We had talked about me going away to college, maybe even just commuting somewhere while Tenleigh worked, but in the end, I'd decided that my life, my heart, was here. And so I'd completed my civil engineering degree online at the University of Kentucky. I had worked my way up—literally—at the mine, moving to an above ground management position shortly after Tenleigh's mama came home, and then being promoted to engineer after I earned my degree.
I hadn't been able to save my father and my brother, then, but now, I was in charge of the safety of all the men who hung up a metal tag and bravely went beneath the ground day after day, risking their lives to bring power to America. No one took it more seriously than I did. And when we were in Evansly and saw those coal-filled trains roll out of town, I would grip my wife's hand tightly and stand tall.
As for Edward Kearney, he passed away from a heart attack a short time before Tenleigh and I were married. He never reconciled with his son, and his wife had left him a few months before. I couldn't say I was too sorry to hear the news of his passing—he'd never shown himself to be anything other than a cold, self-serving man, and it helped me make my decision to stay at the mine. Edward Kearney died with every material possession money could buy, and yet, to my mind, he died with nothing at all.
Tenleigh and I had left Dennville a few times—once, to go to New York City for a two-week honeymoon, once to attend my graduation, and once for a weekend trip to Louisville. I'd wanted to leave Kentucky once upon a time, I'd planned on never looking back, but now I felt the pull of home when we were away, the pull that told me I'd had a fun vacation, but I was ready to get back to where I belonged. I was a Kentucky boy at heart, and I always would be. Someday, our sons and daughters would know and love the wild beauty of these hills just like we did.
The hill folk, and a few others in town were still growing lavender and had made quite a business out of it. A year after Tenleigh and I got married, they organized a large lavender festival and a Kentucky paper wrote an article about how a small, impoverished coal town with a tragic past had started growing flowers that brought hope. The national news picked it up and people came from all over to learn about Appalachian culture, purchase wares from local craftsmen, and enjoy the beauty of the area. It brought business to the town and now we looked forward to it every summer. Poverty is never a simple problem, but for a few, those flowers had provided hope, and for that, I was proud.
Tenleigh's mama lived in Evansly with Marlo and Sam. She worked part-time at Sam's practice and helped out with Elijah. She was doing great, and was better at recognizing the signs when she felt overwhelmed, and knew when to reach out to those there to help her. She stayed with us in the summers when Tenleigh wasn't teaching at the Dennville school, and they took long walks in the hills, finally getting to know each other as mother and daughter.
"Comfortable?" I asked as Tenleigh lay down on our bed, putting her pillow between her legs. The fan at the end of our bed made a soothing whirring sound as it blew cool air in our direction. Someday we'd save up and wire this old house for AC.
"As comfortable as I'm going to get with this big belly," she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. I moved my hands over the skin at the base of her spine. She sighed, her body relaxing.
"I love you," I said simply.
"I love you, too," she whispered back.
As I massaged my wife's back, my mind wandered, my heart full. I had thought once, that I had lost myself because of love. But the opposite was true. I'd found myself when I'd given my heart to Tenleigh, found what was important to me, what really mattered. And now, running my hands over her smooth skin, there was nowhere on earth I'd rather be than here in this bed, living the life I led. The truth was, we didn't live a complicated life nor a fancy one. But we knew the simple joy of a warm night at home watching TV, the deep thankfulness of a refrigerator filled with food, the love of family and friends, and the quiet grace of white mist rising over the mountains outside our window on a cool, fall morning.
And suddenly, lying right there, I knew something. No, I didn't know it. I felt it, felt it in my gut, coursing through my blood.
"Ten," I said, laying my hand on her belly, "you know that something?"
"What something?" she asked sleepily.
"That something I felt like I was meant to do."
She turned her head and her eyes met mine. My heart skipped a beat. "Yes," she said softly.
"I'm doing it."
Tenderness filled her expression and she brought her hand up to my cheek as I leaned in to her caress and she ran her thumb over my cheekbone. "Is it enough?" she whispered.
I leaned forward and kissed her, never in my life feeling more sure about anything. I whispered against her lips, "It's more than enough . . . it's so much more than I ever dreamed."
