Paradise Lost
Jon Pryor, Bowling Green
On a clear day, the tops of the stacks could be seen just above the tree line. Especially the tall one. The tall stack with the red and white stripes like a colossal barber pole. The air above the stacks is an indescribable blue. On a clear day, the air would be clean; the air would be crisp.
This day was not one of those days. On this day, the air hung heavy above the stacks as the tall one, and its slightly less colossal minions, belched a cloud of putrid yellow, not unlike the yolk of an expired egg. On this day, the Paradise Steam Plant, locally known as “TVA,” was burning bituminous coal—high-sulfur coal, in the parlance of the Muhlenberg County coal miner. High-sulfur coal is prevalent in western Kentucky, as opposed to the cleaner-burning, lower-sulfur coal from the east. Nonetheless, it was coal.
Coal fueled the county’s economy. The serpentine vein of sulfur-laden air slithered across the northeastern sky, like the coming of the 10th plague. It set its sights on Chiggerville, eventually thinning out over the skies of Rochester and Provo. Other days, the wind would carry the yellow cloud toward Echols or Rockport. That’s on a good day.
On a bad day, the yolky mist would come east. Toward our house, about 5 miles away in Drakesboro. With the impending fallout of the sulfur cloud, we knew a car wash was inevitable. The T-bird, usually a light-blue metallic, now dusted in a hue of dingy yellow. The roads in this part of the county were perpetually covered in a layer of gray dust from the countless numbers of coal trucks that traversed the roads, seemingly nonstop, leaving behind coal dust, mud and chuckholes. The dump trucks picked up the dust and mud from the miles of graveled haul roads meandering the coal-laden hills between the steam plant and the mines. The larger vehicles, the “Eucs”—too large for the highways—stayed on the haul roads. The occasional sighting of a Euc was cause for excitement, especially for a youngster with an affinity for large earth-moving equipment.
Times seemed hard. We didn’t know it then, but those were simpler times. The times may have been simpler, but the work was not. Most people in the county either “worked in the mines” or “worked at TVA.” Many others worked in support of the coal industry: gas stations, groceries, schools. A service station could fill the 26-gallon tank of the light-blue T-bird for 14 bucks, including a cleaned windshield, oil check and a cold drink. The local grocery store had three aisles. A “coke-cola” came in a 6-ounce glass bottle. The groceries were bagged in paper. The popular therapeutics were aspirin, Carter’s Little Liver Pills, mercurochrome and castor oil. Crystal Wedding Oats had a drinking glass or dessert bowl in every package.
I attended one of seven schools in the county. Each school had a basketball team and a marching band. I was not athletically inclined. Inevitably, one of the teams from the county would win the district basketball tournament, win a trip to regionals and eventually lose to the perennial regional champion, Owensboro. Most of the school buses had two-digit numbers. In junior high, I rode bus 85. The driver of 85 kept a ball-peen hammer in the glove box. At least once, Thor wielded that hammer to threaten the unruly kids.
The county had two cinemas. I saw Jaws in 1975. Star Wars in ’77. In ’78, Christopher Reeve became Superman. In ’78, I got my driver’s license. The new driver’s rite of passage was to drive over Chicken Hill at such a speed for the vehicle to become airborne. At least that’s what they said. I never tried it. Not fast, anyway. At least not fast enough to defy gravity. Chicken Hill was where the egg farm was. And the bootlegger. With a drive-up window. On the morning of Dec. 22, 1978, my parents let me drive to school for the first time. Their parting words were, “Don’t ride anyone else in the car.” That afternoon, my four passengers and I crashed the car into a tree.
Yes, times could be hard. But they were good times. Times to cherish, times to remember. Now, the skies are blue again. The roads are no longer dirty. The holes are filled. The Eucs are gone. Vehicles maintain their original color, albeit a bit rusty. The mines have since closed, being on the losing side of the “war on coal.” The coal-fired boilers of the steam plant have since been decommissioned, converted to natural gas. The services of 400 long-timers are no longer needed. Seven schools became two, then one. Chicken Hill is still there. The eggs are not. The liquor is now legal. The theater screens are dark. Superman, and Christopher Reeve, are gone.
