Sorry, Sorry Harlan

Sorry, Sorry Harlan!


"Pathfork Branch led up into the endless dark pines of the Black Mountain Coal Company’s holdings near and around Harlan. Damn Harlan. Mines shut down through anti-labor forces’ control of the local economy. Ya live in a company house & ya gotta get yer every commodity, flour, meal, sugar, fat, whole nine yard from the Company Store & the only way to pay is with company issue script. Scab dog strike busters prowling round the mines and hollers menacingly mounted on dull black Indian motor bikes, just to make sure ya don’t bring any one thing up the holler but what ya bought at their store. Bad as all that might be, worse things happen up round them hollers, worse things ya don’t wanna tell. Dark days in Harlan. Terrible oppressive days, pushing people past their limit, actions beyond their control."

Pale blue eyes opened to pale blue eyes, the morning hushed and still held close. He thought it a dream that happened upon him, her body an escape from here and now, slow and so sure, and all from within, as though meant to be, as though it all had to happen so true. She thought it a Sunday best bright new beginning, his arms now so gentle. Mother always swore by new beginnings. His body never so familiar and kind, a wonderous grand escape from the cruel demands of life in death.

The grey shroud of morning pulled slowly from the bare plank three room hovel torn into the hillside a near mile yonder from Pathfork Branch feeder line. Through the pale mist, sky tall Hickory Cane sweet corn stalks picked near clean, the round orange/green promise of autumn pie melon thickly covering the ground. Along the path, opposite the garden patch, tall dark hollyhocks flanked the yellow hillside. Mud/grey plank walls surrounded their rooms. On the porch itself, a lone hound silently acknowledged the approach, slowly raising up, lumbering from the way. The door opens into the soot darkened room, grey walls layered in cardboard and torn newsprint. The warm remains of a morning wood fire begged attention. He pulled the pint bottle from the pocket of the blackened worn canvas overcoat and sat it on the table. Produced a dark revolver, it too he placed on the table. He hung his coat over the back of one of three split bark chairs. He twisted the metal cap from the bottle and drew the clear liquid. From behind a pulled curtain, hushed whispers announced the presence of others. Nicklaus ripped back the curtain to expose the horror of mirrored guilt and shame. Young bodies rushed to clumsily hide themselves beneath indigo grey cowboy patchwork. No words were spoken. The commandments broken, demanded harsh judgment. Hell no! This wasn’t to be. His intent was clear as he raised the revolver and fired on the bed. The retort rang through the hillside again, and again until the revolver was spent, repeating down the holler toward Pathfork Branch, the morning clearing the way.


“There was such a desperate gnawing hunger then, an always great need for any assurance of continuance in the face of such great oppression. And the fear that when salvation comes, it comes not so less horrible. I was made to stay from school and turn toward smoke thick darkness, heavy silica so closely oppressing every breath so very deep within the earth, I cried for fear at the thought of deep darkness, the heart pounding knowledge of ever present possibility of live burial!! What terrible Christ could allow such going down into the earth? I begged Mammy to not let me go the next day, to keep me safe after the night. Her sock puppet frown hummed a nursery rhyme lullaby in soft whispers : ‘Rock-a-bye Baby…when the bough breaks…the cradle will fall.’ Bough broke desolation, despair, an end to possibility. After she passed, there was no complaint ‘lowed voice in that house. Nicklaus ruled, with every angry breath, as though his family, his children were to blame for the state o’ ‘fairs up an down Pathfork Branch ."

