Preview of Marriage and Moonshine
Preview of Marriage and Moonshine by Shae Bryant
Seven of us shared that little house halfway down the row. We were one of hundreds of white rectangles set on either side of a dirt road away from the train tracks. All the miners lived in these houses. The company provided homes for us, and we took whatever we could get.
It was warm enough in the winters, when all seven of us crowded around the cast-iron stove. I’d sit in Mama’s old chair, bundled in a fading quilt while my younger sister Bessie huddled next to me. We’d stare at the big rocks sitting on the stove, waiting for them to get warm. Mama and my older brother Abner wrapped the rocks in old rags, then slipped them under the covers in our beds.
There were two beds in the house. One was for Mama and Dad. The other fit five of us in it. The two oldest took the head of the bed, and the three youngest - including me - got cold feet every night. Abner and my sister Ethel smacked at our feet when one of us dared to move, telling us to lie still and go to sleep.
During the spring and summer, we relished in having our feet stick out at the head of the bed. Abner and Ethel could yell at us for dirty feet until they were out of breath, but they didn’t care if we threw every blanket off. The cool breeze blew from the open window, bringing in distant sounds of horses carrying their riders home from a saloon, or a nighttime train pulling into the station to carry coal from here all the way to St. Louis.
When the trains came in, I kept my eyes open. I’d watched the old lace curtain billow away from the window, hoping to glimpse at someone going by with something important to do. No one ever came by our house. Every miner and their families were fast asleep on this side of the rows.
The trains took the coal to the river. The barges took the coal all over the country. I was jealous of the men on the barges. I’d lay at night with my eyes wide open, staring at the moon shining on the window across the street. Inside of the dusty reflections were pictures of tall skyscrapers, grand shops, ladies in dresses made of silk, and restaurants with lace-trimmed napkins.
I wanted to be there in the middle of those crowded streets, carrying a parasol while wearing a brand-new dress from a ladies’ store. But I lived in a place that kept you there. You stayed, and you married a coal miner or a farmer. Then you had children who would farm the land or mine the coal.
You wore cotton and linen because it was practical and good to work in. There were no silk dresses or crinolines for us. No parasols. No cakes and tea on Sunday afternoons. Just four other children squeezed into a bed, one of us dreaming about stealing away on a barge and running off to Philadelphia or Boston.
I decided I would not marry a coal miner early on. It was just after another explosion. Dad was home early that day, sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Black dust smeared across his cheeks and gathered around his nose like someone used a powder puff to place it just so. Dark cracks lined his hands, and grime blackened his fingernails.
It was the first time I remembered Dad not washing up before sitting at the table. Mama usually had a fit if hands were dirty in the kitchen. That day, she sat a tin mug in front of him, and poured a cup of strong black coffee.
He stared at the cup, inhaling the bitter coffee until his lungs filled with the aroma. Normally, Dad’s cup of coffee perked him up. His eyes would open wide, and he broke into a grin before telling us some tall tale he heard from one of the men. Mama would sigh and admonish him for telling whoppers, trying not to laugh when she did so.
That day, he stayed slumped in his chair, shaking his head while his lips moved. The words were so quiet, I couldn’t hear a thing until Mama gasped. She covered her mouth with one hand, speaking from between her fingers.
“An explosion, Allen? Are you sure?”
My Dad nodded, “I’m sure.”
“How many?” Mama’s hand shook when she pushed the mug closer to him.
“Ten, as far as I know. There’s over ten. They haven’t found all of them yet.” Dad sighed.
I pressed my back against the wall, listening to them talk about what we’d call a disaster. The company said it was an accident. It was no accident. It also wasn’t the first explosion, and it wouldn’t be the last.
The whitewashed wall across from me had turned gray with all the soot that wafted in the house. I imagined a dark gray crack was opening up in front of me, swallowing Dad and his friends into the deep rock they mined. That was when I decided I’d never marry a miner. Mama worried herself sick every day, wondering if Dad might be the next man they carried out on a plank. It wasn’t something I’d ever worry about once I was older.
