The Midwife of Hope River
Page 37
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No complications. No vaginal tears. As tense as Prudy was for the labor, she sat there in the warm water and nursed the baby in front of us all.
Present were myself, Bitsy, Becky Myers, and two of the mother’s lady friends, who got in my hair, Mrs. Wade and Mrs. Blum, the doctor’s wife. I hope they don’t come to many more deliveries! The father saw everything from the door to the lavatory! Paid $10, which is pretty good for these times and made us feel rich.
Spring
19
Thaw
A week of heavy rain, and patches of green appear. New icicles melt as soon as they form, and shoots of purple and yellow crocus push up through the earth.
Yesterday, just after Bitsy went hunting for turkey down on the flats near the Hope River, I saw, through the kitchen window, something move.
It’s Mr. Maddock working on the road again, I figure, but as I stare, the open cart with two burros passes the Maddocks’ mailbox and continues to travel fast up the hill. Emma starts barking, and Sasha chimes in. The cart pulls to a halt, and the driver jumps down and ties his animals to the picket fence.
“Mrs. Potts says come quick.” It’s Reverend Miller, the pastor of the Hazel Patch Baptist Chapel. At the gate he ties his animals to the picket fence. “The melting snow has caused a flood in the Wildcat Mine. Twelve miners are trapped. They fear a cave-in.”
The poor man is panting. “There’s going to be injured, and there’s no doc to be found. She wants you now.” I don’t think to argue but step into my tall rubber boots, grab my birth satchel, scratch a note to Bitsy, and jump onto the cart. The reverend turns the topless carriage around and slaps the mules into action before I sit down.
“I had to bring the wagon. There’s no way an auto could make it through this muck,” he offers. Other than that he doesn’t say much, and we take Salt Lick Road around the mountain, slipping and sliding in the mud and slush. At the bridge we meet Daniel Hester coming home from town and pull over so he can pass. I wave him down. The vet’s not a doctor, but he did a good job stitching my leg.
“Wait!” I yell to Reverend Miller.
“Mr. Hester,” I call, standing up in the cart. “There’s trouble at the Wildcat Mine. A flood. Men are trapped. They fear a cave-in, maybe injuries. Can you come?”
“He won’t make it in that auto,” the pastor advises under his breath. “That’s why I didn’t bring my hack. Roads are too rutted. Tell him to get in with us.”
“Did you hear? The pastor says the roads are no good. Your Model T won’t make it.”
“Give me room to turn around!” Hester shouts back without hesitation. “I’ll get as close to Wildcat as I can. If I go ahead and get stuck in the mud, you can pick me up. If I make it to the camp, we’ll have another vehicle to drive the men to the hospital.” The preacher complies, backing into Hester’s drive.
Thirty minutes later, we pull up the hill into a mining camp much like the first one I visited, only, if possible, more dilapidated. A crowd presses around the gaping mouth of the mine while a disaster siren blasts over and over. The fear is so thick you can taste it.
“Oh, God!” a gray-haired woman screams. “Oh, God, my son’s in there.” She falls to the ground, then rises and tries to fight through the throng. Two other women pull her back. “Let me go! I have to find him!” The two holding the distraught mother are Mildred Miller and Emma, the Hazel Patch ladies who made the feast after Cassie’s birth.
I’m surprised to see Thomas here too, with Izzie Cabrini at his side, consulting with a huddle of black and white men, all wearing miner’s hats. In a disaster, color and nationality don’t seem to matter.
The vet had mentioned that King Coal had folded, so the two must now be working at Wildcat. Mr. Hester, who made it through the muck and arrived well before we did, stands at the edge of the pack, listening.
On an empty wooden dynamite box near a pile of dirty snow, I find Grace Potts, sitting with her hands folded in prayer, and I step into her circle of calm. Thankfully, someone shuts off the disaster siren and my heart slows its pace. One of the Italian women gives the thin lady a shawl.
