Reflections: A Life Story

By Xlibris US

Life is a journey. In this case, the story of a special boy, Little Bill, who is born in the poverty of a small Kentucky coal-mining town. His father is murdered, and his mother remarries trying to hold on to her two daughters and young son, Little Bill, who feels he is being ostracized by the poverty they live in. His decision to leave his family and travel to the West Coast prompts a companion who likewise is forced to make a similar decision based on the death of his father due to consumption.

In his travels, Little Bill is brilliant in his thinking, as observed by his hometown friend and cotraveler. Little Bills power to observe and produce positive, lifesaving results is repeatedly manifested in the numerous confrontations recorded. In all, its those who see him as needing help that help him to overcome health problems, marriage, fatherhood, poverty, and his ultimate death, as manifested in this life-journey story.

The reader will be fascinated with the skills exhibited by this one small boy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499051834

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by William G. Madison.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-4990-5184-1

                eBook           978-1-4990-5183-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/21/2014

Xlibris LLC

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CONTENTS

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

CHAPTER I

Hot! Was it ever! No one could deny it was August. I tried to remember a day that was hotter, but couldn’t. Was it the heat that really bothered me or was it the events of the past week? When I finally realized what I was doing I looked about to get my bearings. What I found when I looked around was a path through the tall dry grasses that directed my movement. I recognized it as a familiar path. Therefore, I knew I had been here before. But this time I was walking without purpose dressed in a formal suit and wearing new matching black shoes. Why? As much as I tried to bring my thoughts back to today, this moment, I couldn’t. I pressed forward, slow and steady. The grass seemed to get taller as I moved aimlessly and unknowingly toward a puffball, a puffball? Yes, and it was right in the middle of the path, a telltale sign to stop, I said to myself. I knew this particular path looked familiar. I knew it, I’d been here before, but I didn’t remember all this tall dry grass and this huge puffball. At that moment my entire world centered on that puffball. Where did it come from? I bent over to examine it, from a distance, that is. What I saw was the sweat from my brow falling to the dry ground, one large drop after another. Each drop producing a miniature explosion of dust as it hit the dry parched ground. I focused as best as I could. My eyes starring at the puffball with the thought that I was really looking at a soccer ball due to its size. But, unlike the soccer ball, its color was as gray as a hornet’s nest. There was nothing to do but eliminate it. After all, it was blocking the path and my forward movement. That distance to that hideous thing quickly diminished as I continued my forward movement unabated. I got closer and closer until I kicked it! I kicked it good and hard as I would any soccer ball. Much to my surprise, spores, millions of them poured out of that gray soccer ball. I ducked and turned my head to avoid breathing in the spores. I was surrounded. A small cloud encompassed me while the majority of the spores slowly drifted away, descending on the dry grass. I was awakened. For the first time I realized where I was. I looked back. Yes, I was in the side yard. I had unknowingly wondered away from the house. Why didn’t I realize or know where I was? The yard was only four acres. How could one get lost on four acres? I looked back again, this time toward the house rather than the spores, sensing where I was and having the where-with-all to get back. Get back! Get back! It kept resonating in my head, almost a fear at this point to be away from the house.

