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The Path Was Steep

Page 16

by Suzanne Pickett


  Seven road machines were in that caravan. All of them outwitted at last, Jack, in the center of the road, missed Johnny and galloped ahead. There Johnny was, far down the road. The blanket was thin and Jack’s spine not the most comfortable spot on earth as I bounded up and down.

  I wasn’t much help around the house for the next few days, and I took my meals standing. David didn’t write, and I remembered the housing situation in Piper. No one ever moved from Piper, if it were possible to stay. Would we ever, ever be in our own home again?

  18

  Best Medicine in the World

  A slow drizzle had fallen all day. The chickens stood around the doorway, feathers wet, tails drooping. Now and then one tried to sing, but the notes stuck in her throat. The old rooster clucked at an occasional crumb, tried to interest a hen, then clomped sullenly towards the barn.

  Any note I tried would have stuck in my throat, too. This last waiting seemed harder than all the times before. Christmas was almost here, and I wanted to be in my own home. No matter how welcome our stay, this wasn’t the best time to visit. Clarence and one or two boys still slept in the cotton house at night.

  David, his first week’s work finished, should be here any minute. I made a path from the fireplace to the door to stare into the gloom. Through the mists he came at last, slogging through the mud. Was he limping? I ran into the rain to meet him. As I tried to kiss him, he dodged; then I saw his red nose and watery eyes. “You have a cold,” I accused as if he personally were to blame.

  In the house, he dodged the children’s kisses, but they didn’t mind: he’d brought something better, a sack full of candy. Enough to share with all.

  Papa was reading his Bible. “How are you, son?” He paused for a minute, then returned to his reading.

  “Plenty to eat,” Mildred smiled.

  In the kitchen, I went to the old stove, took a match from a box on top of the warmer, struck it, and lighted a kerosene lamp. David’s hair was the brightest thing in the room.

  “Do you have a house?” I asked as he wolfed baked potato and milk.

  “Not a house for rent in Piper.” He wiped his lips and rolled a cigarette. Seeing my gloom, he said, “We could go back to West Virginia. I haven’t quit my job there yet.”

  “Have you completely lost your mind?”

  He laughed and shook his head.

  Like chickens, the children went to bed at dark. Miss Mildred pulled the churn to the fire, looked at the milk, and went to scald the dasher and lid.

  “I’ll draw a bucket of water,” David said when she emptied the black kettle that had been on a bed of coals. He filled it from the bucket and put it on to heat again.

  I went to the well with David. The long zinc well bucket leaked so much it took four drawings* to fill the water buckets. David sneezed.

  “I’ve got to do something for that cold,” I said.

  “Brought my own medicine.” He took out a bottle.

  “That won’t do any good!”

  “Best medicine in the world,” he said.

  “Papa, will whiskey help a cold?” I asked as we came into the house.

  “Paw always said it was the best medicine in the world.”

  David gave a triumphant grin.

  Papa was reading the paper now. He peered over his spectacles. “Bring your own medicine?” he asked.

  “Sure did.” David sneezed again, took out his bottle, and handed it to Papa.

  He took a drink and returned the bottle. David didn’t stint himself with his own dose of medicine.

  “I’ll soak your feet in hot water,” I offered my remedy and went for the washpan. I pulled off David’s shoes and socks and looked carefully at his broken foot. It seemed to be all right.

  “Onion is good for a cold,” I said.

  Miss Mildred, coming from the kitchen, laughed and held up a big yellow onion.

  David soaked his feet, ate onion, and sipped at his bottle. His tongue was thick when he finally went to bed.

  The old rooster woke us the next morning. “I never felt better in my life,” David said. “Grandpa was right.”

  His cold was certainly better. “It was the onion and soaking your foot,” I affirmed. David was so sure that his remedy had been the cure that he didn’t even bother to argue.

  Clarence had spent the night with Forrest and Gert. He came in soon after breakfast. “That car won’t start,” he told David.

  “You just don’t know how to start it,” David said.