I got a little older. Old enough to understand what Dad was doing when he sat on the sofa with Paul Ohlinger and George Duncan. The three of them shouted and banged their fists on the wooden arm, twisting their faces in anger while they yelled about the company. There was a strike in another town. Men lost their jobs, and strikebreakers were starting fights.
It happened more often. The other kids at school whispered about it. Their Dads had the same talks at home, and theirs shouted and yelled just like mine. The more I knew about it, the more I wanted to leave that town and run away from the restless miners and their tyrannical superiors.
Abner turned sixteen not long after the first strike happened. He could have gone anywhere, but he went to join Dad at the mines. He was the first to leave home and get married. The newlywed couple didn’t go far at all. They moved into a house in the same camp we all lived in to raise their family of future miners.
Ethel was the next to go, moving to Matewan with her new husband. After that, my older brother Will got himself married. Bessie and I were the only two left. I was too young to get married. I thought I was, but Mama had different ideas.
By the time I was nineteen, she had introduced me to every young man in Logan County. Most of them were nice enough, and a lot were lookers. But I didn’t want to marry a man from Logan. I wanted to marry a man from Boston or Philadelphia or New York. A man who would take me on a train with red leather seats to a place far away from home.
Bessie got married when she was seventeen. No one ever said a word, but I noticed Mama bought an extra wide sash to go around her waist. The lavender sash covered a small bulge in her stomach, and Bessie had her first baby just a few months later. He came early, according to Mama. Some babies do.
That left me alone in our room. I was the last to stay at home, and I’d be the last to get married. If I ever got married. By the time I was twenty-three, both of my parents feared I’d be a spinster. I got married just the same, but it wasn’t what they hoped for. It wasn’t what I hoped for, either. Not at the beginning.
* * *
I woke up to the sound of the train coming into the yard. Some mornings, it was nice to wake up by myself and stretch my limbs out over the aging bed. It was getting warmer outside, and the brass rails cooled my cheeks as I pressed against them while I watched the window.
Nothing had changed since I was a child. The same horses went by every morning. The same people shouted to each other, and the same women stood on their porches and gossiped. Even the wind felt like the old wind that blew into my room, carrying with it the scent of coal dust, coal smoke and horses.
Dad had gone to work before the sun came up. Mama was in the kitchen mixing something up for supper. Her wooden spoon clicked against the big tin bowl in a rhythm that fell in time with the idling train engine some streets away.
I pulled on my blue linen frock and washed my face in the basin, shivering as the cold water splashed on my warm skin. There was a small mirror next to the basin. It had been a wedding gift for Mama. She left it there for us, saying we must take care to inspect ourselves every morning. And every morning we looked at our faces in the mirror, taking care to be presentable.
I brushed back a few strands of blond hair that fell in my face, smiling at the strawberry highlights I never grew into. Dad always said that I’d be a carrot top one day like his Mother. My Grandmother had hair like copper with silver streaks in them, and big barrel curls that were always swept into a tight bun. She said she covered it because the children teased her so when she was little. I dreaded growing into the red hair and being teased like she was. As I got older, I only wished my hair was blond like Mama’s and fewer waves.
After fixing my hair with a ribbon, I gave my cheeks a little slap to make them a bit more rosy. Rosy cheeks and pale skin were the way to look like a lady, after all. My cheeks may have been pink, but my skin was tanned from so much work outside. And my hands were roughened from all the house-work I had to do.
I scowled at a piece of dried skin around my nails, tearing it away without a second thought. Grand women in Boston didn’t have to deal with such things. They had ten pairs of gloves each and never had to scrub a floor or iron clothes all day.
Speaking of irons, the unmistakable smell of hot metal filled the house. Mama had the irons on the stove, preparing for the rest of the laundry. I mourned my poor hands before walking out the door into the big room of the house.
