended towards working gear. If you wanted to buy anything, you had to ask a clerk to help you. They would take it out of the display case, or off the high shelves and ring it up for you. If you didn't have any money, they would put it on your bill, and some people got way behind in payments.
One thing they sold that I really liked was carbide and carbide lamps. The miners worked in the darkness, and wore carbide lamps on their heads. These consisted of a can with the headlamp screwed on top. There was a headstrap on the can, and you could adjust it to fit your head or miner's helmet. The headlamp was a polished metal reflector with a small hole in the center. To make the lamp work, you loaded the can with fresh carbide, added some water, screwed the headlamp back onto the can top, and lit the flame at the reflector hole. Carbide resembled a soft, gray gravel...and when you got it wet it would fizz like Alka Seltzer, and release carbide gas. It came in big cans like paint cans with a sealed lid to keep it dry. The lamps didn't make much light, but enough to work by in the total blackout in the mines. Besides having to reload them all the time, their biggest downside was the open flame. Not a good thing to have in a mine when methane or natural gas leaked into the shafts, or fine coal dust accumulated in the air. So they were the most common cause of mine explosions.
Lando Mines was a step ahead of other mining towns because they also had their own gas station. It was called Red Head gas, and it had a big red woodpecker sign out front. My dad was the co-owner and operator of the station, trying to make some extra money for a growing family. He also had managed to get out of direct mining, because of his business studies - and did payroll and assaying the coal. I think gas was about 18 cents a gallon, and you could buy it with either script or cash. People always used script though, because it was worth less than cash except at the company store or the station. People would sometimes trade script for money, and there was a loose exchange rate, Three dollars of script would get you two dollars of cash.
Miners were very well paid compared to other work in the area, but they ended up having to give a lot of the money back to the mining company for rent, food and gas. So, they often just barely got by from paycheck to paycheck. When they'd run out of money before the next check, they'd trade something in if they could. I remember my dad showing me a veritable armory of weapons at the gas station. I think he had something like 50 rifles and shotguns in the back that people had traded for a tank of gas. Sometimes they'd buy their guns back when they got paid, but often as not dad would get stuck with them. He'd sell the ones he could, and kept a few of the better ones. A lot of them were souvenirs from the recent war...from Japan, Italy, or Germany. I later learned to shoot one of the rifles to help get us food...but that's another story. Dad always used to grumble about the station, and I heard him tell mom more than once that they'd lost money that month on it. He eventually gave up on it, and with no one else interested in taking if over, it was closed for good.
One of my favorite things was to stand out by our fence in the mornings and greet the miners as they walked down the hill going to work. They'd say "Mornin' Henry!", and I'd lower my voice as low as possible, and growl back at them "Mornin' boys". That made them laugh every time. I'd do the same thing again that evening as they came home from their shift. The crew coming home was much different than going in. Now they were filthy black with the coal dust, and their faces were a black and smudged. Their shoulders were rounded from stooping all day, and their gait was slow and their feet dragging. Still they'd say "Evenin' Henry", and I say "Evenin' Boys" and they'd all smile like it was the first time, with their teeth startlingly white against their black, exhausted faces.
Their work in the mines was hard and dangerous. The coal ran in seams or layers and was sometimes only 3 feet thick. So, they rarely had room to stand while they used their picks to break to coal loose from the face, and load it into their bushel baskets. They put timbers in to keep the slate rock ceilings from collapsing...but sometimes that didn't work. Depending on the company, they got paid per bushel, or by the hour. Many of my relatives were hurt in explosions, or slate falls.
The coal was brought out of the mines in low slung, coal cars running on narrow tracks. It was crushed, washed and then graded. The water was mostly kept in holding ponds, but sometimes ran back into Pigeon Creek, and it was often totally black. Big steam engines that also burned coal would load up their cars at the mine steeple, and then haul it away several times a day. Coal was selling for about $2 a ton in those days, depending on the quality of the coal. The quality was determined by doing an assay on samples to measure how much rock content vs pure coal there was in that day's mining. The higher the rock content, the lower the price...and when it got too much rock in it, they would declare that the mine had run out, and they'd close the mine and move on.
Mining was a very hard life, and most would say that Lando Mines was not a very nice place - but I loved it there, and saw only beauty in the hills, trees, and in the hearts of the people who worked their lives away there.
Monkey business
My older sister, Ingrid, is a real angel. I can't begin to tell you how many times she has saved my bacon over the years. We are not quite a year apart in age...so we are the same age for 14 days each year. Some people call that "Irish Twins". Ingrid and I think that's pretty cool, but I know that my mom sure wasn't very happy about it. My mom spent a lot of time pregnant. She had six kids in seven years, which ought to earn her several halos in heaven. There are three boys, and three girls in our family...and despite our now advanced ages - I still refer to us as boys and girls.