  “That’s what you think.” Clarence fished in his pocket and handed the key to David. We all escorted him to the car.

  David raised the hood, hit the motor a few times, jiggled a wire or so, and turned to me. “Bring a kettle of hot water,” he said.

  “I tried that.” Clarence was smug.

  David filled the radiator and mashed the starter. Thunderbolt protested, chugged, skipped a beat, then bellowed, giving off firecracker sounds a minute or so before he settled to his steady roar.

  We had gorged ourselves as usual on sorghum, biscuits and butter, and home-cured bacon. Keeping a fire in the kitchen stove, I bathed the girls; then I closed the doors, went behind the stove, and took a bath. I didn’t know what David had planned, but I knew the day would be exciting. My black wool dress had been steam-pressed and the last of the cotton brushed away. A white linen collar gave it an almost-new look. It was nearing eleven when we all were dressed.

  George had been called back to work at Woodward Iron, and we hadn’t seen them. “Let’s go to see Thelma and George,” David suggested.

  “Better eat a bite first,” Miss Mildred told us. She took out a pan of sweet potatoes, freshly baked, and poured glasses of thick buttermilk. Thirty minutes afterward, I was all packed and ready.

  The gray house was the first on the left after crossing the railroad going towards Bessemer. Soot and grime settled steadily over the area. Thelma saw us at the door and came running, a half-plucked turkey in her hand. George, with his usual luck, had won a turkey in a raffle.

  Soot and grime were welcome. They meant that men were working, but none of it was allowed to stay in Thelma’s house, which shone with cleanness and Christmas decorations. She could take pine cones, scraps of red, and greens from the shrubbery and fill a house with Christmas.

  Our unexpected arrival didn’t upset her. George helped David with the last of his medicine even though he didn’t have a cold. Ailene and Jean, Sharon and Davene, the wonder of Christmas in their eyes, whispered and laughed and talked.

  David and Thelma seemed to have lots to say to each other in private. “Oh, Sue will just die!” Thelma said once, loud enough for me to hear. My ears had been tuned their way.

  David has bought me an expensive present, I thought miserably. We had so little money; he should have saved every penny to buy furniture.

  He must have read the look of thrift in my eyes but ignored it. “Need to get anything in Bessemer?” David asked after we’d had an early afternoon snack. We had all talked ourselves hoarse. “This is Christmas,” he said, “and my compensation check came yesterday.”

  And you’ve spent just about every penny of it, I thought. But it was Christmas. And his face was so happy—just glowing with Christmas and other spirits. And the girls would love to see the decorations and lights in Bessemer. Early dusk had come on now.

  “Why don’t you all go with us?” I asked Thelma and pulled a comb through Davene’s curls, then brushed at Sharon’s coat collar. “David, bring in the suitcases. It is almost dark,” I said.

  Thelma, unlike her usual self, seemed in a hurry to get rid of us. The suitcases and boxes were still in the car as she rushed us through our last-minute preparations and almost ran us to the car. “No, Jean, you can’t go!” she said when Jean begged to go. And almost before I had checked to see if the girls were warm, we were raci
ng through Bessemer, scarcely taking time for red lights. “David, where are we going?” I asked.

  “Driving around,” he grinned. “We haven’t been alone a single minute.” Then we were on the road to West Blocton. The children talked about Santa Claus and Christmas.

  My heart spoke a different language and began to thud almost dangerously as we rattled through West Blocton and took the dirt road that led to Piper. Around curves and bends we rode, crossed the small bridge over Little Ugly Creek, and began the drive along the Cahaba River. Rain had stopped, and stars glimmered in the slow, rolling waters.

  “David—” I was afraid to ask the question. I turned from the river and looked up at the stars as if one of them might speak to me.

  David drew the car to the side of the road and took me in his arms. “Merry Christmas, darling,” he whispered. “Sue, we have a house, and I have bought furniture and groceries.”

