The summer after I graduated high school, we went to Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home outside Charlottesville, Virginia. It bugged me when my father mispronounced Monticello—he made a soft c, like “Monti-sello.” I corrected him, and he got so mad he slapped me. But that was the last time he slapped me. From that moment on I stayed out of his way. I gave up. Then Mama did too. For years she tried to make us get along, but it was not to be. When I look back, I realize that she protected me from him. We built our world around keeping him comfortable and not upsetting him. I never showed anger, frustration, or passion in front of him. I swallowed everything, and soon it became part of my character. I was there to amuse and entertain, never, ever to challenge or disrupt. When I was alone with my mother, I could have my feelings, but then I would feel guilty—why upset her?
My mother was Roman Catholic. She was allowed to go to mass and take me, but then we would have to attend the Methodist church with my father as well. The Catholic church here is run by a small missionary order of poor carpenter priests called the Glenmarys. We didn’t even have a real church building until five years ago; the priests were so busy building churches in poorer areas, they kept putting ours off. Finally, we built it, and nothing made my mother happier than writing a big fat check to the Catholics after my father died. She gave them so much money, they finished building our church! When the Methodists, who have a grand big church, came for their share, my mother gave them a small token, citing their large congregation and huge donor list. They weren’t happy about the slight, but being good Christians, they let it go.
Mama and I tried to be good Italians after Fred Mulligan died. We wanted to reclaim that side of ourselves that we had hidden. We decided to go to Italy. We had great fun planning our trip. We did our research, made all the arrangements, bought the tickets, and then, as the date approached, Mama panicked, complaining of a fear of motion sickness. She became so distraught, I canceled the trip. Then, after a few days, she became herself again. The incident upset her so badly, I never mentioned traveling again. I didn’t try to plan another trip. She could not have gone anyway. She got cancer, and that changed our lives forever.
I look around this room and see that she had one of everything: one lamp, one bureau, one chair. She only ever had one winter coat. One pair of good shoes. One pretty hair clip. One child. One of everything, but only one, as if to keep her life quiet. She lived by her own philosophy: Be unobtrusive and maybe he’ll let us stay. As though that was all she deserved! My mother deserved so much more! The best of everything! No gold, no rubies, no rare diamond would have ever been enough for my mother. She was a woman of great character. My deepest sadness comes because I know she lived a life where she wasn’t treated that way.
You would think, after she died, I would have come in here and gone through her things, but I couldn’t. And now I am putting too much importance on this room. I want to find clues to her. Figure out what she really wanted. What she desired. What she was secretly interested in. I pull the books off of her nightstand and onto the bed and begin sorting. One on breast cancer. Another on regional Italian cooking. Ingrid Bergman’s life story (we both love biographies). And, finally, Lake Maggiore and Its Regions.
I take the book, turn off the light, and leave her room. I am never afraid in this house, but tonight a chill runs through me. An urgency. I have led a life of quiet desperation (as my favorite author, Henry David Thoreau, described in Walden), just like my mother had, and now I want to change. As I pass through the living room to go up to bed, I pick up a small book from the large stack Iva Lou left behind. It’s called Schilpario: A Life in the Mountains. The checkout card in the back says, “University of Virginia Architecture Library. DO NOT REMOVE.” Iva Lou really went to some trouble to get me these books. I may have to break down and buy some Sarah Coventry jewelry from her.
Once I’m in bed, I turn on my bedside lamp and look through the pictures in the book about Schilpario. The Italian Alps are pointed and snowcapped. They seem three times as high as the Blue Ridge Mountains, and more dangerous, not as soft and maternal. The roads look new but narrow. There is a picture of a race car taking the dangerous curves, showing deep, jagged valley plummets to the sides of the road. No guardrails. Just like Powell Valley! I turn the page, and there is the town. This is a long-shot vista photo, probably taken from another mountain. The houses are close together and painted in muted shades of terra-cotta, gold, and soft brown. The main street leads to a waterwheel. On the next page, a picture of the waterwheel, a point of interest for tourists. In another time, before electricity, the waterwheel provided fresh water and power to the town. Now it is a museum.
