parents. He’d had his hands full, in that case.
The next day, Dad went off to Ohio. Two days later, he returned and reported the results to Mom while he was still holding his suitcases in his hands. “I was just too nervous,” he said, his shoulders down. “I’m lucky they didn’t laugh me out of the room.”
Mom was at the kitchen table working on her plans for the Veterans Day float. She pointed at the kitchen floor and Dad put the suitcases down, but his shoulders still slumped. “For starters, they spelled my name wrong on the agenda,” he said miserably. “Hick
ham,
it said. Then the president of the steel company introduced me and proceeded to call me Homer Hickman. For God’s sake,
Hickman
! I’ve worked in this mine for thirty years, they’ve owned the mine for ten, and they still don’t know my name!”
Dad was wound up, no doubt about it. When he got that way, he would often start coughing, but Mom had her ways of winding him down. “The sun came up this morning, Homer,” she said patiently. “I reckon it’ll set later on, too.”
Dad absorbed Mom’s solar activity report and got her point. “There’s a present for you in one of the suitcases,” he said. “Perfume.”
“What kind?”
“It’s orange color. You like oranges.”
“I like to eat oranges, Homer,” Mom said, suppressing a smile. “I don’t know about smelling like one.”
Dad shrugged and went off to change his clothes to go to the mine, where at least they knew how to spell and pronounce his name and nobody wore perfume. I was surprised when he came back within an hour. I heard him down in the basement hacking, and then a long, strangled silence followed by another horrible wet coughing fit. Finally, it quieted and I heard him come slowly up the basement steps as if he were carrying a ton of rocks on his back. I guess in a way he was. I came down to see what was going on. When he opened the door into the kitchen, his face was pale. “What the good Lord, Homer?” Mom asked, her voice faintly atremble. “Do you want me to call Doc?”
Dad ignored her question. “They didn’t even wait until I got home. Message waiting for me at the office. I either get the tonnage up by ten percent or I’ve got to cut off thirty more men,” he said. “That’s not news for anybody but family,” he added, giving me a dark look.
“You ran all the way home to tell me this?” Mom asked. “With your lungs, Homer, you’re lucky you didn’t have a stroke.”
“Don’t you understand, Elsie?” Dad demanded. “There’s no way I can increase production by that much. Thirty good men . . . they have to go by seniority. That means young men with families. I’ve got to do something about this, come up with a different plan.”
Mom slowly put down her pencil. “Buddy, let’s get out of here while we still can,” she said. When she was looking to calm my dad, Mom often called Dad “Buddy.” I never knew why. “Let’s go to Myrtle Beach. Peabody Real Estate would hire us both in a second. We’ll work together, sell property, get rich as kings. Every day, we’ll go down to the ocean, breathe in nothing but fresh, clean air. Coalwood’s had its day. We’ve had a good life here, I swan, but it’s over.”
Dad brushed past me, heading to the black phone. Soon he was on it, talking to a foreman. “Run East Main as hard as you can tonight, Cecil. Do you hear me?” He stopped to cough into a bandanna, then said, in a strangled voice, “We’ve got to get that tonnage up!”
I trudged back upstairs. That night, when I heard the evening shift being replaced by the hoot-owlers, I got to thinking about Little Richard’s potter’s wheel again. If God was shaping us, he was doing it powerfully hard.
4
THE STOOP CHILDREN
THE CHANGES THAT had come to Coalwood arrived at our front door on Halloween. I was doing the answering for the trick-or-treaters. Dad, an adviser to the county Salvation Army Post in Welch, had gone to a
The next day, Dad went off to Ohio. Two days later, he returned and reported the results to Mom while he was still holding his suitcases in his hands. “I was just too nervous,” he said, his shoulders down. “I’m lucky they didn’t laugh me out of the room.”
Mom was at the kitchen table working on her plans for the Veterans Day float. She pointed at the kitchen floor and Dad put the suitcases down, but his shoulders still slumped. “For starters, they spelled my name wrong on the agenda,” he said miserably. “Hick
ham,
it said. Then the president of the steel company introduced me and proceeded to call me Homer Hickman. For God’s sake,
Hickman
! I’ve worked in this mine for thirty years, they’ve owned the mine for ten, and they still don’t know my name!”
Dad was wound up, no doubt about it. When he got that way, he would often start coughing, but Mom had her ways of winding him down. “The sun came up this morning, Homer,” she said patiently. “I reckon it’ll set later on, too.”
Dad absorbed Mom’s solar activity report and got her point. “There’s a present for you in one of the suitcases,” he said. “Perfume.”
“What kind?”
“It’s orange color. You like oranges.”
“I like to eat oranges, Homer,” Mom said, suppressing a smile. “I don’t know about smelling like one.”
Dad shrugged and went off to change his clothes to go to the mine, where at least they knew how to spell and pronounce his name and nobody wore perfume. I was surprised when he came back within an hour. I heard him down in the basement hacking, and then a long, strangled silence followed by another horrible wet coughing fit. Finally, it quieted and I heard him come slowly up the basement steps as if he were carrying a ton of rocks on his back. I guess in a way he was. I came down to see what was going on. When he opened the door into the kitchen, his face was pale. “What the good Lord, Homer?” Mom asked, her voice faintly atremble. “Do you want me to call Doc?”
Dad ignored her question. “They didn’t even wait until I got home. Message waiting for me at the office. I either get the tonnage up by ten percent or I’ve got to cut off thirty more men,” he said. “That’s not news for anybody but family,” he added, giving me a dark look.
“You ran all the way home to tell me this?” Mom asked. “With your lungs, Homer, you’re lucky you didn’t have a stroke.”
“Don’t you understand, Elsie?” Dad demanded. “There’s no way I can increase production by that much. Thirty good men . . . they have to go by seniority. That means young men with families. I’ve got to do something about this, come up with a different plan.”
Mom slowly put down her pencil. “Buddy, let’s get out of here while we still can,” she said. When she was looking to calm my dad, Mom often called Dad “Buddy.” I never knew why. “Let’s go to Myrtle Beach. Peabody Real Estate would hire us both in a second. We’ll work together, sell property, get rich as kings. Every day, we’ll go down to the ocean, breathe in nothing but fresh, clean air. Coalwood’s had its day. We’ve had a good life here, I swan, but it’s over.”
Dad brushed past me, heading to the black phone. Soon he was on it, talking to a foreman. “Run East Main as hard as you can tonight, Cecil. Do you hear me?” He stopped to cough into a bandanna, then said, in a strangled voice, “We’ve got to get that tonnage up!”
I trudged back upstairs. That night, when I heard the evening shift being replaced by the hoot-owlers, I got to thinking about Little Richard’s potter’s wheel again. If God was shaping us, he was doing it powerfully hard.
4
THE STOOP CHILDREN
THE CHANGES THAT had come to Coalwood arrived at our front door on Halloween. I was doing the answering for the trick-or-treaters. Dad, an adviser to the county Salvation Army Post in Welch, had gone to a
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