Leaving the Hills

MEMOIR Leaving the Hills Lee Dowdy Some winters in the West Virginia hills a fellar can sit out on the porch and bask in warm winter sunshine. February of 1950 was one of those years. Coalminers went out on strike as oil fast replaced coal. Fat Cat operators up in Philly looked like they would shut down the mines, tear down our tired old tipple, and put me out of work. Steep hills never did give us much bottom land, but that day I had to look straight up to see any future for me. "Whatta we gonna do?" Buddy said to me. "Danged if I know, but we can't sit here riding this porch swing into tomorrow. I don't fancy going back to raising hogs and drinking sassafras tea, like we did when we were young'ns." "Naw, me neither," he said. "Might go into the Army before that." That brought my head around. "Boy, you done lost your marbles thinking you gonna get me into the Army. Don't you remember your brother talking about walking across Belgium dodging bullets and drinking diarrhea medicine?" A slight smile came across his face. "Yeah, but I also remember his telling about getting off the train in Paris and walking down Rue St. Deni past all those pretty girls. And let me tell you, two or three times he stopped with mighty fine results." "All the same," I answered. "You still ain't gonna get me in no Army. Howsomeever, they made this new thing called the Air Force which I hear ain't too bad." Buddy wasn't impressed. "Ah, shucks. You wanna be a AIR man? Coalminers are marines and rangers; we ain't full of no air, except maybe when we eat pinto beans." He grinned as I went on. "I like these hills and all that, but carrying sacks of taters, corn, and beans down offthathillside across the creeknever did come to my liking." Ole Buddy laughed a little. "You said it. My brother still swears his arms are so long from carrying heavy buckets of slop up to feed the hogs. Never could figure why they wouldn't let us raise 'em here in the coal camp. No worse than 44 thesebig rats rirnningback and forthbetween the toilet and wash house." I kinda laughed with him. "You reckon that Air Force bunch has toilets inside the barracks? That appeals to me." Buddy's response sounded like Joshing. "Now why would they want a smelly thing like that inside the barracks?" With him you never knew whether he was joking or not so I answered in kind. "Well, it is a funny thing that we cook in the house and crap in the yard, but I understand it's getting fashionable to cook in the yard and crap in the house." Buddy didn't laugh so I guess he wasn't kidding. Anyway, he got up, motioned to me and said, "It don't matter to me which way they do it. There's only one way to find out. Let's go talk to 'em." So we walked out to the white bridge and pointed our thumbs down the road. Hitch-hiking to the county seat through five coal camps across three mountains never came easy. For that matter, Buddy and I going anywhere could be a far out episode. We got us a ride down the hollar to Rift in a pick-up truck more suited to cows. Sure glad to get off right above white water washing through a big deep cut. In 1902 a cloud burst dug its way into a narrow ridge, making us a real nice swimming hole. The road went on around but we could take a short cut by wading the creek. Actually, it was bigger than the Rio Grande river in El Paso, but folks around our place called it a creek. Fast water over sharp rocks could sweep your frail body right into deep water. To a youngster that offered a thrilling piece of fun. Dressed in Sunday clothes I wasn't too keen on the idea, especially in February. Standing in the middle looking...