Hank at 18 months - Ingrid at 2 1/2 years
Sitting on the front stoop at Lando Mines
Ingrid was always so loving and caring for all of us, but we two share a special bond. Perhaps it's because we were the first two, and so had only each other to play with, and to be best friends with for awhile. Regardless of the reason, there was nobody I looked up to like Ingrid. I believed everything she told me, and knew that she always had my best interests at heart. So, that made my little episode with her monkey all the more painful for me, and even now I cringe when I think about it.
My dad was going to a business school in Roanoke, Virginia part time, and so was gone a fair bit of the time. He was trying to get his two year degree, so that he could get a job outside of the mining industry. He didn't want to end up like my grandfather, who also worked at Lando Mines, and who also eventually died of black lung.
Dad came home one Saturday with a very special surprise for Ingrid's fourth birthday present. He showed it to me while Ingrid was out, and I was totally fascinated. It was a toy wind-up monkey that played a drum and cymbal set. I'd never even imagined something as wonderful as that monkey. He'd played his instruments like a total maniac, and made a lot of noise in the process. I knew Ingrid would love it too. After showing it to me, dad put it into the bottom drawer of the hutch...and cautioned me to keep the secret. I promised I would.
All the rest of the day, my mind kept going back to that monkey. I could see him clearly - his red velvet uniform, embellished with gold trim; his little red fez hat with a gold braid on top. When he played the gold braid whipped to and fro, and added to the frenzied appeal of the toy.
I realized at one point that I was alone in the house, and I felt compelled to take just one more look at that monkey. I pulled open the drawer, and eased him out. I didn't dare turn him on because of the noise, so I just turned him around and inspected him from every angle. How did he work? I couldn't see anything obvious. I knew that winding the key was important, but how did he move, and hit the drums?
I decided that if I could peek under his jacket maybe I'd see something important. So, I pulled on the lapels, and they didn't budge. I pulled harder and the jacket started to peel off slowly. Underneath the monkey's jacket was shiny metal. Hmmm.....maybe if I pulled some more away I could understand better. After all, I'd just put it all back the way it was when I was done.
I continued the process of peeling the poor monkey until everything except his hat was gone...jacket, pants, and fur - all in a pile at my feet. All I could see now was a metal monkey, with obvious joints in various places...but still no clue as to how it worked. I sighed, and considered my next step. But just then I heard voices outside, and knew my time was up. I picked up the little jacket and tried to put it back on. It went on sort of, but didn't stick to the metal like it did before. It had gotten all stretched out of shape as I peeled it off, and so it just hung there in a very ill fitting way. I got the same result with the fur and other clothes.
I was getting desperate now, and my hands were beginning to shake. It finally came clear to me that I had permanently made a mess out of the monkey, and that it was obvious to the most casual observer that he had been totally trashed. I felt terrible, and didn't know what to do. Now the voices outside sounded closer, and my mom and dad were coming up the stairs on the porch. I scooped up all the pieces and looked around in panic. I kicked the drawer shut, and rushed over the fireplace. We heated our house with coal, but there was no fire in it at the moment, only a deep bed of ashes. I plunged the monkey and his clothes and fur parts deep into the ashes.
When they all came inside, I just knew I would be found out...and I did get some strange looks from my mom. But she didn't ask me anything, and I stayed out of her way as best I could. I spent the rest of that day, and evening in suppressed terror. I couldn't stop thinking about what I had done, and then how I'd made it even worse by hiding my ill deed. I thought many times about just telling mom or dad, but couldn't bring myself to do it.
When bed time finally came, I was exhausted with worry...but sleep didn't come easy. I finally drifted away with images of an angry metal monkey playing over and over in my mind. The next morning, the memories of the day before filled my mind as soon as I awoke. I was hoping by some miracle that I had just dreamed the whole thing up, but of course I had not.
It was Ingrid's birthday and she was so excited. She could hardly wait to open her presents, and so my dad went to get the monkey out of the drawer and give it to her. He opened the drawer, and stood there stunned to find that it was missing. He looked at my mom, and she shook her head silently side to side...she hadn't moved it. Then they both turned to look at me at the same time. I felt like the end of the world was upon me, and my eyes darted from one to the other...again in panic, but then I was filled with the conviction that I was the most awful person who had ever lived. The enormity of what I done to Ingrid, who was my best friend in the whole world, struck me in the heart. I couldn't bear it anymore, and started crying like an air raid siren. I literally wailed, and shook, and gasped for air...while tears flooded down. I've never felt so miserable in all my life.