  This was too much—too much! I couldn’t bear it! He dried my tears and started Thunderbolt. We drove up the road, crossed the high bridge, and began the crooked ascent to Piper. The road wound around rocks and ledges—“So crooked,” people laughed, “you can see your tail lights.” We turned a last curve, and I saw lights glowing from the windows of the old Methodist Church. Cars took up all the parking space. David drove up the road, found a spot, parked, and helped me from the car.

  My legs were weak, and I stumbled. I had not spoken since his announcement, nor been able to speak. Davene reached her arms; David took her, and I held Sharon’s hand while we walked to the building and up the familiar steps, and we were inside.

  Then Christmas exploded in my heart and head. Not one thing had changed! The giant tree was loaded with gifts as it was each Christmas, and fruit in brown bags perfumed the building. The same smiles, the same wonder and joy in every face. Mr. Randle was there. Wheeler Fancher, Mr. Allen, Mrs. Hayes, Mrs. Randle at the piano. All—all of them were there.

  “Here’re our singers,” Mrs. Hayes laughed, her dark curls a striking contrast to Mrs. Randle’s pure silver hair. David was leading me up the aisle. Someone took the girls and seated them near the front. Mrs. Randle struck a chord on the piano. Oh, David had really planned a Christmas surprise!

  “Welcome home,” Mrs. Hayes’s voice was as warm as the big stove which heated the building. She hugged and kissed me and wiped tears from my cheeks.

  “Everybody sing,” David held up his hands. “Silent night, holy night . . .”

  The walls of the old church house rang. And I will not forget that night of brightness; it will be with me as long as I live.

  Who could believe that hatred and anger and a bitter night would come?

  19

  ‘Sleeping Sickness’

  Home at last! The year 1933 brought new life and new hope not only to me, but to all of America. That golden voice had made promises. Americans, believing, had elected Roosevelt. A new world of love and brotherhood stretched ahead. A world of peace.

  Peace?

  Paradise, we learned, is not in this world. But the black night at Coleanor was fifteen months ahead. For a moment of time, I knew almost perfect happiness.

  We had food, shelter, clothes, and once again we woke each morning in our beloved hills. With scarcely a ripple, we settled back into life at Piper. Our house, in the bend of the road, had three rooms, a long front porch and a double, V-shaped back porch. The outhouse leaned against an oak tree. Rent of $7 a month included water and electricity.

  David not only had furnished kitchen and bedroom, but also had bought two overstuffed chairs, a sofa, a table, and a radio for the living room. We had a place to entertain. But former renters had cemented the living room fireplace, and our budget didn’t run to a heater, so we had to wait until spring to use our “parlor.” In the meantime, the chairs were not wasted. Moved to the bedroom (we did have a fire there) and shoved together, they made a perfect, though snug, bed for two small girls when David was home nights.

  We wrote to Pearlie. If they would send our dishes, linens, clothes, etc., we’d give them what we’d paid on the furniture and write to the company to let them take over the payments. Pearlie mailed a small box to us. It contained a few things, but she kept most of the linens, dishes, and even a new pair of David’s work clothes and shoes. I had learned to love Pearlie. Maybe she wanted to ship our things but was afraid that Starling would ‘whup’ her. When I thought of Pearlie, I excused her in my mind.

  Some in Piper had wounds, though, that would never heal. David and I had missed the time of slow bitterness that had come to a helpless people here. Weeks passed before we understood the bitterness and determination of the men never, never to suffer such things again. They had been hungry, humbled, brought to their knees. Worst of all, their children were hungry. Those on the appointed committee were proud men, yet they had gone to beg, not for free food but simply for credit to the miners. Every cent would be paid. They were honest men, hardworking when there was work, and they had guaranteed the debt.

  But no credit was granted. Instead, there had been those words spoken, words quoted often in the year ahead: “Let them eat mussels; let them hunt hickory nuts.” There are men living today who have never forgotten nor forgiven that remark, though payment in full has been exacted, not only against that man, but also against all other coal operators.