Time marches on. Progress marches to a different drummer. In the midst of hard times, good times could be had, and memories could be made. Memories were made, and the memories remain. The memories may remain, but Paradise is lost.
The Nest
Kim Freeman, Westerville, Ohio
A few minutes past dawn, the faintest glow gives the backyard patio a faded look like a Polaroid picture just before the developer fully activates. A rare late July cool breeze crosses my tan arms, tickling out goosebumps, but my legs lay warmly tucked beneath a lightweight blanket I’ve grabbed from the spare bedroom. Coffee in hand, night dying to the day’s rebirth, I hear a sudden rustle, as sharp and quite disturbing as a peppermint being unwrapped in church.
I look toward the disruption and see high above a gray squirrel bouncing across a large tree branch, a leaf-filled twig held in its mouth. It disappears into a large McMansion of a foliage-made nest, where it seems an extra room is being added. A few seconds later, the sky rodent reemerges and scampers back down the branch to the end, its weight causing the bough to dip and swing wildly. Watching it balance reminds me of the “Hang in There, Baby” cat poster of the early 1970s.
Tail swishing, feet gripping, rustle, rustle, snap and another five leaves for the fortress secured. Racing back like a tightrope walker out-running a falling rope, the squirrel disappears into the green leafy half-moon. If it knows I am watching, it clearly doesn’t care, as it pays me no attention at all. Perhaps it knows that gravity is human kryptonite, and there is safety 30 feet up.
A tiny house wren lands on the top of a fence plank a few feet from me. It tilts its brown head right, then left, as if trying to figure out why I have inserted myself into the early morning rituals of suburban wildlife. Suddenly, the bird takes off from its perch, joins a friend mid-flight, and they fly to the well-traveled branch of the home-improving squirrel. They squat, chittering away, seemingly oblivious to the squirrel’s sky dance where, upside-down now, it selects choice leaves as if at IKEA in outer space. Rustle, rustle, snap! Choice made, the squirrel scrambles back, scattering the birds, who squawk indignantly before landing on a branch in the tree next door.
The squirrel races back and forth, to the edge of a branch, and then near the stout trunk. Plucking leaf clusters and fortifying the summer nest that is surrounded by a hedge of leaves the squirrel appears to have left in place, like a privacy fence.
As it continues its early morning industry, memories rise. I am a daughter of Appalachia. My father hunted in the eastern Kentucky hills and often brought home sacks of buckshot-riddled squirrels. He skinned them on the front deck of our creek-side home, sometimes preserving the pelts or the bushy tails. With the point of a small bone-handled knife, he cut off the head and slit open the chest cavity to pull out the tiny organs. Then he laid their slender naked bodies marked with pinprick crimson-rimmed holes on a nearby table.
It takes a lot of squirrels to make a meal. My mom, tasked with critter cooking, would freeze them until an annual wild game feast we hosted at our log cabin nestled against the backyard hillside. Game of all kinds was served, including local favorites such as grouse, quail, turkey, deer, squirrel, rabbit and groundhog, and more exotic big game like moose, elk and Canadian geese from hunting trips out West or up North. Squirrels and rabbits typically were served fried with a gravy made of flour, milk, salt, pepper and skillet scrapings left in the cast-iron frying pan. Both required some care while eating to avoid cracking a tooth on a stray pellet.
Hunting and fishing remain a way of life for many, especially in eastern Kentucky. When we were growing up, my older brother hunted, too. He took an academic approach to the sport, telling us that during his first year at Princeton, he studied squirrels’ movements from his dorm room window. We chuckled that he needed to use his giant, Ivy League-educated head to outsmart tree rodents with brains the size of the walnuts they gather each fall.
Now, the sun is up and floods part of the patio. Manmade sounds drown out natural ones, as nearby construction generates dust and disruption. I no longer see or hear the squirrel. My love joins me outside and brings more coffee. I look toward the squirrel’s nest, then back at ours, and smile.
Freeman was born and raised in Pikeville, where most of her relatives still reside.
Portions of this essay were printed in “Hillbilly Vegan,” published by Dirty Spoon in October 2020 (dirty-spoon.com/hillbilly-vegan). Author retained all rights.