Like every other house in the camp, we had one room that served for dining, living and kitchen. The front of the rectangle was an open space with an old stove to one side and a counter Dad made of old lumber. A few shelves served as a pantry, and our Grandfather had given us a table he and Dad made together.
During the day, Mama pushed the table nearly to the sofa so we’d have more room to work in the kitchen. Her dough sat proofing in the windowsill, covered with one of the towels to keep flies away. A big iron tub sat on the stove next to the two irons, already steaming for the laundry.
“Polly.” Mama said. “Go down to the store and get some blue starch.”
“What else do I need?” I asked, knowing Mama always forgot about something.
Mama pushed her white cap back, showing the silver streaks forming in her golden hair. She surveyed the stove, staring at the washtub that bubbled. Her eyes fell on the cake of soft home made soap that we set aside for laundry.
“Coffee.” She said. “We’re running low.”
“Coffee. Blue starch…?” I looked at her.
“That’s all.” Mama pushed against my hip. “Now, get! And don’t take all morning. We’ve got work to finish.”
“I won’t. I won’t.” I said, as I walked out the door with a chuckle.
* * *
Mama knew as well as anyone that I’d take all day near the store if I could. This little camp of ours in Logan County was a town in itself. Rows of equal houses stood against each other, separated by dirt streets that were lined with wagon wheel divots and hoof prints. On one end of the rows was the train yard where the trains came in to load the coal. On the other end was the heart of the camp where the company store sat.
It was the largest building in Logan County, if you asked anyone who lived here. The whitewashed brick stretched back as far as three houses, and two stories of glass windows reflected the sun onto the wood walkway. Letters were etched on one window in yellow and gold, proudly displaying the store was owned by the “Coke and Coal Co.”
Everyone who lived in those houses shopped at the company store. Anything you needed to survive was there. From sacks of flour to yards of calico, and little muslin bags full of laundry bluing.
A group of women stood on one side of the store, crossing their arms and gossiping about everyone who walked inside. A second group near my age stood next to the window, comparing packages and talking with each other. One young woman stood a head taller than the others, taking a strand of auburn hair and twisting it in her fingers.
I smiled at my best friend, Mary Ohlinger, knowing she was once again wishing for curly hair. When we were younger, Mary tried all sorts of things to make her hair curly. To her dismay, it always remained straight as a stick. Once, she cried no one would marry her because she had straight hair that wouldn’t curl. I guess her crying was for nothing, because Peter Ohlinger married her two years later.
If I stopped to talk with Mary, Mama would have my hide. It was laundry day, and I had to get back home so the clothes would be on the line before supper time. If Dad came home to an empty dinner table, he’d be hungry and upset.
“Polly Harrison!” Mary called to me. “What are you doing walking by so fast?”
“I’ve got to get some things for Mama, then get back home. It’s laundry day.” I said.
Mary smiled. “I finished mine two days back. Do you want help?”
“Don’t you need to make supper for Peter?” I asked.
“It won’t take long.” Mary looked at the sun still firmly in the eastern sky. “It’s early yet.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you over home soon as I’m done.” I smiled.
Mama won’t mind the extra help from Mary, even though we didn’t need it. Doing laundry for just the three of us was far less than seven people. Mary was coming to spend time with me. The laundry was only an excuse.
The little brass bell above the door rang, and a shopkeeper looked up with a smile. James Heins and his wife had run the company store for long as I’d been alive. Every time someone came in, they waved with a giant grin, welcoming you into the only store you’d ever need.
I moved past the desk with a metal till that jingled every time Mrs. Heins opened it, and past the shelves full of burlap sacks marked for flour and sugar. Next to those were shelves that smelled like crisp air and the sharp smell of washing soda.
Bars of soap were wrapped up in brown paper, stamped with a name written in red. Little muslin bags were in a woven basket, each one tied up with twine. A few boxes lined the shelf, covered in bright blue paper. The white letters advertised the blue starch promising to make laundry day the easiest day of the week.