Mom and dad came and stood over me...just staring down at my display. Dad finally asked me in a harsh voice "What have you done son?". I couldn't talk, and still sobbing I pointed at the fireplace...and moved in that direction. Dad looked there and then back at me in disbelief. What??? He went to the ashes and raked his fingers through them - immediately finding the poor monkey. He shook it off and blew away some of the ash, and then looked at me again. He didn't have to say a word...his look of disappointment was totally devastating, and I cried even harder to know that I'd let him down so badly.
I finally had the courage to look at Ingrid, and she was puzzled by all that was going on. Dad told her that he'd gotten her the monkey as a special present, and then said "Now look at it....it's ruined." Ingrid took it slowly, and looked at it, and then at me. It's hard to describe her expression, but she didn't look mad or even angry. Still just puzzled. Dad then showed her how the monkey could play, and at least that part still worked. Ingrid laughed as she watched it. Then she looked at me again, and I could see the forgiveness in her eyes. Now I really cried! Ingrid never said a single bad or angry thing to me about it, and just carried on like having a naked, metal monkey was absolutely the best thing she could have hoped for.
Now that is what I mean about Ingrid when I say she was an angel to me. Of course I still got punished, but I actually looked forward to it in an odd way...hoping to repay my sins sort of. But I couldn't help but feel the joy in my heart to know that my best friend was still my best friend, and I swore I'd never, ever let her down again. I can't say that I haven't let her down, but I can say that I've never forgotten what she did for me that day and always done my best to keep my promise, and still do.
Lessons learned: I understand the true meaning and danger of monkeying around with stuff that doesn't belong to me. The love of my big sister knows no bounds.
Sitting on the front stoop at Lando Mines
Ingrid was always so loving and caring for all of us, but we two share a special bond. Perhaps it's because we were the first two, and so had only each other to play with, and to be best friends with for awhile. Regardless of the reason, there was nobody I looked up to like Ingrid. I believed everything she told me, and knew that she always had my best interests at heart. So, that made my little episode with her monkey all the more painful for me, and even now I cringe when I think about it.
My dad was going to a business school in Roanoke, Virginia part time, and so was gone a fair bit of the time. He was trying to get his two year degree, so that he could get a job outside of the mining industry. He didn't want to end up like my grandfather, who also worked at Lando Mines, and who also eventually died of black lung.
Dad came home one Saturday with a very special surprise for Ingrid's fourth birthday present. He showed it to me while Ingrid was out, and I was totally fascinated. It was a toy wind-up monkey that played a drum and cymbal set. I'd never even imagined something as wonderful as that monkey. He'd played his instruments like a total maniac, and made a lot of noise in the process. I knew Ingrid would love it too. After showing it to me, dad put it into the bottom drawer of the hutch...and cautioned me to keep the secret. I promised I would.
All the rest of the day, my mind kept going back to that monkey. I could see him clearly - his red velvet uniform, embellished with gold trim; his little red fez hat with a gold braid on top. When he played the gold braid whipped to and fro, and added to the frenzied appeal of the toy.
I realized at one point that I was alone in the house, and I felt compelled to take just one more look at that monkey. I pulled open the drawer, and eased him out. I didn't dare turn him on because of the noise, so I just turned him around and inspected him from every angle. How did he work? I couldn't see anything obvious. I knew that winding the key was important, but how did he move, and hit the drums?
I decided that if I could peek under his jacket maybe I'd see something important. So, I pulled on the lapels, and they didn't budge. I pulled harder and the jacket started to peel off slowly. Underneath the monkey's jacket was shiny metal. Hmmm.....maybe if I pulled some more away I could understand better. After all, I'd just put it all back the way it was when I was done.
I continued the process of peeling the poor monkey until everything except his hat was gone...jacket, pants, and fur - all in a pile at my feet. All I could see now was a metal monkey, with obvious joints in various places...but still no clue as to how it worked. I sighed, and considered my next step. But just then I heard voices outside, and knew my time was up. I picked up the little jacket and tried to put it back on. It went on sort of, but didn't stick to the metal like it did before. It had gotten all stretched out of shape as I peeled it off, and so it just hung there in a very ill fitting way. I got the same result with the fur and other clothes.
I was getting desperate now, and my hands were beginning to shake. It finally came clear to me that I had permanently made a mess out of the monkey, and that it was obvious to the most casual observer that he had been totally trashed. I felt terrible, and didn't know what to do. Now the voices outside sounded closer, and my mom and dad were coming up the stairs on the porch. I scooped up all the pieces and looked around in panic. I kicked the drawer shut, and rushed over the fireplace. We heated our house with coal, but there was no fire in it at the moment, only a deep bed of ashes. I plunged the monkey and his clothes and fur parts deep into the ashes.
When they all came inside, I just knew I would be found out...and I did get some strange looks from my mom. But she didn't ask me anything, and I stayed out of her way as best I could. I spent the rest of that day, and evening in suppressed terror. I couldn't stop thinking about what I had done, and then how I'd made it even worse by hiding my ill deed. I thought many times about just telling mom or dad, but couldn't bring myself to do it.
