Now, as Homer walked along the railroad tracks, past the dilapidated depot, and took a good look at Main Street he shuddered.
The dry goods’ store was still there, as was the hardware store and pawnshop, but the café, furniture store, and ice cream parlor were all gone. He was afraid that McMillian’s, the dress shop, would be the next to go. At the last town meeting, he’d overheard James McMillian talking of taking his family and moving to Louisville. That would be a shame. McMillian’s had been around for forty years and Homer’s own wife and mother had shopped there. Now, both were gone and soon the store might be as well.
Soon, there wouldn’t be anything left. Even the children were going to be sent to Four Tree. Furnace Mountain wasn’t even going to have a school.
Homer was at a loss. He had spent the morning in Lexington talking about federal money, but there was simply no money to be found. There was nothing to borrow, nobody to give.
“Think positive, Homer,” his late wife used to urge him. “You must think positive. Nothing changes for the good when you can’t envisage the good.”
“I’m trying,” he said, looking up at the sky where he imagined she lived now. “I’m surely trying.”
He knew they were luckier than most in that a good portion of his citizens were farmers and could take care of themselves, and their neighbors if need be. What was going on in the rest of the country had not affected them the way it could have. For instance, they didn’t have the crime and vandalism that some of the larger towns were seeing. No soup lines here. People were struggling, but they still ate. People had lost their homes and businesses, but only a few had been forced to up and leave.
“If there’s gonna be a national crisis,” he found himself saying out loud, “best be in the country to survive it.”
It was a small sense of solace.
He knew he should count himself lucky to live in a place where people still had respect for one another and looked after each other. There were other places in the country that had been devastated and he had heard stories that made his skin crawl. Still, those weren’t his towns and although he felt sadness for them, he didn’t feel the personal responsibility that he did for Furnace Mountain. Furnace Mountain was his.
It wasn’t just the closing of the depot, the vacant storefronts, and the quiet furnaces that lent an overwhelming despondency–it was the people.
Jimmy Walters had died when he hadn’t been able to provide for his family and Ruth, who in Homer’s mind was still the pretty little redhead he’d had a crush on in school, rarely left the house these days. Robert Johnson spent most of his days up on the mountain drinking and left the caretaking to his daughter who should have been worrying about school and friends.
There were more, too. The Fords had lost their farm and, if what he sensed was right, many more were in line. They’d canceled the festival indefinitely because nobody felt like celebrating and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the park filled with picnickers or kites. There was a general resignation in the air that Homer couldn’t figure out how to fix.
He was a failure to his town and his people.
Louise would have told him to keep his chin up, to remain optimistic, and to be thankful for the things he had. Even during her illness she had remained strong and hopeful for everyone around her.
He missed her now more than ever and sometimes sat on his porch and looked at the swing where she used to do her needlepoint and wish that he could see some sort of sign that she was still around.
She was not a spirit haunting him, however. The Lord had had greater plans for her. The preacher had said so during the funeral service and Homer knew that she was probably happier being an angel than anything he could have provided her with here in life. Still, he wished she would send him a sign, some form of hope. He thought that just about anything would have done at this point.
It was bad enough that Jimmy Walters had died. And Robert Johnson…well, Homer hated to think of what poor Alice was going through.
But the number of casualties were low. He aimed to keep it that way. He wasn’t going to let anything else happen.
Chapter Six
AT 9:45 A.M. ON the last day of school, Marianne stared out the window of her small schoolhouse and watched as mail carrier Gus Porter scurried back across the railroad tracks, away from the school. She fixed her eyes on the weeds and dandelions that were poking through the slats.
She was numb from the neck up, but her hands were shaking unsteadily as she held the official–looking envelope in her hands. Once again, she re-read the typewritten words on the thick, ivory colored paper. Her students were quietly staring at their readers, for once paying particular attention to their assignments, as they knew they would be tested later that afternoon. For the last day, things had gone uncharacteristically smooth.
Sam Walters sat quietly as well, his long–sleeved shirt pushed up to his elbows and his hair hanging just a little too long over his eyes. He was gazing intently at his reader, but must have felt her watching for he suddenly looked up and smiled.
For a moment, Marianne thought he looked like an angel.
Marianne started to call him forward, but found that no words would escape through her dry lips. Instead, she waved her finger and he silently made his way to her desk, moving like a shadow.
Perhaps he is an angel, she thought crazily to herself.
Without a word, Marianne handed over both the envelope and the letter and re–read the words for the fourth time over his shoulder.
My Dear Mr. Walters,
My husband and I would be pleased to make your acquaintance in your splendid town of Furnace Mountain, Kentucky. It has been much too long since I witnessed your glorious mountains and, as it so happens, I have plans to be close to your area at the end of summer. I shall be arriving on the L & N sometime around the first week of August. My husband’s trusty advisors will be in touch at a later date to give you the exact day and time. My regards to your mother, as well as to your teacher. Continue to be engaged in your academic studies and the President and myself will very much look forward to meeting you soon.