I made my way back to the house with some urgency, plodding through that tall dry grass. With the sweat continuing to pour from my body, I reached the house within a few minutes, completely soaked with perspiration. The house was a familiar sight. It was a small ranch house, two bedrooms, with a front and back porch. It had brown wooden shingle siding with bright white wooden frame windows. The house was well cared for, but the grounds were neglected. That’s when I realized what had happen. He wasn’t there to care for the place and hadn’t been there for some time. As I sat down on the front porch it struck me full blast. He was gone. I placed my hands over my face and began to cry. My crying eventually turned to sobbing. The sobbing only confirmed that nothing seemed right. The shock of his death had finally caught me. I sat on the porch and tried to remember the man. I tried to remember the first time I met him. That time when our lives touched each other, for I had known him for years. Yes, I had known him. I had known him as a hero, not a military war hero, but a survivor, a teacher, and mentor. He, a first class human being, was not to be forgotten. For years he moved about in that six foot one inch frame, but his stature was not significant. What made him unique? It certainly was not his physical stature, although tall and thin, but his control, his means of finding the best in every situation. For some, whether he found the best or not was debatable, but I had heroic thoughts of the man. There was nothing he did without a definitive and purposeful plan. As a man, he was tough as nails when it became necessary. But like all great human beings, he mellowed with age based on the situation. Now, it didn’t matter whether he was tough or mellow, he was gone. What would happen now? As I sat there trying to gather my composure my mind rushed to the events of the past three weeks: his hospitalization, surgery, death, and burial. Could I have made a difference in the outcome, probably not? He was dead and buried now, and I felt alone. Abandoned was more like it.

I moved to the top step on the porch to claim my seat from the scorching sun. As I sat there, I made an effort to recall our companionship and life together. I tried to remember: What was my first recollection of Little Bill? Much to my surprise, I had to think back to the early days when we were both kids. He was sixteen? No, he was fourteen, and the year was 1912. It was in the town of Morgantown where we first met and got acquainted. Although we both lived there for several years, we didn’t really know each other, other than physical recognition, until that dreadful event in the summer of 1912. As I recall, just then my wife interrupting my train of thought, coming from the side of the house to remind me that we needed to be going. She suggested that we leave within an hour. I nodded my head to agree with her and watched her disappear into the house through the side door. As usual the door slammed shut. One of these days, I said, I’m going to fix that door.

The brief distraction that I needed to go home did not alter my thoughts. I had known Little Bill since he was a kid. Even as a kid, he was tall and lanky. He wasn’t seen much about town as his mother, Mollie, kept a close check on the family. Little Bill, as he was called, and his two older sisters, Genie and Sis grew up in Morgantown. His dad, Bill Sr., was one of the town’s best. He was a leader. Not the leader in elected terms, but one who offered leadership that benefited the entire community in his actions and advice. For this reason he was repeatedly asked or pushed to the forefront of issues and took actions that would best suit the town. In the past he literally pushed the town through many a conflict. The most notable was that persistent conflict with the Morgan Mining Company, and its owner John Morgan. Morgan used the company, his company, not only to control the wealth of the town, if you could call it wealth, but the lives of the men who worked the mines. The housing, as well as the grocery, and hardware stores were under his control. No one could buy or sell without his knowledge, approval or influence. He was a tyrant, a self proclaimed King. But for the most part Morgan never entered or stayed in town. The only time we ever saw him was during the state inspections of the mine, and I can only recall that happening twice before that fateful summer. As I remember Morgan was an elderly man with gray hair, an expanded waistline, and walked with a noticeable limp. Some said that his unusual gait was the result of a mining accident in one of his mines in eastern Kentucky. Although noticeable, his gait didn’t seem to bother him, as he moved about in a swift manner when necessary. He did, however, demand respect, for in his mind he owned the town. He not only owned the town, but he owned each and every person in the town, so he thought. His short but heavy stature was not to be dismissed, for he had power, both political power and the power of wealth and privilege. Some of the gossip that had been rumored through the mining community was terrifying. It was rumored that some of his mining employees, troublemakers as he referred to them, disappeared when he found it convenient for them to disappear. Nothing was ever done or investigated properly due to his wealth, and political prowess.