When bed time finally came, I was exhausted with worry...but sleep didn't come easy. I finally drifted away with images of an angry metal monkey playing over and over in my mind. The next morning, the memories of the day before filled my mind as soon as I awoke. I was hoping by some miracle that I had just dreamed the whole thing up, but of course I had not.
It was Ingrid's birthday and she was so excited. She could hardly wait to open her presents, and so my dad went to get the monkey out of the drawer and give it to her. He opened the drawer, and stood there stunned to find that it was missing. He looked at my mom, and she shook her head silently side to side...she hadn't moved it. Then they both turned to look at me at the same time. I felt like the end of the world was upon me, and my eyes darted from one to the other...again in panic, but then I was filled with the conviction that I was the most awful person who had ever lived. The enormity of what I done to Ingrid, who was my best friend in the whole world, struck me in the heart. I couldn't bear it anymore, and started crying like an air raid siren. I literally wailed, and shook, and gasped for air...while tears flooded down. I've never felt so miserable in all my life.
Mom and dad came and stood over me...just staring down at my display. Dad finally asked me in a harsh voice "What have you done son?". I couldn't talk, and still sobbing I pointed at the fireplace...and moved in that direction. Dad looked there and then back at me in disbelief. What??? He went to the ashes and raked his fingers through them - immediately finding the poor monkey. He shook it off and blew away some of the ash, and then looked at me again. He didn't have to say a word...his look of disappointment was totally devastating, and I cried even harder to know that I'd let him down so badly.
I finally had the courage to look at Ingrid, and she was puzzled by all that was going on. Dad told her that he'd gotten her the monkey as a special present, and then said "Now look at it....it's ruined." Ingrid took it slowly, and looked at it, and then at me. It's hard to describe her expression, but she didn't look mad or even angry. Still just puzzled. Dad then showed her how the monkey could play, and at least that part still worked. Ingrid laughed as she watched it. Then she looked at me again, and I could see the forgiveness in her eyes. Now I really cried! Ingrid never said a single bad or angry thing to me about it, and just carried on like having a naked, metal monkey was absolutely the best thing she could have hoped for.
Now that is what I mean about Ingrid when I say she was an angel to me. Of course I still got punished, but I actually looked forward to it in an odd way...hoping to repay my sins sort of. But I couldn't help but feel the joy in my heart to know that my best friend was still my best friend, and I swore I'd never, ever let her down again. I can't say that I haven't let her down, but I can say that I've never forgotten what she did for me that day and always done my best to keep my promise, and still do.
Lessons learned: I understand the true meaning and danger of monkeying around with stuff that doesn't belong to me. The love of my big sister knows no bounds.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Bit O Honey Buffet
When I was living in East Kermit, my dad did an amazing thing. Of course he did lot's of things, some great, some strange, and a few amazing. He had a thing for never throwing anything away. Even stranger, he had problems with other people throwing away "perfectly good" things. I can remember many times when we'd be driving somewhere, and he'd see something lying in, or beside the road. He'd slam on the brakes, and bingo - we'd suddenly have another rusty screwdriver, or dead motor, or broken knife. We ran out of room for all this stuff later on, and built a separate shed just to store it in. We called it The Building.
Anyway, he came home one day when I was between three and four, carrying a big cardboard box of Bit O Honey candy bars. (I couldn't read then, but I asked what they were). I thought I'd died and gone to heaven, because there was nothing in the world I loved better than one of those candy bars. Chewy, but nutty...the nectar of the Gods! However, my dad warned me that these were not to eat. My mom said - What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?
Turns out that dad had stopped at the little store on the corner, and saw the box piled up with the trash. He'd taken it back into the store where they told him they'd thrown it out because it was infested with maggots. Any normal person would have made a disgusting face, and dropped it...but not my dad. He just couldn't stand throwing them away, and so had brought them home. When my mom asked why, he said - I don't know..just seemed like a terrible waste. So, she said get them out of the house and he took them out to our garage.
I'm still not sure what he thought he'd do with them, but I knew exactly what I was going to do. I didn't know what a maggot was, but surely it wasn't anything that could keep me from getting my teeth into a Bit O Honey. So, the next morning after dad left for work, I quietly sneaked into the garage in search of the box. It wasn't hard to find, and it wasn't long until I opened it like a pirate's treasure chest. My eyes were as big as dinner plates as I looked upon 40 or 50 of those amazing treats!
I picked one up, and tore it open quickly. As I popped the first piece out of the waxed wrapping paper, something caught my eye. The candy was wriggling in my hand, or at least some of it was. I looked closer, and got my first close up view of a maggot. They didn't look too appetizing I'll admit, but not very dangerous either. I flicked one with my finger, and it didn't bite or do much of anything but wriggle some more.