Kind regards,
Eleanor Roosevelt
“He’s coming?” Sam asked with the wonder that Marianne herself felt. “With Mrs. Roosevelt?”
“It appears so,” Marianne whispered, aware that the other students were beginning to look up from their books and papers.
Marianne and Sam locked eyes, both joined by a secret that nobody else knew but the two of them. Marianne held onto that moment and savored it. Soon, their world would change. For the moment, however, everything was the same and only her words would cause the clock to start ticking.
Sam seemed to understand but when he nodded, Marianne looked up and addressed the class.
“I have an important announcement to make, girls and boys,” she began, a bit unsteadily. There were a few groans from those who expected to hear yet another assignment, but most simply appeared curious. “Yes, yes, it is very important. So important in fact, that, well–”
“Mr. Roosevelt’s gonna come here with his wife to see us!” Sam shouted in jubilation, pumping his fist into the air. He almost immediately remembered his manners and covered his mouth as he shot a look at his teacher.
“It’s okay, Sam, you’re not in trouble. But it is true, class. Thanks to Sam and his letter, Mr. Roosevelt will be here to visit our town in just a few months.”
A flurry of excitement filled the room as shouts and questions flew from one student to another. How long was he staying? Why was he coming? What was he going to do? Would he need a place to stay? Marianne managed to answer a few of the serious questions and then turned her gaze toward the window where the railroad tracks met.
The forlorn depot set alone and abandoned amidst the weeds and clutter. It had once been a grand structure, three whole stories, but now half of it was missing, fallen in from weather and neglect.
The entire town was a disaster; there wa
s no doubt about it. It would be embarrassing to have the president of the United States come into Furnace Mountain and see a wreck.
But what could happen in a matter of months, when it had taken it years to fall apart?
Chapter Seven
HOMER DYER STOOD before his townspeople in the front of the crowded L & N company room and looked around at the eager faces. They had moved from the schoolroom because there wasn’t enough room for everyone. Now, most of the town was squeezed into the meeting room built, and abandoned, by the train company.
Homer surveyed the scene before him and felt excitement building, despite his nervousness. He had never been a good public speaker; he’d only won the election because the incumbent had left town and there had been no opponent.
“What we gonna do, hoss,” someone hollered from the back of the room. “We can’t let him see the place looking like this.” The rest of the crowd nodded in agreement.
“How we supposed to fix anything? We ain’t got no money!”
“We ain’t got no nothing”
“We should start by taking the damn boards off the stores,” came another shout.
“What? So that he can look into empty buildings?”
“Who’s gonna paint ‘em? Pay for the hammers to do take ‘em down with?”
The overlapping voices, all making varied points, was giving Homer a headache. Soon, he was listening to a round of bickering and barks back and forth across the room as people disagreed on what could be done and what should be done and who was going to pay for it all.
Homer could feel himself losing control of his room. He wished he was the kind of politician that could speak a few words of enlightenment and hope, empowering his people and inspiring them to move forward. But he wasn’t. He was just plain, old Homer Dyer–the same boy who had lost the spelling bee because he’d been too embarrassed to speak in front of the audience.
“Okay, everyone, settle down,” he shouted above the roar. He could feel the tips of his ears turning red. His neck was hot. The schoolteacher, Marianne Casteel, was in the front row and she sent him a sympathetic smile. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her, or his secretary Louella, to take his place. But he didn’t.
“I know we all have concerns and I’m going to try to address them all,” he tried again. A few people stopped talking but most gave him a cursory glance and shrugged, returning to their quarreling. He could feel something akin to rage building within him. He knew he wasn’t the leader they needed but they had elected him and he was mayor. Nobody else was stepping up to take control. It was him or nobody.
“Okay everyone, silence!” Homer gasped, stunned at the power of his voice. The room fell quiet as everyone turned and, maybe for the first time ever, truly considered Homer and what he had to say. Realizing he had a unique opportunity he might never gain again, he began to hurriedly speak.
“First of all, I don’t think we have to worry about where the president will stay. He usually travels with a first–class sleeping car and I very seriously doubt that he will be doing more than simply stopping by for an official visit. If he does intend to stay, Lily still has her boarding house.”
“Ain’t nobody stayed at it in years,” Lily said, crossing her arms. “Ain’t fit for guests.”
Homer smiled at her serenely. “I’m sure that if some of the ladies come over and help you air out your mattresses and wash your bedding, do some dusting, it could be ready and you could spare a room. Lily?”
The matronly, gray–headed woman in a blue-flowered dress a size too small for her nodded from the front row. “If people’s willing to help, I don’t see why not. It’s never seen a president before, but the governor stayed in it for two nights ten years ago and I never got no complaints.” Those around her nodded in approval.
“Them lights need to be fixed,” someone called. “The ones by the school. Covers off of them, that’s the problem.”