"They said there had been an accident while hunting. That Isiah was up the mountain with Clemet, a cousin o’ sorts. I saw nothing else, heard nothing else. Knew nothing contrary to what was said. Anyway, Isiah’s demise came early one August morning, and they said he was found shot through, his young dear beautiful heart pierced and torn, the heavy mist hanging close throughout the holler, close beyond the rolling bow of truth. There had been an accident & I’ve nothing to tell. But what of that iron bedstead shot through, hidden from the truth.
Killin’s not that unusual, really, lots o’ killin’ all through Harlan these days, in the mine fields & everywhere. That came in with the god damned scab deputy antiunion thugs, true criminals. The worse of the worse, hired to force the company line. God damn murderous scabs They talked of her disappearance from Black Star Mountain Company Pathfork Branch. Story was, after Isiah’s accident, she ran off with some short time would be scab from Cincinnati. Damn, if true, we should all know such luck. All this happened late that summer. Two family members, mysteriously gone: one shot through while out hunting squirrel fer Nicklaus’ supper; and her, near the same age, thought to be twins, so alike in appearance: Thin sunblessed sublime towheads, first take/double take. As though one person is twice missing from our gathering, two individuals so in sync in thought and action, there was little need to identify either separately. Course there was an inquiry, o’ sorts, one of the local constables stopped in to see Nicklaus, likely had a sip & a chaw, ‘fore getting around to the details of the accident. Little more than a show of authority, the real business of the day as usual, had to do with managing the influx of strikebreakers the mine bosses had brought in to kill the union. Sad fact be that business included killing the very heart of these mountains, those men that labored in that horrible darkness. And they weren’t dying not just deep within the earth, but in the very beds they’d bought from the Black Star Company, same damn company now supplying the very bullets tearing through the morning.."

“Where was he hunting and who was he with,” the constable might ask.
“Out for squirrel up the hill.” Nicklaus would answer matter of fact. “Clement went with him. I guess young Clem tripped going up the hill and his rifle went off. I can bring him to ya if need be” He’d actually go so far as to say that. Hell, only truth in all that was that Isah was shot dead, and he weren’t hunting squirrel.
Truth was never told, never repeated, the story stands as Nicklaus spoke it: a hunting accident took the life of a dear towhead angel, his oldest son. And how his would be twin, must have took up with a short time scab from Cincy, anything they say to leave Harlan. Truth was, the evidence still stood where the younguns breathed their last. The iron bed stood silent witness behind the tattered soot grimed curtain, testament to blazing bright light.
I had to get the hell out o’ Harlan and away from that damn mine. I wasn’t going back into the ground if I could at all help it. Murderous pit, I recall when the Star pit collapsed and buried so many. That Fieldpot boy that everyone was crazy for, a wonder to be near, smart as ever, a real pistol, he went to the pit, sure as all damnation. And I sure as hell didn’t want any youngun o’ mind going down there. I had to get away, that’s why I went to the war, joined up. I was turned down at first; my weight was too light. A solid two weeks eating bananas and oatmeal to put the pounds on. I finally made weight and enlisted. Left my woman pregnant and went to war. That other hell. What other choice was there? Learned to deal with machinery and engines. Got the damn hell out o’ Harlan."



Generations of Sons

Dark County Rural Route 7
The lane to the house ran west, past an ancient woodlot, birches thin tall white peeling multiples reaching skyward. He saw this, Dreamus Payne, third son of another son from the war. Dream saw this from the blue Hudson window as he sailed past, turning his eyes forward to the house approaching ahead. Tall Cottonwood sententials stood at the yard gate. One diminutive tree dwelling snake slipped easily up between bark ridges. The tall white frame house welcomed the family. There would be little trouble from town, not this far out in Darke County. Not running from trouble, exactly, there had been trouble here and there since leaving Harlan, before he could remember. After the trouble with Dewey, the store keep at Brathesville. They took him away then, at night, men in suits, detectives.
“What’s it gonna be Fuson?” they asked, detectives in dark suits and hats. “You or the kids, one or the other's gotta go.” "Take the kids,” Fuson cried, beggin' to be left alone. “Let em take the kids, Mag.” “Take him,” mother answered.
Seeing Fus like that, through a barred hospital window, the family gathered outside the building on the grass, as though it were a picnic, Dream wondered for the truth of it all, what grave illness might put his father behind such a window as this. He didn’t look ill. What could possibly be the matter.