However, this mine, located in the town of Morgan, which he renamed Morgantown was in western Kentucky, a coal region. The mine was different than the others, namely due to the foreman, John Tailor. If we thought Morgan was bad, John Tailor was second to none. He could not be approached. He was cruel, a real brute, and listened to no one. He did what he wanted. He prayed on the weak and small. Yes, he ran the mine for Morgan, not as a leader, but as a warden. Why not, you ask? The whole town was held hostage by the financial agreements established by Morgan. The Morgan Mining Company owned everything. Not only was The Morgan Mining Company bullying the town folk through Tailor, a first class bouncer, but the fear that he would report trouble makers. Tailor often found it convenient to throw his six foot five inch two hundred and forty-five pound frame in front of any one in hopes of creating conflict or belittling them. Furthermore, as Morgan’s representative of power and financial control, it was thought that he had the ability to reduce all the town’s folks to the lowest state of poverty. The atmosphere was tense when he was around. Us kids would run and hide when he approached or came near. However, the times were changing. As much as the men of the town needed to work the mine, it was unsafe. It failed the last State inspection. This was the cause of the current tension and conflict, as I remember it. There was not only conflict between the miners, Morgan and Tailor, but the State Inspection team that closed the mine the previous summer. There were numerous violations cited as well as three deaths prior to the closing. As usual, Little Bill’s dad was right in the middle. Indirectly, it was his written complaint made to the state’s mining secretary that led to the mine’s closure. Although most of the town folks thought Little Bill’s dad did the right thing, they were also caught in the consequences. Since that time, almost fourteen months, nothing had been done to bring the mine up to standard. Everyone thought Morgan was trying to break the stand off with the miners by keeping the mine closed. If the mine stayed closed, the workers had no means of paying their bills or supporting their families. The miners, on the other hand, having refused to go back to work were praying for reform and safety standards to ensure their lives and health while working the mine. Most of the adults, the ones that did work in the mine, thought it to be a death trap. Us kids didn’t know the difference, except the poverty it caused when the mine was closed. My mom and dad could not buy food, as none was available. Morgan had closed the grocery store shortly after the strike started, packed everything and sent it to another mining town under his control. To add insult to the situation, there was no money in the town. Everything was done through bartering. The only food available was found in the local waterways, rivers, and forests. Our usual family dinner was rabbit or squirrel. Not fried or baked, but a stew made with vegetables, usually some foliage that my mom threw into the pot to stretch the meal. This meager existence lasted as long as the mine stayed closed. Like most residents, the mine closure was a big issue. It affected every one, even us kids.

Was Little Bill’s dad the cause of their predicament? After all, he was the one that wrote that letter of complaint to the state mining inspector that eventually led to the closing of the mine. Although no one thought the mine would stay closed this long, it was now boarded shut. Fourteen months was a long time to be unemployed. Fourteen months to think about the cause of one’s unemployment and the circumstances that led to the closing of the mine left many diversified opinions. As a kid, I heard all kinds of talk. Talk and blame were not considered in the good times when the families had work, but now there was the hard reality of bitter times. Us kids were good at talk. We were unseen ease-droppers and we took in all the gossip. We accomplished this everywhere from town to our own living rooms. What I heard about our problems, more precisely the town’s problems, was that Morgan was going to take some persuasive action to settle with the miners. It was rumored that he was going to bring in strikebreakers or pull the entire operation out and restart another mine closer to the river. Others thought, he had to make good and clean up the problems associated with this mine to meet obligations and contracts he had made with the big steel mills and producers in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In either case, the events of that summer changed the entire community. It changed my life, as well as that of Little Bill.

As I said, the year was 1912. It was summer. I think it was July. Whether July or not, the mine had been closed to long. Every one was bitter and blame was everywhere. Tailor, in particular, was just looking to punish someone for the circumstances associated with the mine. Although a full time employee of the Morgan Mining Company, no one really understood Tailor’s position with the mine being closed. That is, how was he paid or was he paid at all? Most of the town folks believed he got paid, but at a reduced rate. He certainly wasn’t paid at the rate of a foreman when there was no activity or coal coming from the mine. Maybe, we really didn’t know or understand how bad his situation was either. Regardless, he started it. He’s the one to be blamed. As best as I can remember, it happen like this:

