hear it. She went back to her table piled high with drawings and plans.
Later that night, I saw Dreama walk over to the food table and get herself a cup of punch. At her approach, a cluster of women stalked off and she was left alone, sipping from the cup and turning around, looking out of the tops of her eyes. I thought she looked small and scared and I found myself feeling sorry for her even though she was someplace she wasn’t supposed to be. Then I saw my mother leave her table and stride across the machine-shop floor and go directly to the punch bowl and pour herself a drink. Then she nodded to Dreama. It occurred to me just then that it was a nod from one Gary girl to another.
7
VETERANS DAY
SOMETIME BEFORE THE sun came up on Veterans Day morning, I heard the sound of a truck rumbling past my window and looked at the alarm clock on the table by my bed. It was 4:30 A.M. Coalwood’s proud float was rolling past. Mom in her Buick and a bunch of other ladies in their cars followed closely behind, creeping over a frost-slickened road. The float was being pulled by a rusty, dented truck. Dad had advised Mom just the day before that he was going to need all Olga’s trucks to “haul mine machinery.” The old truck pulling the float had been borrowed by Dad from a little independent mine up Warriormine Hollow that only worked weekends. There were more and more such small, nonunion mines being operated around the county, most of them run by union men who worked for big mines during the week. These little mines skirted safety regulations and union dictates alike, but they made a profit, and some people said that when the big operations finally shut down, the independents would be the only mines still going. Dad said they had their place in the scheme of things but he worried about their safety. “A man who makes an hourly wage will gripe about safety and his working conditions all day long,” I heard him say once to Uncle Clarence, his brother. “But you tell him he can make a profit for himself on a ton of coal and he’ll forget about everything but the money. He’ll hold up the roof with one hand and dig with the other.”
Uncle Clarence, who worked for Dad as an assistant superintendent at the Caretta mine, said, “About half my men work those mines every weekend. Sometimes on Monday, they’re so worn out they all but fall asleep on the job.”
The two Hickam brothers then shook their heads at the strange antics and peculiar attitudes of the men they had been raised with and led for years. Somewhere along the line, they had taken a different turn from their union brethren. When I asked Mom about the reasons for it, she said, “Poppy made them that way. Poppy, and all his books.”
It was at the supper table that Dad told Mom about the truck. He also said he wasn’t going to the parade. “Things to do,” he explained.
“You can’t mean it,” Mom replied, obviously shocked. “I’ve worked so hard—we’ve all worked so hard on this float. You have to be there, Homer. You’re the acting general superintendent. It’s expected!”
“I just can’t,” he said. “And it’s because I am the acting general superintendent that I can’t.”
“Homer . . .”
“Elsie . . .”
There was never a satisfactory resolution to any discussion between my parents when they began to call themselves by their first names, and this one was no exception.
I didn’t know what it was, but there was something in the works at the mine that had sent Dad into a feverish round of activity. Although he always worked long hours, lately he was at the mine until far into the night. Sometimes I would wake, hearing him as he crept up the stairs to go to bed. He was there for only a few hours. I had to get up before sunrise to catch the school bus but he was always up and gone by then.
At 5:00 A.M., the Big Creek school bus picked me and the other Coalwood band members up at the filling station across from my house. We slept
Later that night, I saw Dreama walk over to the food table and get herself a cup of punch. At her approach, a cluster of women stalked off and she was left alone, sipping from the cup and turning around, looking out of the tops of her eyes. I thought she looked small and scared and I found myself feeling sorry for her even though she was someplace she wasn’t supposed to be. Then I saw my mother leave her table and stride across the machine-shop floor and go directly to the punch bowl and pour herself a drink. Then she nodded to Dreama. It occurred to me just then that it was a nod from one Gary girl to another.
7
VETERANS DAY
SOMETIME BEFORE THE sun came up on Veterans Day morning, I heard the sound of a truck rumbling past my window and looked at the alarm clock on the table by my bed. It was 4:30 A.M. Coalwood’s proud float was rolling past. Mom in her Buick and a bunch of other ladies in their cars followed closely behind, creeping over a frost-slickened road. The float was being pulled by a rusty, dented truck. Dad had advised Mom just the day before that he was going to need all Olga’s trucks to “haul mine machinery.” The old truck pulling the float had been borrowed by Dad from a little independent mine up Warriormine Hollow that only worked weekends. There were more and more such small, nonunion mines being operated around the county, most of them run by union men who worked for big mines during the week. These little mines skirted safety regulations and union dictates alike, but they made a profit, and some people said that when the big operations finally shut down, the independents would be the only mines still going. Dad said they had their place in the scheme of things but he worried about their safety. “A man who makes an hourly wage will gripe about safety and his working conditions all day long,” I heard him say once to Uncle Clarence, his brother. “But you tell him he can make a profit for himself on a ton of coal and he’ll forget about everything but the money. He’ll hold up the roof with one hand and dig with the other.”
Uncle Clarence, who worked for Dad as an assistant superintendent at the Caretta mine, said, “About half my men work those mines every weekend. Sometimes on Monday, they’re so worn out they all but fall asleep on the job.”
The two Hickam brothers then shook their heads at the strange antics and peculiar attitudes of the men they had been raised with and led for years. Somewhere along the line, they had taken a different turn from their union brethren. When I asked Mom about the reasons for it, she said, “Poppy made them that way. Poppy, and all his books.”
It was at the supper table that Dad told Mom about the truck. He also said he wasn’t going to the parade. “Things to do,” he explained.
“You can’t mean it,” Mom replied, obviously shocked. “I’ve worked so hard—we’ve all worked so hard on this float. You have to be there, Homer. You’re the acting general superintendent. It’s expected!”
“I just can’t,” he said. “And it’s because I am the acting general superintendent that I can’t.”
“Homer . . .”
“Elsie . . .”
There was never a satisfactory resolution to any discussion between my parents when they began to call themselves by their first names, and this one was no exception.
I didn’t know what it was, but there was something in the works at the mine that had sent Dad into a feverish round of activity. Although he always worked long hours, lately he was at the mine until far into the night. Sometimes I would wake, hearing him as he crept up the stairs to go to bed. He was there for only a few hours. I had to get up before sunrise to catch the school bus but he was always up and gone by then.
At 5:00 A.M., the Big Creek school bus picked me and the other Coalwood band members up at the filling station across from my house. We slept
Similar Books