I turn the next page, and there are some dignitaries from the town. They stand in a row—all men, puffed up and proud of their little village. I glance down at the names listed under the picture. As I’m reading, I look up at the row and study one man in particular who catches my eye. It’s the expression on his face. I have seen it somewhere—in my own mirror. My heart begins to pound as it did the night at the Fold. I look down. My pajama buttons are moving, but this time I can hear the attack and the whoosh, beat, whoosh, beat of my blood as it chugs through my heart with force and fear. I breathe deeply, but I can’t inhale very well, so I suck in the air in small gulps. I think of Lew, who tells me not to worry, that it’s nothing. I steady my fingers against the book. They are sweating and leave small circles on the book jacket. I rub the book on my bedspread. Then I pull the light as close as a microscope and prop the book open on my knees to steady it. I count over four names; the fourth man is the man I think I know. I scoot my finger across the faces and down to the matching name: Mario Barbari, Mayor, Schilpario, 1961–present. I flip to the front of the book and check the copyright date: 1962. That’s a long time ago. I pull the small lacy picture of my father out of its envelope—I keep it with me at all times—and compare the faces. Mario Barbari is small in the picture, but I can see the shape of the face, the eyes, the eyebrows—all look similar to the young man in the picture Mama left behind for me. Is he my father?
I can hardly wait for Friday because it means Iva Lou is coming through with the Bookmobile. I wanted to call her at home, but I didn’t because I wanted to tell her about Mario da Schilpario’s picture in person. I can’t wait for her to come to town, I’m too nervous and excited, so I drive down to her first stop in the Cadet section, just south of town, where she is parked by the side of the road. Iva Lou is sitting in the driver’s seat of the Bookmobile, eating a sausage biscuit. I holler from my car window, “Are you alone?”
“Nobody showed up yet. It’s slow as Christmas.”
I park my car next to the Bookmobile and join her. “I think I found him. Mario.”
“Lordy mercy!” she shouts, and jumps up and down. The Bookmobile rocks back and forth like a boat.
“Careful, Iva. We’ll flip over.”
“Honey-o, don’t worry. This old thing doesn’t have to last much longer.”
“Why? Is the county springing for a new one?”
“No. But old Liz Taylor is gonna have a fried-chicken dinner over to the Coach House when she’s here to raise money for our very own library. This could be it, Ave. The Big Time.”
I sit down on my snap stool. Why does this upset me? Am I that attached to this truck full of books?
“I know you love this unit, but a library! Imagine all the books we can git if we git a whole big building!”
“You’re absolutely right. I am being selfish.”
“The state said they’d match whatever she came up with. Can I put you down for a couple of tickets to the dinner?”
“Sure, sure.”
“It’ll be fun. We’ll get Theodore for you, and I’ll scrape up a date. Lyle Makin has been chasing me of late, and I just might let him catch me. He’s nice and he’s got a good suit. But, Lord, forget all that. Tell me about this man you think might be your daddy.”
I show Iva Lou the book; she scribbles down some no
tes.
“Sanka?”
This time I accept her offer. She pulls a sack out from a shelf and offers me a pink coconut snowball from the dry-bread store. I take it, tearing off one small piece at a time as I tell Iva Lou about the night I found my father in the book. She listens intently, following my every word.
Big Stone Gap has never been so atwitter. Theodore is in constant rehearsal for the halftime show; Nellie Goodloe has taken over the organization of the library fund-raiser chicken dinner; and I’m writing letters to government agencies in Italy, gathering information about Mario Barbari. It’s as though the Blue Ridge Mountains around us have been peeled back and we’re being discovered by a larger universe. This is equally thrilling and troubling. There is something comfortable about life the way it has been; who am I to upset the cart?