First memory reasons. The clean fresh air and open space was a treat for Dream. Here, there was room to run without the fear of traffic, or nosey neighbors. Here, there was room to grow, fields, the wood lot, and a small stream when it rained. They could be at home here. But of course there was a problem.



The Burning

The problem, for Dream at least, had to do with awakening out of synch, no longer snug safe in blue and red feed-sack cowboy quilting but awakening in an other time, an other place. Though he last lay down in his own bed, like every other late evening, midway through the dark might inexplicably find him setting on the stairs overlooking the family room below, or gazing sky ward through an open east facing door as if monitoring some far off twinkling galaxy. Or, even more disturbing, standing alone and motionless mid some unnamed space, surrounded by bright evolving light. What is there to explain? To whom? Nothing ever understood, but heart feared realization, and the nature of the universe hidden just before coming ‘round, pushed back into preconscious shadows: dual planes of existence, odd then even. It all somehow had to do with the quality of a wavelength, a certain trembling that came upon him odd times while others slept, a knowledge of recent movement replacing errant decoy realities; Dream, near naked in the open doorway moonless nights, stars twinkling ever so brightly so strong; and certain awe filled dreams of space/time deliverance and transit sequence.


The first instance of Dream questioning reality happened one evening when there were overnight visitors and he was tucked in after falling asleep on the sofa. When he awakened in a bed other than his usual, he fought to make sense of his current location. Finding no comfort, his cries woke the house. It was the dark, the absence of warm light, the horror of the void recognized. The vocabulary of one so tender disallowed communicating the nature of this distress. But he was used to living with the unexplained, the unasked question. There was no burden of proof that anything was real, anything other than frightening vision.



Dream’s cries at night amounted to very little compared to the disturbance set to come upon him sure as any damnation: fire. Innocence plays before the judgment, actions reeling free of playfield. After the harvest, the corn full crib and a snowing of husks, a changing of shapes as crisp white is kissed by a flicker blue flame. An odd match kindles more quickly than he might imagine. Who knew fire flashed so bright. Control lost, the wind sings a warning, bright ribbons twirling naming the foul breeze. The fire, once started, flows across the ground all ‘bout the barn. Bare buildings, beautiful tender and horror despair. Nothing left but the shelter of arms to not tell. The secret is born of smoke and flame. From the outhouse he ran to, Dream watched the thick dark cloud rising up into the afternoon sky, high over the quiet prairie. Mother’s frantic call broke the still terror. He ran to her arms as she called the other children, each counted safe.
The fire department, though miles away, was called. A battered pickup tore through the lane toward the house, vehicles followed in the dust, an odd train tore up the lane. Curious neighbors and farmers from nearby fields raced toward the flames as evil red tongues licked and twirled the engulfed corn crib and quickly advanced to a side barn. Men from nearby fields and farms, overalls and straw hats, ran to draw water from the cistern pump. Buckets filled and carried, water tossed bravely toward roaring flames. Two other barns filled with equipment stood vulnerable. Dream’s attempt to hide in his mother’s skirt was foiled by the hurried action of people carrying furniture from the house, in case the wind changed and air born embers were blown to the roof. Sirens screamed closer, louder. The rats, large as housecats, ran every direction away from the flames. The men in their overalls and dirty undershirts began whacking the beasts with shovels and forks, again and again, raising one foot high off the ground and coming down hard on the squirming vermin, gleefully tromping fat bodies into the dust.
And so the day was chaos, pure as ever could be, and desperate fear, men asking questions the older brother pulled Dream back from. They weren’t the police. The barns all burned. Explosions mid the roaring flames called the demise of tractors and combines, equipment of a livelihood. Evening settled on the mountain of rubble, twisted metal and smoldering ash. The army of volunteers, the firemen and their equipment, gone. The farm owner sat on the tailgate of his red truck, head in his hands, counting the loss. The secret untold. They would have to relocate.