“The Note”
The high school football game was over and I had joined my two sisters at the football field. I proceeded to follow them; I assumed that we were heading to where they lived; I was not familiar with its location. Even to this day I knew I didn’t live there, but they did. As we walked along, I was informed that, as usual, we had lost to our biggest competitor- our chief rival “Logan High“. It was late in the evening it was near 9:30 P.M., on a Friday, Dec. 1962, the temperature felt well below freezing.
Other than church revivals, those football games were the only event that could draw a good amount of people together in our little town. Tonight though, the combination of snow and drizzling rain encouraged most people to stay at home. Quietly, I continued to follow and remained patience because I knew they had to separate from each other, into a single file; it was the only way to fit onto the narrow pedestrian crossover that was part of the single lane, heavy metal, bridge that connected the two main roadways. That was the only bridge, the only walkway that crossed over the muddy Guyandotte River in this tiny valley.
The feeble little township was nestled near a major coal mine, in only one of the multi deep gorges that identified the Appalachian Mountain Range. The mountains were beautiful, abundant with life, with a history that runs from the Island of Newfoundland to Central Alabama. The county, in which the town was located, ran parallel, north and south, along the Kentucky/Ohio border but to us there was no life on the other side, just here, here in this tiny sector of Logan County. It is strange to me now, but at that time we felt no desire to look, much less to see, that there was a different kind of life outside this valley.
Various denominational churches, even people of different nationalities existed just over the ridge but I had never witnessed that mode of living, that kind of life. To that point I had never met anyone of a different nationality; Italian, Spanish, or anyone from the Asian continent. I had yet to look eye to eye with a ‘black’ person, those people were dangerous, or at least that is what we ‘heard’. Both of our parents had been born and raised in this tiny valley, and to them there was no world outside that area that was even safe to venture. Somehow, at some time, a fear had been planted deep in our minds, a fear of that ’outside’ world. This was the only town we knew and not knowing that was a different way of living ‘over there’ had encouraged our acceptance that it was here we were born and it was here we would die.
The ‘run-off’, or trickling, of the cool, mountain streams flowed continuously, gathering then splashing into the deep crack that was carved into the valley floor, thus creating the Guyandotte River. It was the heart, the center of this tiny town, dividing the strip of small stores on the North side and the trails of tightly packed houses on the South side. The residential area was crammed like sardines into the muddy forks that branched off the only paved road in town. The houses that couldn’t fit were fanned out, faded from view, as they scattered up the sides of the mountains, disappearing, buried deep in the foliage and the ‘hollers’. If a single bulb was positioned near a window it projected an eerie sensation of being watched from the sides of the mountain, (did that ’eye’ just blink at me?).
As we continued on I quietly listened as my sisters chatted about the evening. The main subject was their boyfriends, then the positive and negative comments about their rivals and who kissed who. As usual, I had had to present music at a local Church that night. I was angry, and somewhat bitter, that I had not been given the freedom to choose otherwise, so to their conversation I had nothing to add. I met them at the playing field, after the church service was over, then tagged along and listened. The whispering and giggles between them began to mellow as the cold air increased which, in turn, increased our shivering.
That particular night was even more eerie, we were now deeply enveloped in silence; the bridge we were approaching and the roadway on which we were walking was empty of people or cars. The only two lights in that Valley was positioned one each side of the river cross-over. Tonight, the lights appeared even more dimmed due to the heavy clouds that were responsible for the continuous snow fall. To see beyond six feet was impossible, we looked ahead but we could see only darkness. It felt like a ghost town (and still does even to this day.)
Finally, with the shallow release of our breath, we made it to the other side of the crossover, where the road, once again, turned to mud. I continued to follow as they turned right onto an even muddier, more narrowed residential strip. The tiny, closely built, wooden structures showed the horrid degree of poverty that ruled in this mountain region. The majority of single story homes had the same cheap asbestos siding capped with low grade shingles on the roofs. These 800 sq ft cottages were home primarily to the local coal miners who lived week by week on long hours and low pay. I did not realize just how deep in poverty that region was until later in my life.
After what seemed to be an eternity, to me, they turned to the last house on the right side, tightly crammed in the corner at the far end of the road. Not being familiar with this home, I paused. Suddenly Belinda screamed, “Something’s wrong - where‘s Mom” as she ran inside, leaving the door wide open, inviting the cold air in. Susie was following, demanding an answer to her repeated question, “what’s wrong, what happened? “ I had no reason for the dilemma, the hysteria being shown so, with caution I entered the house, softly closed the door behind me.
