\u201cThe day President Harding died, Paul picked me
up in his Ford Model A Pickup. We worked
the gold mine near Franklin Mountain. I swigged
A & W Root Beer, chewed Vienna Sausages.
Paul rolled a cigarette, then we rumbled toward the mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That Thursday, another cloudless day, sweltering. No breeze.
Hot enough it\u2019d about wilt tobacco. Bearable 100 feet down.
I picked, shoveled rocks and dirt into wheelbarrows.
A few young bucks toted them, dumped into a large bin
attached to ropes. Mules pulled it to the surface.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hell, we might get a few cents per ton. I must\u2019ve sweated a bucketful
by quitting time. Most miners had no shoes. Damp black soil
stained our bare feet over our ankles. Locals called us
\u2018Black-anklers\u2019 but shopkeepers didn\u2019t mind our money.
After work that Thursday evening a few of us climbed<\/p>\n\n\n\n
onto a foreman\u2019s truck and he drove us toward Steeds,
the truck kicking up clouds of dust \u2013 the fool drove real fast.
Quarter mile from Steeds, he gunned the pedal on a curve and
the truck listed \u2013 we slammed to one side, down a slope,
flipped over and over. I struck a pine tree and was out like a light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I woke, black as night, on a speeding train with all sorts of people \u2013
some dressed highbrow, some in rags. Behind the engine, our car had
no windows. Some dark figure shoveled coal into the roaring furnace.
The engineer turned his head \u2013 face was dark with soot and evil looks.
The boiler roared. We zoomed faster and faster, got hotter and hotter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We yelled \u2018Stop!\u2019 but the engineer waved as wind whipped our cheeks.
He yelled, \u2018You paid full fare and now you\u2019ll pay your due.\u2019
He slammed brakes and we screeched to a stop. \u2018Welcome to paradise.\u2019
Dark things prodded us off with burning rods. It was so hot my shirt
and dungarees singed, burned my face like splattering grits but<\/p>\n\n\n\n
it was darker than a mine shaft. We were blind as moles.
It smelled foul \u2013 like sulfur, rotting roadkill, sour milk.
I screamed, felt like I was thrown into lava. All around me
yelling, screaming, crying, cursing. Never heard the like. Tried to run
but the ground was hot as roofing tar on bare soles. Kept jumping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I felt someone snatch my wrists, pull me upward
and I blinked awake by a tree at dusk. The other miners stirred,
tended scrapes, bruises. I felt a goose-egg on my brow and a bloody lip.
We staggered to the road, hitched a ride to Steeds.\u201d The reporter paused,
put in another cassette. I rocked, sipped black coffee, smoked, flicked ashes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s about it. Never drank no white liquor since, near sixty years.
Joined a church, got serious about the Lord and the Word. You saved?\u201d
The reporter cleared his throat. \u201cWell, this isn\u2019t about me; it\u2019s about you.\u201d
\u201cCannot remember those verses dad used to read about,
about some damn train, but I swear, I think I rode on it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe day President Harding died, Paul picked meup in his Ford Model A Pickup. We workedthe gold mine near Franklin Mountain. I swiggedA & W Root Beer, chewed Vienna Sausages.Paul rolled a cigarette, then we rumbled toward the mine. That Thursday, another cloudless day, sweltering. No breeze.Hot enough it\u2019d about wilt tobacco. Bearable 100 feet … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1212,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_hide_featured_image":false,"_jetpack_featured_image_duplicate_dismissed":0,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"nfd_image_url":"","nfd_onboarding_generated":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1135","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/11\/tim-foster-SoVGQUMaKCs-unsplash-scaled.jpg?fit=1846%2C2560&ssl=1","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1135","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1135"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1135\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1136,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1135\/revisions\/1136"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1212"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1135"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1135"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1135"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
The writer has written sacred and Christian verse for many decades. He\u2019s appeared in Ancient Paths, Amethyst Review, The Windhover, Prairie Messenger, The Christian Century, The Merton Seasonal, and others. He is a septuagenarian, happily married, \u201cPoppy\u201d to two granddaughters, a Christ follower, volunteers at a prison camp, and is a Celebrate Recovery member. His Jesus Through A Poet\u2019s Lens is available on Kindle. Visit him at Petercvenable.wordpress.com<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"