With all that’s happening to me in my private life, the responsibilities of the Pharmacy still need tending to. I’m inspecting a new shipment from Dow, Fleeta is manning the cash register, and Pearl is doing inventory on our medical supplies when the familiar mine whistle blows. The coal mines are closing for the day; soon town will be filled with truckloads of men returning home for supper. I look out over my little staff as I fill prescriptions, and I feel very secure. Then the whistle blares three times in quick succession. It’s not the whistle of the day being done; it’s an emergency whistle. Something bad has happened up at the mine. We kick into automatic mode. Fleeta helps me out of my white jacket and into my Rescue Squad vest, and I grab my first-aid kit. I hear a horn—it’s Spec—and I jump into the ambulance. The whistle blares three more times. Spec cannot drive fast enough.
We speed up the mountainside to the mine. The road is not paved, it’s pure gravel; we kick up dust and are pitched to and fro in the grooves carved out by coal trucks. The smoke on the entrance road is thick and gray, which confirms my suspicions that there has been an accident inside.
The first thing we do is pull up to the check-in hut, which is close to the mouth of the mine. Here each miner, before he starts his shift, leaves a silver tag bearing his name. He wears an identical tag on his belt, so his whereabouts are known to the company at all times. In an emergency we rely on these tags for a head count. There are three tags left on the board; only they remain inside the mine: A. Johnson, R. Harmon, and J. MacChesney. I take a breath. “Come on, Ave. We ain’t got all day,” Spec says as we move to join the other Rescue Squad staffs.
There are four “holes,” or entrances drilled into the side of the mountain. One entrance leads the miners to their work areas; one is for the conveyor belt, which transports the coal out; and the other two are for ventilation. There is a high level of methane gas underground, and the slightest disturbance can ignite it. There is no smoking allowed inside, but pockets of deadly gas can ignite without warning. Inspectors check the methane levels throughout the workdays and nights, but the miners travel as far as five miles into the mountain; there is always the threat of danger. As we get closer the smoke becomes deadly black, so the explosion must be deep. Rescue squads from the surrounding towns pull in around us. I see station wagons from Appalachia, Stonega, Norton, Coeburn, and Wise.
Spec and I await orders from the mining supervisor, who is on the radio to survivors in the mine. The stretchers are filling up fast. Most of the injuries appear to be from smoke inhalation. Hopefully, the situation inside is not too bad. In our favor: This is a new mining site, so the construction within is modern.
Spec and I are told to join the unit from Stonega. I can’t see because of the smoke, but it wouldn’t do much good anyway. The supervisor shows us a map of where the explosion took place: at the third level, about five miles into the mountain.
When I trained for the Rescue Squad along with volunteers from across the county, we toured a coal mine. I remember looking forward to it, like a field trip. We dressed like the miners: one-piece coveralls; rubber knee boots; the hard hat and light; and the belt to which we attached a power pack for the hat light, an ID tag, and a mask to convert carbon monoxide to carbon dioxide in case of an explosion. Miners are required to wear safety goggles; everyone does. It is also recommended that the miners wear a protective cloth mask while they work to decrease the inhalation of deadly coal dust, but most find it difficult to communicate and work while wearing a mask, and since they are not convinced that a mask prevents black lung anyway, they usually skip that step.
I had romanticized the underground, thinking it would be cryptlike and eerily beautiful. Instead, it felt ominous from the moment we climbed into the transport car. The cars are shallow, tin canoes that hold about ten people. The entrance ceilings are low, so you lie down most of the trip; on a deep excursion it is nerve-racking and uncomfortable. The only person who is allowed to sit up is the driver; he operates the car on the tracks with a wooden pole connected to the electrical lines rigged on the ceiling. There is not much conversation during the ride, but there is a lot of chewing and spitting. The men chew tobacco to keep their mouths wet, as the air is very dry within the mine. The temperature remains about fifty-five degrees year-round.
I thought the interior of the mine would be black, like dirt, and well lit. Instead, the main source of light is our hats, and the walls are white. After the coal is extracted, the miners spray the walls with a white rock dust that is nonflammable, so in case of fire the mine won’t turn into an oven, roasting its own coal.