So, I just flicked off all the maggots I could see and chowed down. Mmmm...incredible and wonderful to be sure. I ate the whole bar the same way, and left a scattered pile of squirming maggots on the floor. I did have enough sense to put the box back where I found it, and hide the wrapping paper.
Every day I went to garage, and engaged in the same ritual. Some bars actually had no maggots, and others quite a herd. But I ate them one by one, at least one a day. I was living large.
It never occurred to me that I'd get caught. My mom noticed right away that I had almost no appetite at meal times. I remember her putting her palm on my forehead to see if I had a fever, and then just shaking her head. She asked me if I was ok, and of course I was - I was getting to eat my favorite food on earth every single day. As the week went by, she got more and more worried about me not eating.
The end came quickly. One day I went to the garage as usual, and was getting pretty lax on being secretive. I pulled the box out, and opened the lid...all set to savor yet another treasure. I pulled out a bar, and unwrapped it, but dropped it when my mom started screaming. She was yelling things like - disgusting, and sickening, and also saying some unpleasant things about dad. She took the bar, and the box, and put them into the metal trash can and slammed down the lid. I knew my dad was in for it when he got home.
When he did get home, it was one of the rare times when there was actual yelling in our house...all from my mom. She kept asking my dad was he crazy, and what did he think he was going to do with those maggot infested bars? Of course, he didn't have much to say. I just looked at him, and he looked at me. We both had sad, hound dog eyes, but for very different reasons.
And so ended my Bit O Honey buffet. I still eat one now and again, but somehow they just don't taste quite the same as that special batch from the East Kermit quick stop grocery.
Lesson Learned: Don't let a little obstacle, keep you from a big reward.
Anyway, he came home one day when I was between three and four, carrying a big cardboard box of Bit O Honey candy bars. (I couldn't read then, but I asked what they were). I thought I'd died and gone to heaven, because there was nothing in the world I loved better than one of those candy bars. Chewy, but nutty...the nectar of the Gods! However, my dad warned me that these were not to eat. My mom said - What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?
Turns out that dad had stopped at the little store on the corner, and saw the box piled up with the trash. He'd taken it back into the store where they told him they'd thrown it out because it was infested with maggots. Any normal person would have made a disgusting face, and dropped it...but not my dad. He just couldn't stand throwing them away, and so had brought them home. When my mom asked why, he said - I don't know..just seemed like a terrible waste. So, she said get them out of the house and he took them out to our garage.
I'm still not sure what he thought he'd do with them, but I knew exactly what I was going to do. I didn't know what a maggot was, but surely it wasn't anything that could keep me from getting my teeth into a Bit O Honey. So, the next morning after dad left for work, I quietly sneaked into the garage in search of the box. It wasn't hard to find, and it wasn't long until I opened it like a pirate's treasure chest. My eyes were as big as dinner plates as I looked upon 40 or 50 of those amazing treats!
I picked one up, and tore it open quickly. As I popped the first piece out of the waxed wrapping paper, something caught my eye. The candy was wriggling in my hand, or at least some of it was. I looked closer, and got my first close up view of a maggot. They didn't look too appetizing I'll admit, but not very dangerous either. I flicked one with my finger, and it didn't bite or do much of anything but wriggle some more.
So, I just flicked off all the maggots I could see and chowed down. Mmmm...incredible and wonderful to be sure. I ate the whole bar the same way, and left a scattered pile of squirming maggots on the floor. I did have enough sense to put the box back where I found it, and hide the wrapping paper.
Every day I went to garage, and engaged in the same ritual. Some bars actually had no maggots, and others quite a herd. But I ate them one by one, at least one a day. I was living large.
It never occurred to me that I'd get caught. My mom noticed right away that I had almost no appetite at meal times. I remember her putting her palm on my forehead to see if I had a fever, and then just shaking her head. She asked me if I was ok, and of course I was - I was getting to eat my favorite food on earth every single day. As the week went by, she got more and more worried about me not eating.
The end came quickly. One day I went to the garage as usual, and was getting pretty lax on being secretive. I pulled the box out, and opened the lid...all set to savor yet another treasure. I pulled out a bar, and unwrapped it, but dropped it when my mom started screaming. She was yelling things like - disgusting, and sickening, and also saying some unpleasant things about dad. She took the bar, and the box, and put them into the metal trash can and slammed down the lid. I knew my dad was in for it when he got home.
When he did get home, it was one of the rare times when there was actual yelling in our house...all from my mom. She kept asking my dad was he crazy, and what did he think he was going to do with those maggot infested bars? Of course, he didn't have much to say. I just looked at him, and he looked at me. We both had sad, hound dog eyes, but for very different reasons.