We had everything we needed. None of it was big. Most of it was simple. But what I knew in that moment was that the size of your home, your car, your wallet, doesn't have one single thing to do with the size of your life. And my life . . . my life felt big, filled with love and with meaning.
I hadn't been able to save my father and my brother, then, but now, I was in charge of the safety of all the men who hung up a metal tag and bravely went beneath the ground day after day, risking their lives to bring power to America. No one took it more seriously than I did. And when we were in Evansly and saw those coal-filled trains roll out of town, I would grip my wife's hand tightly and stand tall.
As for Edward Kearney, he passed away from a heart attack a short time before Tenleigh and I were married. He never reconciled with his son, and his wife had left him a few months before. I couldn't say I was too sorry to hear the news of his passing—he'd never shown himself to be anything other than a cold, self-serving man, and it helped me make my decision to stay at the mine. Edward Kearney died with every material possession money could buy, and yet, to my mind, he died with nothing at all.
Tenleigh and I had left Dennville a few times—once, to go to New York City for a two-week honeymoon, once to attend my graduation, and once for a weekend trip to Louisville. I'd wanted to leave Kentucky once upon a time, I'd planned on never looking back, but now I felt the pull of home when we were away, the pull that told me I'd had a fun vacation, but I was ready to get back to where I belonged. I was a Kentucky boy at heart, and I always would be. Someday, our sons and daughters would know and love the wild beauty of these hills just like we did.
The hill folk, and a few others in town were still growing lavender and had made quite a business out of it. A year after Tenleigh and I got married, they organized a large lavender festival and a Kentucky paper wrote an article about how a small, impoverished coal town with a tragic past had started growing flowers that brought hope. The national news picked it up and people came from all over to learn about Appalachian culture, purchase wares from local craftsmen, and enjoy the beauty of the area. It brought business to the town and now we looked forward to it every summer. Poverty is never a simple problem, but for a few, those flowers had provided hope, and for that, I was proud.
Tenleigh's mama lived in Evansly with Marlo and Sam. She worked part-time at Sam's practice and helped out with Elijah. She was doing great, and was better at recognizing the signs when she felt overwhelmed, and knew when to reach out to those there to help her. She stayed with us in the summers when Tenleigh wasn't teaching at the Dennville school, and they took long walks in the hills, finally getting to know each other as mother and daughter.
"Comfortable?" I asked as Tenleigh lay down on our bed, putting her pillow between her legs. The fan at the end of our bed made a soothing whirring sound as it blew cool air in our direction. Someday we'd save up and wire this old house for AC.
"As comfortable as I'm going to get with this big belly," she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. I moved my hands over the skin at the base of her spine. She sighed, her body relaxing.
"I love you," I said simply.
"I love you, too," she whispered back.
As I massaged my wife's back, my mind wandered, my heart full. I had thought once, that I had lost myself because of love. But the opposite was true. I'd found myself when I'd given my heart to Tenleigh, found what was important to me, what really mattered. And now, running my hands over her smooth skin, there was nowhere on earth I'd rather be than here in this bed, living the life I led. The truth was, we didn't live a complicated life nor a fancy one. But we knew the simple joy of a warm night at home watching TV, the deep thankfulness of a refrigerator filled with food, the love of family and friends, and the quiet grace of white mist rising over the mountains outside our window on a cool, fall morning.
And suddenly, lying right there, I knew something. No, I didn't know it. I felt it, felt it in my gut, coursing through my blood.
"Ten," I said, laying my hand on her belly, "you know that something?"
"What something?" she asked sleepily.
"That something I felt like I was meant to do."
She turned her head and her eyes met mine. My heart skipped a beat. "Yes," she said softly.
"I'm doing it."
Tenderness filled her expression and she brought her hand up to my cheek as I leaned in to her caress and she ran her thumb over my cheekbone. "Is it enough?" she whispered.
I leaned forward and kissed her, never in my life feeling more sure about anything. I whispered against her lips, "It's more than enough . . . it's so much more than I ever dreamed."
We had everything we needed. None of it was big. Most of it was simple. But what I knew in that moment was that the size of your home, your car, your wallet, doesn't have one single thing to do with the size of your life. And my life . . . my life felt big, filled with love and with meaning.
