Liquor Still and a Coal Car

FICTION Liquor Still and a Coal Car Lee Dowdy TRIPS TO THE BIG CITY BEING FEW AND FAR BETWEEN, kids had plenty of time to explore creek banks, caves, and hollers. Hard times pressed a few enterprising grown men into corn liquor production, which made exploration risky. Usually a body could tell by smoke and smell when mash was cooking. In fact, a lot of those operations smelled like old tires and inner tubes boiling in a pot. That coulda been, 'cause steep hillsides don't give much room to raise a lot of corn. One hot summer, when creek water dried up to wading deep, a tiny island just down from our swimming hole invited my attention. Are all kids too young to know better and not old enough to know? That sure fit me to a T. Older kids frolicked in low water nearby, which made it seem safe enough. This turned out to be a lesson in education which made me appreciate school when time came to go. Sitting over a low fire was a funny-looking oil drum with copper pipes sticking out, like something out of comic books. Well, everything popped into my head except the right thing. Before I could make a closer examination, a gangly man had me up under his arm and, lickety-split, off we went across the creek and up to the railroad track. Coal cars lined up here on a siding waiting for locomotion to various tipples around and about to fill up with coal. Without further ado he pitched my boyish frame into one of the empty cars. Sliding down one side and halfway up the other saved me from being hurt too bad and it all happened too fast to be scared. His parting words bounce around in my head to this day: "That'll learn ye young'n. That'll learn ye!" Coal cars are built in one direction: down. Steep high sides stand above inner slopes allowing coal to dump through the bottom. That design goes against a little skinny kid trying to climb out. An adventurous spirit quickly cooled to one of patience after scratching and clawing black dirty sides of that car. No time at all passed before a monster size coal-fired steam locomotive locked in. Noisy steam mixed with black smoke drifted over and down to me. Not that it made much difference in all that dirt. 75 What should have made a difference was destination, but not to me though. I lay back against the slope of the bottom, looked up into cloudy skies, and settled back for a dreamy train ride into hobo heaven. As luck would have it, that corn liquor fellar quickly bragged around the store how he flung a nosy young'n into a coal car. He didn't remember which one. Although in a small town, who cares? Everybody cares about finding him. In due time the train stopped and a face appeared. That man told me about it years later, said I was just sitting there in all that dirt humming a tune without a care in the world, exactly as any hillbilly kid is supposed to do. The Fiefdom From Hell's cold, desolate heart cometh Legions of serfs, who like blind mules slave For King Coal and his vassals. At quitting time, the lowly emerge on the sun-bleached surface; Their eyes blinded, blinking, burning, bleeding as Black sweat trickles down their bony, dirty faces. They think not of the old men, whose shriveled lungs belch The very same stuff that killed the canaries years ago. But for their children they say a silent prayer, For the mountains to part, a pass to open for young refugees Emigrating the fiefdom. But the only road that seems to be Open even for their brightest young minds is a well-worn trail, A downward spiral into the abysm. —Dave Payne 76 ...