And so ended my Bit O Honey buffet. I still eat one now and again, but somehow they just don't taste quite the same as that special batch from the East Kermit quick stop grocery.
Lesson Learned: Don't let a little obstacle, keep you from a big reward.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Coal can be good for the soul
It was just a normal day in Lando Mines. I was three years old and out in the yard, which had no grass...just hard pan dirt. Made it easy to mow I guess. I often was out there since I loved being outdoors in the sun whenever I could. I was on a mission, or more like a hunt. I had a condition known as Rickets. It's just a vitamin D deficiency, but caused soft bones in kids like me. Somehow my little brain knew I was missing something in my diet, and I made a very bad assumption that eating coal was the magic cure.
Not just any coal mind you, but only some very particular coal. I learned from experience the difference between bituminous coal and anthracite coal. Bituminous coal is an ideal snack food. Soft enough to have a nice crunch to it, but not so soft that it would smear and leave a telltale trace on your fingers or lips. And it is essentially a zero fat, zero calorie snack - but very filling. Anthracite is a very different story. It was hard, and shiny and nearly impossible to break up by chewing. It was mostly only good for serving as a poor imitation for a jaw breaker, or for throwing at birds.
So, I ate soft coal whenever I could find it. My mom was not a big fan of that habit, and I'd get in trouble whenever she caught me doing it, but I felt compelled to eat it. I got really good at casually sneaking up on a small piece of coal on the ground, taking a good look around to be sure that I wasn't being watched, and then quickly popping it into my mouth. I'd savor it for a moment, and then set to work grinding it into a black slurry that I could swallow.
I didn't understand Mother Nature's Law of Inedibles back then. When something inedible goes in, it must back come out - eventually. Coal doesn't digest well. In fact, it seemed to transform into some kind of black concrete as it wove it's merry way through my stomach and intestines. The end product strongly resembled charcoal briquettes. You can imagine how difficult it would be to pass that...you get the general idea? So, I was one of the most constipated creatures on mother earth.
My mom's idea of potty training was a bit off the norm. She spread newspapers on the back porch, and when I needed to go, that's where I'd go. Me and my dog were very familiar with that place. Actually, it worked pretty well until winter time, and then I got very motivated to figure out the whole bathroom thing.
So, whenever the urge hit me, I'd go to back porch and wait for what seemed an eternity for something to happen. As I whiled away the time waiting for my own little coal mine to finish it's business, I would look at the newspapers. At first I would just look at the pictures, but then I started to notice all the squiggly stuff that surrounded the pictures. Since my mom was a teacher, she showed me a couple of words like "the" and "a", so I'd spend my time trying to find them on the papers as I squatted there. The more words I learned, the more I wanted to know, and so my interest in reading was born. I'm not saying I wouldn't have been an avid reader anyway, but for sure eating coal got me interested at a very early age.
Lessons learned: You are what you eat, especially when you can't get it out no matter how hard you try. Sometimes good habits are born out of bad ones.
Not just any coal mind you, but only some very particular coal. I learned from experience the difference between bituminous coal and anthracite coal. Bituminous coal is an ideal snack food. Soft enough to have a nice crunch to it, but not so soft that it would smear and leave a telltale trace on your fingers or lips. And it is essentially a zero fat, zero calorie snack - but very filling. Anthracite is a very different story. It was hard, and shiny and nearly impossible to break up by chewing. It was mostly only good for serving as a poor imitation for a jaw breaker, or for throwing at birds.
So, I ate soft coal whenever I could find it. My mom was not a big fan of that habit, and I'd get in trouble whenever she caught me doing it, but I felt compelled to eat it. I got really good at casually sneaking up on a small piece of coal on the ground, taking a good look around to be sure that I wasn't being watched, and then quickly popping it into my mouth. I'd savor it for a moment, and then set to work grinding it into a black slurry that I could swallow.
I didn't understand Mother Nature's Law of Inedibles back then. When something inedible goes in, it must back come out - eventually. Coal doesn't digest well. In fact, it seemed to transform into some kind of black concrete as it wove it's merry way through my stomach and intestines. The end product strongly resembled charcoal briquettes. You can imagine how difficult it would be to pass that...you get the general idea? So, I was one of the most constipated creatures on mother earth.
My mom's idea of potty training was a bit off the norm. She spread newspapers on the back porch, and when I needed to go, that's where I'd go. Me and my dog were very familiar with that place. Actually, it worked pretty well until winter time, and then I got very motivated to figure out the whole bathroom thing.