I paused with my back pressed against the door, my fingers still holding onto the icy doorknob. I continued to gaze as, side by side, the two of them stood frozen as in a state of shock. Suddenly, in a split second, they began screaming “No,” and continued to voice that single word. I gazed over their shoulders at the crumbled note still lying on the tiny, dimly light, dinette table, but I felt no interest in what had been written. What was it that had brought about this turmoil? They had dropped the note then together they collapsed to the small couch in the main front room, bawling, while continuing to repeat that same word, “NO! NO!“ over & over.
I felt nothing.
Vivid Scene:
Quietly I had became seated in the 5 X 7 living room area that held only two chairs - a single one where I was and a double-seated one not two feet away. My arms were folded across my chest; my shoulders tighten as in defiance. There was anger in me, anger and bitterness but as to the reason I do not know. The house was not familiar to me, later I would learn that it was where my Mother had moved a few months earlier and my sisters had followed. I had stayed with my Father then and I would continue to stay by his side through the next five years.
It was then that I noticed a tiny Christmas tree shoved against the tight corner of two connecting walls, its lights deadened, barren of stencil or glitter, empty of gifts. The house felt like death had entered, creating a cold dark vacuum, a vacancy of life; warmth nowhere within the four walls. Except for the sobbing and whimpering from the two of them, there lingered a dreadful silence in the background.
I watched as tears glistened on my younger sister’s cheeks, from a cheerleader earlier that evening to a four year old in a fourteen year old body. She appeared to be reaching out, crying for her Mommy, hungry for the warm breast that once soothed her when she was frightened or cold. Later I was to learn that she, as well as I, had never felt a Mother’s arms encircle her with tenderness and that, above all else, was the reason she was crying for it now. Her tiny lips were quivering, her head slowly swaying back and forth in complete denial. But I could not reach out to console her, to comfort her. The concrete block wall that had began building between us in the prior years, now stood fully erected.
My older sister Belinda had positioned herself very closely to our baby sister’s side. Both of them were trembling as though they could still feel the icy cold winds that blew outside of this empty home. She had grasped Suzy’s hand tightly in support for her, as well as for strength for herself. Those two had always shared a sisterly bond that did not include me. I was on the outside they were on the inside. From the beginning I felt they were Mother’s girls, with the giggles and curls, I was Daddy’s, playing the piano, hoeing the garden, and catching worms to bait his fishing rod, or so I was told.
Then suddenly, mournful sobbing echoed from behind, or from the other side of a closed bedroom door. I recognized immediately that it was my Father, my Daddy and he was crying. I had never heard those sounds from him before. Yet his sorrow I could feel, his anguish was unquestionable. My attention to him was broken as Belinda & I locked in a hard stare. Her face had hardened with anger, pain and denial just as our younger sister‘s. With the redness increasing, she finally bellowed to me the words that has stayed impregnated in my mind ever to deep to forget; “Don’t you care Sissy!” I delivered, with bitterness, my response “No, no I don’t. She was the one that ran away, our Mother disappeared not our Daddy, so why should I cry for her? It’s our Daddy who needs help now!”
The screen on which I can view this event suddenly darkens, the movie reel has broken, the Christmas scene ended. I do not know what happened in the three years following. From that tiny town in mid-winter to another state further south, was a split second in time, at least in my mind. The projector in my mind began running once again, the screen flashes on, but three years had slipped by, but to where I do not know.
This is where I find myself next:
I am an 18 years of age, living in Augusta Georgia, the year is 1967. I am holding the position as a licensed Cosmetologist at JB Whites department store located downtown. I am married, but I know nothing about the man. I do remember his first and last name, Rick Blanco, but even his middle name or initial escapes me. I’ve searched my memory but could find nothing: does he have hair on his chest, does he snore at night, did we ever embrace, I STILL do not know.
The next Chapter takes me into a completely different life, now I am an adult, a wife, a Registered Cosmetologist, its 4:00 pm on Friday, and I’m styling my patrons hair, Ms Jenks. I’m glancing at the clock but I do not want to go home.
What happened next?
ie Pinto
12-02-05
