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HOME AT LAST By Verna Mae Slone At first glance, there seemed to be only two people in the car. The little old woman, huddled in the back, was just another bundle. She had drawn herself into the corner as if hiding like the little frightened baby rabbits her husband used to plow up in the fields. Her trembling hands were tucked under her elbows shivering in the warm air. Only her eyes showed strength as they darted from window to window. Now that they were out of the city she could relax. She had begrudged each second wasted on the stoplights. Each turn of the wheel was bringing her closer to home. The man and woman in the front seat were talking. She did not listen to the words. Words did not tell you anything. People used words to hide their feelings. You learned more from the sound. The wife's soft, purring 71 voice was interrupted by her husband's commanding grunts. The old woman knew they were quarreling, and she knew it was about her. As the speeding car left Lexington far behind, the old woman remembered the ride along this road several weeks ago. She could still hear the scream of the siren, and see the flashing light. More real now than then, viewing as an onlooker from a distance, it seemed as if she had been suddenly snatched up from her quiet mountain home and flung into this outside world, a place she did not know and did not want to know. "Why don't you try to sleep, Grandma? It will make the trip a lot shorter." Why was everyone always trying to get her to sleep? She would sleep when she got home in her own bed. She snuggled down against the car seat as she thought of her big goose featherbed and her double wedding ring quilt. It would be lonely now that he was gone, but she would be much closer to him there. "Guess she's already asleep," the woman remarked, and the man grunted in agreement. This was the first time she had ever been away from home. Fifty years ago, Jim had brought her as a young bride to the new cabin, still filled with the smell of fresh-cut logs. As the years passed, the children had grown up and left to be replaced with grandchildren, but nothing had changed. The walls were still covered with newspapers, the churn, now empty, sat before the grate, and a drinking gourd hung on the wall above the wooden bucket. She wished she could make her children understand, but she had given up trying long ago. When the men first began talking about strip mining, she had only half listened—until the bulldozers cut a road around the mountainside , and pushed down the large trees, trees she had watched grow and change with each season. One morning her well had gone dry and she had to face the reality of strip mining on their land. Soon dust began to fill the cabin, finding its way into their water, their food, and even between their sheets. There was no keeping it out; it seemed to creep into her very soul. She could not get away from it. It did no good to wash the clothes, they came in off the line with more dust than before. Even the water had a skim of yellow dust like cream on milk. The doctors told her that Jim had died of heart failure, but she knew it was grief. True, the coal-truck drivers had been very kind. They had taken him to the Hazard Hospital. From there he had been sent to Lexington. She had gone along, as if in a dream. The children had been there, she guessed, for someone had taken care of her. Oh, how she had begged the nurses to let her go into Jim's room, to let her see him, hold his hand, kiss his cheek. She knew he was frightened. The one time she had slipped into his room and saw how his arms and head were all connected with wires and boxes, she was scared...