Our guide explained that each car carries a work crew to a particular area. Advances in technology introduced a machine called the Continuous Miner, which actually extracts the coal from the wall. The work crew is there to load the coal onto a conveyor belt, once it has been extracted by the machine. After an area is mined, a crew places timbers on the sides and walls to create channels and shore up the walls so they don’t collapse; then the roof-bolt operator and his team come in to bolt the ceiling with giant screws so the men can dig more deeply into the mine and extract more coal. The roof-bolt operator has one of the most dangerous jobs; more miners are killed by rock slides than by explosions. The guide explained that these men have superior hearing, and the slightest cracking sound is a signal to move his men out immediately. There isn’t much to be done in a serious rock slide, except try to excavate the men. In an explosion, you hope they can crawl out the shafts to safety, if they can see their way through the smoke. The other threat to the miner is flooding. A man called the pumper travels through the mine during the shift and pumps out water, as there is no way of predicting underground water sources.
I remember feeling I would suffocate as the car plunged deeper into the mine, and I became more fearful as the tunnel behind us became a black river with no end. The dimensions of the mine kept changing, too. Sometimes it seemed almost large, like a cavern, and then the car would push through to a space so tiny, my arms could reach from one wall of the tunnel to the other. I never felt that I could hold my head up without getting whacked by a beam or a crossbar.
There were constant reminders of impending doom: gas meters that would sound when noxious fumes were emitted from the earth; machinery programmed for automatic use that could go off without warning and cause injury; and then, of course, the dust. You can taste it, and when you breathe it into your nose, it is a little like trying your first cigarette. At first it seems foreign and you resist it. But eventually you forget about it. Coal dust penetrates the skin and fills the lungs, causing all sorts of diseases—the least of them cancer, the worst of them black lung, all of them painful, protracted illnesses that cause slow death. The thing that surprised me the most was the sound inside the mine. It was deadly quiet. This was a feeling of being buried alive. I wondered how the men do it each day. I couldn’t.
Coal miners in general are practical men. I get to know them long after they quit the mines and are on black lung benefits. That’s when they need their meds, and believe me, they need a lot of them. If it isn’t the lungs that go, it’s repetitive injury to the joints from the picking, the loading, the hauling, and t
he lifting. In the same way that the mountains are depleted of coal, the men are spent by taking it from the earth.
Mining is a family tradition; usually sons follow fathers into the mines, and their sons will follow them. There are amazing stories of bravery, and I think of them as I stand and await instructions. In the 1930s, Wesley Abingdon was a local hero because he refused to give up during an accident—he took the train car, threw the men into it, pedaled out, threw the men out, and went back for more. He saved about thirty men that day, and those thirty men told their thirty families, and so on. Wesley gained saint status in these parts.
A couple of years ago there was an incident that upon repeating sounds like a folktale, but I witnessed it, so I can tell you it is absolutely true. It was late spring, and the mountains were just coming into their green. The whistle sounded, and we assembled, just as we have today, to assist in the rescue. The supervisor had determined that all the men were out but one: Basil Tate, a young miner, was still unaccounted for. The problem with explosions is that it is very hard to determine the cause until after they happen, so they are very hard to prevent. Fire and smoke are wily as well, and a good miner figures this out and works with it. The mine rescue team was deciding how to proceed, how to find Basil, when a rumbling was heard from deep in the mine. It started out softly, but it sounded like it was coming toward the exit. I will never forget what happened next. The rumble became a blast. Dirt and black smoke poured out of the entrance, and then we heard a pop. We looked up, and there was Basil Tate, flying through the air like a human cannonball. The explosion had created a vacuum, with Basil in it. Then fire propelled the fumes—and Basil—like stoking a cannon to fire. The crowd watched the spectacle in awe. Was he alive? We followed the body up over the hill and down the mountainside. Basil landed by the creek, on soft mud. We were certain he was dead. When we got to him, he was unconscious, his body contorted in an S shape. We could tell from his position that he had broken his neck and his legs. But there was still a pulse, so we wrapped him up carefully and called for a chopper from the University of Virginia to fly him out for emergency surgery. Basil was in a body cast for close to two years, and now he works the box office at the Drama. We call him the Miracle Man.