So, whenever the urge hit me, I'd go to back porch and wait for what seemed an eternity for something to happen. As I whiled away the time waiting for my own little coal mine to finish it's business, I would look at the newspapers. At first I would just look at the pictures, but then I started to notice all the squiggly stuff that surrounded the pictures. Since my mom was a teacher, she showed me a couple of words like "the" and "a", so I'd spend my time trying to find them on the papers as I squatted there. The more words I learned, the more I wanted to know, and so my interest in reading was born. I'm not saying I wouldn't have been an avid reader anyway, but for sure eating coal got me interested at a very early age.
Lessons learned: You are what you eat, especially when you can't get it out no matter how hard you try. Sometimes good habits are born out of bad ones.
Turning Three
When I was two years old, my dad would go fishing with his best friend every Sunday morning. Dad wasn't big on church going, and somehow was able to escape the hard pews and badly sung hymns. So, I'd watch him leave with his pole, tackle box, and huge grin. Just seeing how happy he was made me want to go too, even though I had no idea of what fishin' meant.
I started bugging my dad to take me with him, and he'd say "When you're older son" every time. That wasn't good enough for me, and somehow, with my limited vocabulary, I got him to commit to taking me when I turned three. I had no real concept of time, but it sounded good to me. Full of excitement, I now started nagging my mom to help me get ready for the big day. I got a stick, some yarn, and dug up a worm to make myself a practice fishing pole.
I'd get my mom to tie the worm onto the yarn, and away I'd go in search of water. Mud puddles were my favorite targets, and I'd dangle the worm in the water, and watch it wriggle for a bit, and then pretend a big fish had taken the bait. I'd yank that pole as hard as I could, pretending to set the hook...and watch as the worm and yarn went flying off into the weeds somewhere. I'd find both, and then take it all back to my mom to get her to fix it again. I did this over and over, and I'm sure must have driven my mom crazy.
Well, the big day finally came. I turned three, and I was totally excited waiting for Sunday when I'd get to go fishing with dad, and I'd officially be not only a big boy, but my dad's fishing buddy. My mom fixed us some lunch, and we loaded all our gear in the car. I was now the proud owner of a real fishing pole with a reel full of line, and a sharp hook with sinkers on the end.
We went to a local fishing pond where they stocked fish. Dad wanted to make sure that I had a good chance at catching something, so he paid the 25 cent fee for both of us to fish there. He showed me how to put the bait on the hook (no worms this time - just little balls of dough with some cheese mixed in). Then he cast the line out for me, and showed me how to turn the crank on the reel to wind it in. Must have looked pretty funny. I was always a very small kid, and the fishing pole was at least three times taller than me.
It didn't take long before I felt a big yank on line, and I yanked back. All that mud puddle practice paid off, and I pulled so hard I fell backwards right onto my butt. I was shocked for a second, but scrambled up and started running up the bank holding the pole high. My dad yelled at me to stop...I'd forgotten about the reel, and that I could wind the line back in. So, I started cranking away as fast as I could, and noticed after awhile that something was wrong.
I was turning the crank the wrong direction, and the fishing line was piling up all over the reel into what I later learned is called a bird's nest. Well, I made a fine mess out of it, and dad was not a bit happy when he saw what I'd done. So he set about trying to get it all untangled, while all this time my fish was swimming around out there wondering what the heck was going on. Dad eventually got the mess cleaned up, and this time I cranked it the right way. That fish looked like Jonah's whale to me when I got my first glimpse of it, and I'd never felt so proud as when I pulled him out of the water. I was grinning from ear to ear, just like the way my dad had grinned every Sunday morning when he set out to go fishing. It was a great moment, and I'll never forget having that time with my dad.
Feeling pretty good that I was a "real guy" now, and having notched my first fish...I realized I was very hungry. Dad opened up the lunch bag, and pulled out two bologna sandwiches. He handed me mine, and I gladly took a big bite, and then spit it out. Ugh! My mom had put mustard on my sandwich, and I hated mustard. My dad took note of me spitting, and asked me what was wrong. I showed him the mustard, and he laughed and said "Eat it anyway - it won't kill you son".
Well! Being the accomplished fisherman that I was, and feeling pretty darn self important, I decided that I was not about to stoop to eating a sandwich ruined by mustard. My feelings were so strong, that I knew a simple "No!" would not adequately express my extreme displeasure. So, I stepped to the waters edge, and triumphantly hurled my sandwich into the pond. Then I crossed my arms, put a bit of a sneer on my face, and turned to my dad. He looked at me, then looked at ripples on the water where my sandwich had disappeared, and then back to me again.
I knew there was a snack shack just up the hill from us. I was absolutely sure that my dad would be sympathetic to my manly display of anger, and buy me something suitable to eat. So, as I looked at him expectantly, he just started to smile. I smiled too, at least until he said "I'm sure the fish will enjoy your lunch more than you did son." I waited for him to say more, but he was silent, and still smiling. I said I was hungry, and he only responded "Then maybe you should have thought about that before you threw your lunch away." Then he took a big bite out of his sandwich, and just smiled some more. He didn't offer any of it to me, and I was too proud to ask for a bite.