“Oh, honey,” the old midwife greets me, “I’m so glad you’re here . . . and that fellow . . . what’s his name? They told me he’s an animal man, some kind of doctor. Thank the Lord. Thomas Proudfoot, that little Eye-talian fellow, and Byrd Bowlin, one of the young men who attends our chapel, are going down now. There’s a low place where the water has collected about three thousand feet back and a thousand feet under. The walls there are starting to slide. One timber already crashed down on a man. The miners on this side of the water scratched their way through and brought him out, poor fellow. He was half buried under the mud.”
She indicates a sobbing wife and daughter kneeling over a corpse covered with a rough wool blanket. I leap up to go to them, but Mrs. Potts pulls me back. “Not now, honey.” Two other very tall women stand crying nearby, leaning into each other like trees.
“Not now,” she repeats her counsel. “Give them some time.” I know she’s right. Though I yearn to hold them, take some of their sorrow into my body, it’s not my place.
Hester wanders over, frowning and rubbing his chin. “They’re rigging up ropes and cables to tie to the last solid post, then a few of the miners are going down. They plan to swim through the water on the other side of the slip, see if they can get to those trapped. It’s dangerous as hell.” He looks back at the three as they head into the hole. Thomas is in the lead, tied to Cabrini, who’s tied to the young miner Mrs. Potts mentioned, a tall narrow black man about twenty-five.
“I don’t know anything about mining codes, but this place is a mess,” the vet rants as he paces back and forth. “Notice the leaning timbers. That can’t be regulation!”
I stand and take his hand. Hester looks surprised but doesn’t let go. My heart is so full of fear for the families. If I were a believer, I’d kneel down and pray.
Resurrection
Inch by inch, the sun crosses the sky. It lights the windows of the miner’s shacks and then ducks down over the mountains in the west. There’s the drip, drip, drip of melting snow. This morning, I welcomed that sound of spring; now I hate it because it means more water flooding into the mine.
Delfina Cabrini, with her baby tied around her under her wrap, brings Mrs. Potts and me two blue-speckled tin cups of coffee. Hester wanders over to talk to Sheriff Hardman, who’s just arrived with a posse from town. I duck my head when I notice the two city slickers from the courthouse. Are they some kind of feds investigating moonshiners or marshals looking for me? It’s been years since the riot at Blair Mountain, but I feel sure my mug’s displayed on a yellowing wanted poster somewhere. When you’ve been a radical, lived with radicals, marched in the streets, and spent time in jail, you are, forevermore, wary of coppers.
Present were myself, Bitsy, Becky Myers, and two of the mother’s lady friends, who got in my hair, Mrs. Wade and Mrs. Blum, the doctor’s wife. I hope they don’t come to many more deliveries! The father saw everything from the door to the lavatory! Paid $10, which is pretty good for these times and made us feel rich.
Spring
19
Thaw
A week of heavy rain, and patches of green appear. New icicles melt as soon as they form, and shoots of purple and yellow crocus push up through the earth.
Yesterday, just after Bitsy went hunting for turkey down on the flats near the Hope River, I saw, through the kitchen window, something move.
It’s Mr. Maddock working on the road again, I figure, but as I stare, the open cart with two burros passes the Maddocks’ mailbox and continues to travel fast up the hill. Emma starts barking, and Sasha chimes in. The cart pulls to a halt, and the driver jumps down and ties his animals to the picket fence.
“Mrs. Potts says come quick.” It’s Reverend Miller, the pastor of the Hazel Patch Baptist Chapel. At the gate he ties his animals to the picket fence. “The melting snow has caused a flood in the Wildcat Mine. Twelve miners are trapped. They fear a cave-in.”
The poor man is panting. “There’s going to be injured, and there’s no doc to be found. She wants you now.” I don’t think to argue but step into my tall rubber boots, grab my birth satchel, scratch a note to Bitsy, and jump onto the cart. The reverend turns the topless carriage around and slaps the mules into action before I sit down.