Homer nodded. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”
“The garbage,” Marianne Casteel added. “It’s a true eyesore. I could get my students to help pick it up, as long as everyone else agreed to keep it that way once it’s tidy.”
Homer watched in delight as the crowd nodded its collective head in agreement.
“I could burn it,” came a voice from the back. “I can’t donate no money or any goods but I got a good burn pile. I’ll haul it away and take care of it for you.”
Marianne stood and looked back to see where the voice was coming from and then nodded her agreement.
“Someone’s gotta mention the elephant in the room.” This, from Larry Jenkins, owner of the pool hall. “What about the depot? That’s the first thing he’s gonna see just as soon as he gets here. We can unboard windows, slap some paint on the wood, and everyone can come out in their Sunday best. But there ain’t nothing can be done about the depot. ‘cept maybe tearing it down.”
“Let’s face it. Our town is dead. If we don’t bring them trains back, we might as well all pack up and leave.”
Homer expected the audience to break out into quarrels again but, to his surprise, they didn’t. Instead, he watched as the hopeful countenances they’d started to gain were slowly replaced with disappointment as they turned from Larry Jenkins back to Homer. Their expectant faces gave him another shot of courage.
Holding up his hands, he opened himself up to the people before him. “Alright, I get it. That depot is a problem. And I am right here with you. I’m worried too. And I don’t have all the answers. But I have some! And, as a community, I think if we work together we can find the others.”
Homer walked from out behind the podium and stood at the edge of the onlookers. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he forged ahead. “As we’re all aware, Furnace Mountain is a railroad town. It was built by the railroad and most of us have worked the rails at some point in time. Those days are over, however, just as the days of the furnaces are long gone. We need to move on. If we don’t, then we really might as well all pack up and leave. We need to try something new, something different–something that’s about us and not what another company can do for us. We need to regain control of Furnace Mountain. With that being said, however, we shouldn’t forget or neglect the past. We’ve been proud of our trains for a long time. We might not see much anymore, but it’s still our heritage. If Mr. Roosevelt sees nothing else of the entire town, he should at least see the fine-looking depot that we used to have, the one I remember as a boy. Remember those days? Back when we were proud of Furnace Mountain? That’s what we need to regain–that sense of pride.”
Several people in the audience clapped. The rest looked on, in anticipation.
“Fixing and rebuilding our town for the president’s arrival should be our priority,” Homer continued. “And I know that our town is filled with some fine builders. Do I have any volunteers?”
“Where we gonna get the money for the wood? For the windows?”
Homer was quiet. He knew, as well as everyone else in town, that there wasn’t a reserve or a budget for any kind of building projects. He also knew that he didn’t have the money himself to purchase any of the expensive lumber or glass. At last, a tall man in the back of the room stood. It was Jim Watts, owner of the Cob Hill Lumber Yard.
“I have some scrap pieces and I will donate what I can,” Jim spoke evenly. “And, hell, we got trees all over these mountains. You can use my sawmill for what you need.”
“Some of that’s federal land, though,” Larry protested.
Jim shrugged. “Government don’t care about us. You really think someone’s gonna come down and arrest us for knocking over a few trees? Who’s gonna notice?”
“President’s a federal figure,” Jim cried. “We get in trouble, just tell ‘em to take it up with him, that we did it for him!”
The audience broke out into a round of applause as several of the men slapped Jim on the back. Jim, never known for speaking out in public meetings before, turned beet red.
; “Do I have any volunteers, then, for the construction?”
A dozen or more hands around the room shot up. Men, without jobs, who had been searching for something productive to do for months. “You know we can’t afford to pay anybody, but I can promise lunch and dinner to anyone who helps.” A dozen more hands were raised.
As the room let out, there was a general sense of joy in the air. Homer was the last to leave and he watched as his townspeople congregated on the lawn. Some stopped and shook hands with their neighbors, some left with wondering looks on their faces, while still others laughed and jokingly complained about the upcoming weeks of hard work ahead. The sense of fulfilling a noble cause, something Homer hadn’t felt in years, ran through his veins.
From the steps of the meeting room, Homer took a survey of Main Street in the dusk. With the usually empty sidewalks full of people, it didn’t look nearly as desolate as it did during his afternoon strolls. The depot was still a sore spot in the landscape, but in the shade of the evening darkness it was difficult to see the neglect.
Homer smiled faintly to himself as he began his stroll up the hill that would take him to his house.
With time and effort, he thought they might be able to pull together and get the town back in shape. If nothing else, it would give people something to do. A man needed to work, to feel useful. Homer felt bad that he lacked the money to pay anyone, his meager income as mayor was barely enough to keep himself afloat, but sometimes the simple act of being productive was enough to lift one’s spirits.
Homer’s house was dark and empty when he put his key in the door and turned the knob. The foyer was still and quiet and he was reminded of a time when he would have been able to return home after such a meeting and be greeted by the radio or sounds dishes being washed.
Furnace Mountain: or The Day President Roosevelt Came to Town Page 3