I looked back at where my sandwich had disappeared, and thought that maybe a little mustard wasn't so bad after all. We fished for a couple of more hours, and I had plenty of time to think about the rewards of my tantrum. As we rode home, my stomach was grumbling, but my mind was clear. I'd had a wonderful day with my dad, learned about fishing, and especially learned about life and being responsible for my actions.
Lesson Learned: When life gives you a little unwanted mustard, smile and enjoy it anyway.
I started bugging my dad to take me with him, and he'd say "When you're older son" every time. That wasn't good enough for me, and somehow, with my limited vocabulary, I got him to commit to taking me when I turned three. I had no real concept of time, but it sounded good to me. Full of excitement, I now started nagging my mom to help me get ready for the big day. I got a stick, some yarn, and dug up a worm to make myself a practice fishing pole.
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| Me at 3 in Lando Mines |
Well, the big day finally came. I turned three, and I was totally excited waiting for Sunday when I'd get to go fishing with dad, and I'd officially be not only a big boy, but my dad's fishing buddy. My mom fixed us some lunch, and we loaded all our gear in the car. I was now the proud owner of a real fishing pole with a reel full of line, and a sharp hook with sinkers on the end.
We went to a local fishing pond where they stocked fish. Dad wanted to make sure that I had a good chance at catching something, so he paid the 25 cent fee for both of us to fish there. He showed me how to put the bait on the hook (no worms this time - just little balls of dough with some cheese mixed in). Then he cast the line out for me, and showed me how to turn the crank on the reel to wind it in. Must have looked pretty funny. I was always a very small kid, and the fishing pole was at least three times taller than me.
It didn't take long before I felt a big yank on line, and I yanked back. All that mud puddle practice paid off, and I pulled so hard I fell backwards right onto my butt. I was shocked for a second, but scrambled up and started running up the bank holding the pole high. My dad yelled at me to stop...I'd forgotten about the reel, and that I could wind the line back in. So, I started cranking away as fast as I could, and noticed after awhile that something was wrong.
I was turning the crank the wrong direction, and the fishing line was piling up all over the reel into what I later learned is called a bird's nest. Well, I made a fine mess out of it, and dad was not a bit happy when he saw what I'd done. So he set about trying to get it all untangled, while all this time my fish was swimming around out there wondering what the heck was going on. Dad eventually got the mess cleaned up, and this time I cranked it the right way. That fish looked like Jonah's whale to me when I got my first glimpse of it, and I'd never felt so proud as when I pulled him out of the water. I was grinning from ear to ear, just like the way my dad had grinned every Sunday morning when he set out to go fishing. It was a great moment, and I'll never forget having that time with my dad.
Feeling pretty good that I was a "real guy" now, and having notched my first fish...I realized I was very hungry. Dad opened up the lunch bag, and pulled out two bologna sandwiches. He handed me mine, and I gladly took a big bite, and then spit it out. Ugh! My mom had put mustard on my sandwich, and I hated mustard. My dad took note of me spitting, and asked me what was wrong. I showed him the mustard, and he laughed and said "Eat it anyway - it won't kill you son".
Well! Being the accomplished fisherman that I was, and feeling pretty darn self important, I decided that I was not about to stoop to eating a sandwich ruined by mustard. My feelings were so strong, that I knew a simple "No!" would not adequately express my extreme displeasure. So, I stepped to the waters edge, and triumphantly hurled my sandwich into the pond. Then I crossed my arms, put a bit of a sneer on my face, and turned to my dad. He looked at me, then looked at ripples on the water where my sandwich had disappeared, and then back to me again.
I knew there was a snack shack just up the hill from us. I was absolutely sure that my dad would be sympathetic to my manly display of anger, and buy me something suitable to eat. So, as I looked at him expectantly, he just started to smile. I smiled too, at least until he said "I'm sure the fish will enjoy your lunch more than you did son." I waited for him to say more, but he was silent, and still smiling. I said I was hungry, and he only responded "Then maybe you should have thought about that before you threw your lunch away." Then he took a big bite out of his sandwich, and just smiled some more. He didn't offer any of it to me, and I was too proud to ask for a bite.
I looked back at where my sandwich had disappeared, and thought that maybe a little mustard wasn't so bad after all. We fished for a couple of more hours, and I had plenty of time to think about the rewards of my tantrum. As we rode home, my stomach was grumbling, but my mind was clear. I'd had a wonderful day with my dad, learned about fishing, and especially learned about life and being responsible for my actions.
Lesson Learned: When life gives you a little unwanted mustard, smile and enjoy it anyway.
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