  When Roosevelt, newly elected, guaranteed freedom to organize, and when a strong union had been established, they could and would and did strike if things were not to their liking. People outside coal mining whose jobs were affected criticized miners, grew bitter against them. But they had not stood in these men’s shoes. There came a time when it was common to joke, saying, “If a miner at Piper or Coleanor stumps his toes and spills his water, the others, thinking a strike has been called, pour out their water and go back home.”

  The old, peaceful days were gone forever. Piper still had its pure air and its special beauty. There was still love between the men and the company officials, but it was a strained “chip on the shoulder” sort of love.

  But that first January, I was at home and very happy. Furthermore, I knew that I was happy, a rare thing for humans. Usually, we look back to happier times (even though they did not seem so happy then), or we look forward to happier times. But one person in the world knew, for a short time, that she would not change places with anyone on earth.

  No silly adventure had befallen me yet, and I didn’t expect one. January often has one perfect week. On one of those rare days of spring-like weather, I dressed the girls, and we walked the mile to Portertown (Portertown, Sweet Ridge, and New Ell were names for different areas in Piper). We went to spend the day with “Mama,” Mrs. William Hayes.

  January jasmine bloomed in the yards, sent its spicy fragrance across the hills. At the highest point in the road, I stopped to look at the scene I had yearned for: distant purple hills against a blue sky. Sharon and Davene skipped ahead of me, their cheeks strawberry pink, their eyes as bright as the January day. A perfect day.

  Mrs. Hayes was the best cook in the county and had tornado energy, but she had hurt her leg and it was slow healing. Dr. Phillips had given her some tablets for pain. She took one or two daily, hobbled about on her bad leg, and did not miss one visit to the sick, a shower, Missionary or P.T.A. meeting, or any other local event.

  She had adopted me, and I was part of her large family. Mrs. Hayes practically ran everything in Piper and still had time to mother me and see to her own large family. She was a talented musician and director of most pageants and plays that were often put on in the community. Perhaps it was her unfailing love and loyalty to me that made Piper more home than any I had known since my mother died.

  I was happy and halfway between laughter and tears all day. Then there came a familiar twinge. One of my bad headaches signaled that it was on its way. “Do you have an aspirin?” I asked.

  “No,” Mama Hayes’s vo
ice was low, husky, and warm. Now it sounded concerned. “Take one of my tablets,” she said.

  The small white tablet had a groove across the middle. “Is it strong?” I asked.

  “Of course not. I’m supposed to take one every four hours.”

  “Anything stronger than aspirin puts me to sleep.”

  “This won’t.” She laughed her deep, husky laugh.

  “Well, I have to get home.” I swallowed the tablet, talked a few more minutes, and then we left. My headache began to wane as the girls and I walked across the bridge and passed the Methodist Church, but my eyes were slightly blurred. Up the winding road we climbed and came to Mrs. Florine’s boarding house. From her yard, Mrs. Florine called, “Sugar darling, let me see them babies. You know I love them like my own.”

  I smiled vaguely. Everyone was “sugar darling” to Mrs. Florine. We stopped, sat on the steps, and I thought I could never rise again. I suppose we talked; I was struggling with my eyes, trying to keep them from closing. I must get home, cook supper, and get David off to work. I managed to rise, took the girls’ hands, and we walked on down the endless road.

  Smoke from kitchen fires sailed lazily into the sky. As we rounded a curve, Lorraine Champion called from her mother’s porch, “I am coming over to see you right away.” I was so vague, I mumbled something and spoke to her mother, Mrs. Dailey, who stood beside Lorraine.

  There was the Jim Ledford house across from the Baptist Church. Every place was special to me even in my dazed state. A door opened. “Well, Sue,” Flossie Ledford said in her slow, Tennessee drawl. “How I have wanted to see you. Do stop by a minute.”

  I didn’t have time to stop. I must keep moving.

  “I’m thirsty,” Sharon said.

  “I’ll get you a drink,” Flossie said; then she smiled. “I just baked some cookies; let me give some to the girls.” Her smile told how wonderful it was to have food to share.

 

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