It was early afternoon, and it was hot just like today. Little Bill’s dad had come to town to see if mail had been received. For Bill, Little Bill’s dad, it was important to get mail at this time of the year for it had possibilities for hunting contracts for late August thru October. Little Bill’s dad kept his family supported by guiding hunting parties. Most of these hunters were wealthy sport enthusiasts from nearby cities. While Bill busied himself with the mail, Tailor was acting belligerent with Tom Johnson, a miner and good friend of Bill’s. At first, Bill just watched the events unfolding. Why was Tailor picking on Johnson? What provoked Tailor? Was it the fact that Johnson was a long time employee of the mine or was it something else? However, it was no contest between Tailor and Johnson. Johnson was forty plus years of age. He was frail and had held the position of safety inspector in the mine. He was frequently kidded about his size as he was the only one that didn’t stoop to get into the mine’s main entrance. Why, then, was Tailor picking on Johnson? Was it that Tailor knew that Johnson and Bill were close friends? As a matter of fact it was Johnson that pointed out the safety features of the mine to Bill that enabled him to write to the State Secretary of Mining. At any rate, Tailor was pushing and throwing Tom around in the street. This all started when Little Bill’s dad came to town to get the mail. We all waited for mail as it was only delivered on a weekly basis. People in the town began to gather around to see what was taking place, the scuffle of Johnson and Tailor, but no one took a position against Tailor. Bill found it alarming as he looked over the spectators. Not one person was willing to help Tom Johnson.

Bill had seen enough. He dropped his mail, shouting something at Tailor. I was there, but I don’t remember what was said, but it was loud. Whatever Bill shouted at Tailor, Tailor turned away from Tom and looked back at Bill. It was almost a stated fact: this is what Tailor wanted to happen. Bill stepped down off the walk in front of the grocery store where the mail had just been delivered. He slowly walked toward Tailor, looking straight at him, never a blink of the eye. For a long time many thought it would come to this, Tailor and Bill confronting each other. Bill was no one to tangle with and Tailor was soon to learn why.

Bill’s confrontation with Tailor gave Tom the opportunity to get to his feet and join the gathering crowd. I looked for Bill’s son, Little Bill, to see if he was in the crowd. I couldn’t locate him. I looked back to redirect my attention back to the street where Tailor took a swing at Bill. Bill was no slouch. He ducked Tailor’s swing only to feel the breeze made by his missed punch. As I said, Bill was no slouch. He was approximately six feet three inches tall and weighed somewhere in the vicinity of two hundred and twenty five pounds. He quickly pulled his head and body back from the oncoming fist of Tailor the second time. Tailor, having missed, spun around and fell to the ground. He swung so hard he could not retain his balance. He now sat on the ground. He had counted on landing the first punch to settle the whole matter with one swing. The town’s folks roared. Never before had they seen Tailor so humiliated. Tailor regained his posture and once again pressed the confrontation. However, Bill followed Tailor’s next miss with a short left to his nose that immediately drew blood. Tailor looked ridiculous. What a cream puff thought some of the spectators. Tailor didn’t quit. He came a third time at Bill. This time a little more cautiously. Bill was prepared, and before Tailor could wind up and deliver his punch, Bill had tattooed him twice. Once with a left-hand jab to the face and a terrific right to the stomach that sent Tailor to the ground a second time. He got up quickly and rushed Bill. You could see that Tailor was hurt badly as blood dripped from his nose. But now he was angry too. I knew it, as my attention had been focused steadfast on Tailor. His posture was one of rage, and you could see it in his eyes. He rushed forward with head lowered and grabbed Bill around the waist and threw him to the ground. Before Bill could get up Tailor kicked him in the side. His big heavy leather boots hit Bill’s left rib section. He winced in pain. What seemed to be some taunting on Bill’s part quickly changed. In fact, the whole demeanor of this encounter changed. You could sense it. This was not some street fight between two kids now. This was something serious. However, no one stepped forward to stop the fight or help Bill. Bill had gotten to his feet and tried to overcome the pain. I could see that he was not going to taunt Tailor, but give him the beating he deserved. He did