I grabbed the box of starch and circled back to the flour and sugar. Smaller burlap bags sat on a higher shelf, temping me with the smell of strong roasted coffee beans. I wished I could grind them up and have a cup for myself, but there was work to do.
Mrs. Heins laid out the brown paper to wrap my purchases in, and I thanked her just the same. I could carry the box and bag with no wrapping. She noted down a few things and thanked me, saying it would be on Dad’s account.
That’s how the company stores worked. You didn’t always have to pay for things right away. Anyone in your family could walk into the store and buy what they needed. The coal company would add it up and take it from the next paycheck. Mama and I were always careful not to spend too much, because the company also took our housing payment from Dad’s check.
They did it on purpose. There was nothing left once payday came. All the money went to the company. Right back in their pockets.
* * *
Mary was waiting on the porch by the time I got home. She had an old apron tied over her frock, and a stained white cap that matched Mama’s. I giggled at the over-sized apron, knowing it came from her own Mama, who was round and short where Mary was tall and thin.
My Mama grabbed the box and coffee from me, shoving my apron into my hands. “Glad to see Mary is here to help! You’ll stay for lunch.”
That wasn’t a question, but an order. If someone came to help, then Mama and Dad would feed them. They didn’t have money to pay for any help, but Mama was a woman who could cook up horse’s feet and make them taste good.
I was grateful for the open windows and spring breeze that carried the hot steam away from the kitchen. Cold laundry days were sticky, sweaty messes of days where you had to wash yourself after. Spring laundry days were airy and light. It felt right to put freshly washed clothes on the line during those afternoons. I often imagined green grass under my bare feet and the pure sun bleaching my white linens. Instead, we hung the clothes out back, hoping that much of the dust and coal soot would stay away.
Mary and I rolled up our sleeves, placing a washboard on either side of the tub. The two of us scrubbed and scraped the clothes and linens along the slats while we talked about the things in town.
“I saw Dove Varney the other day.” Mary said. “He’s doing well, I think.”
Mama clicked her tongue. “Poor man. Sally was a good woman.”
Lorenzo “Dove” Varney was a fellow who came into the camp to talk with the men often. He wasn’t a coal miner, but a farmer, keeping his property a few miles away in the foothills. I’d only seen Dove two or three times in my life, but I knew his daughter and son since we were in the same schoolroom.
Clara was three years younger than me. I remembered her having small freckles on her cheeks and hair as bright as the sun. She married a man from Charleston and moved there after the wedding. I hadn’t seen or spoken to her since.
Dove’s wife Sally died of the consumption just a year before. Mama knew her fairly well, and always said Sally was a good, hardworking woman who would give the last thread off her back to anyone in need.
“He’ll get married again soon, I’d reckon.” I said. “Even if it is to take care of all that land he has.”
“How do you know?” Mama asked.
“I knew Clara when we were in school. She always said her Dad had the biggest fields in West Virginia.”
Mama laughed. “Clara was a child. He’s got a farm alright, but no bigger than most.”
I often said how much I hated the gossip of the town. If I had to stop and think, I’d admit that Mary and I fell in with the same groups. There wasn’t much to talk about except what went on in the mines or maybe the weather. The most interesting things to discuss happened in our own county.
“There’s a dance on Saturday.” Mary said. “Peter and I are going. You might come, Polly.”
I threw a soaked shirt into the rinsing tub. “I’ll go. Mama can come too.”
Mama laughed. “We’ll see if your Dad is too tired.”
“Even if he is, you’ll come.” I grinned.
Mama smirked at me, shoving my hand into the murky water. “Do your work, girl.”
I grabbed my favorite blue sash, thinking it would go nicely with my best dress. It was a navy calico that belonged to Mama. She and I made it up to fit the fashion of the day, taking in the waist a little and shortening the sleeves. The hem of the dress fell just below my ankles, hiding the fact my good shoes were missing a couple of buttons. If I was to go to a dance with Mary and Peter, I’d have to have everything ready by Saturday.
Preview of Marriage and Moonshine by Shae Bryant