“I had to bring the wagon. There’s no way an auto could make it through this muck,” he offers. Other than that he doesn’t say much, and we take Salt Lick Road around the mountain, slipping and sliding in the mud and slush. At the bridge we meet Daniel Hester coming home from town and pull over so he can pass. I wave him down. The vet’s not a doctor, but he did a good job stitching my leg.
“Wait!” I yell to Reverend Miller.
“Mr. Hester,” I call, standing up in the cart. “There’s trouble at the Wildcat Mine. A flood. Men are trapped. They fear a cave-in, maybe injuries. Can you come?”
“He won’t make it in that auto,” the pastor advises under his breath. “That’s why I didn’t bring my hack. Roads are too rutted. Tell him to get in with us.”
“Did you hear? The pastor says the roads are no good. Your Model T won’t make it.”
“Give me room to turn around!” Hester shouts back without hesitation. “I’ll get as close to Wildcat as I can. If I go ahead and get stuck in the mud, you can pick me up. If I make it to the camp, we’ll have another vehicle to drive the men to the hospital.” The preacher complies, backing into Hester’s drive.
Thirty minutes later, we pull up the hill into a mining camp much like the first one I visited, only, if possible, more dilapidated. A crowd presses around the gaping mouth of the mine while a disaster siren blasts over and over. The fear is so thick you can taste it.
“Oh, God!” a gray-haired woman screams. “Oh, God, my son’s in there.” She falls to the ground, then rises and tries to fight through the throng. Two other women pull her back. “Let me go! I have to find him!” The two holding the distraught mother are Mildred Miller and Emma, the Hazel Patch ladies who made the feast after Cassie’s birth.
I’m surprised to see Thomas here too, with Izzie Cabrini at his side, consulting with a huddle of black and white men, all wearing miner’s hats. In a disaster, color and nationality don’t seem to matter.
The vet had mentioned that King Coal had folded, so the two must now be working at Wildcat. Mr. Hester, who made it through the muck and arrived well before we did, stands at the edge of the pack, listening.
On an empty wooden dynamite box near a pile of dirty snow, I find Grace Potts, sitting with her hands folded in prayer, and I step into her circle of calm. Thankfully, someone shuts off the disaster siren and my heart slows its pace. One of the Italian women gives the thin lady a shawl.
“Oh, honey,” the old midwife greets me, “I’m so glad you’re here . . . and that fellow . . . what’s his name? They told me he’s an animal man, some kind of doctor. Thank the Lord. Thomas Proudfoot, that little Eye-talian fellow, and Byrd Bowlin, one of the young men who attends our chapel, are going down now. There’s a low place where the water has collected about three thousand feet back and a thousand feet under. The walls there are starting to slide. One timber already crashed down on a man. The miners on this side of the water scratched their way through and brought him out, poor fellow. He was half buried under the mud.”
She indicates a sobbing wife and daughter kneeling over a corpse covered with a rough wool blanket. I leap up to go to them, but Mrs. Potts pulls me back. “Not now, honey.” Two other very tall women stand crying nearby, leaning into each other like trees.
“Not now,” she repeats her counsel. “Give them some time.” I know she’s right. Though I yearn to hold them, take some of their sorrow into my body, it’s not my place.
Hester wanders over, frowning and rubbing his chin. “They’re rigging up ropes and cables to tie to the last solid post, then a few of the miners are going down. They plan to swim through the water on the other side of the slip, see if they can get to those trapped. It’s dangerous as hell.” He looks back at the three as they head into the hole. Thomas is in the lead, tied to Cabrini, who’s tied to the young miner Mrs. Potts mentioned, a tall narrow black man about twenty-five.
“I don’t know anything about mining codes, but this place is a mess,” the vet rants as he paces back and forth. “Notice the leaning timbers. That can’t be regulation!”
I stand and take his hand. Hester looks surprised but doesn’t let go. My heart is so full of fear for the families. If I were a believer, I’d kneel down and pray.
Resurrection
Inch by inch, the sun crosses the sky. It lights the windows of the miner’s shacks and then ducks down over the mountains in the west. There’s the drip, drip, drip of melting snow. This morning, I welcomed that sound of spring; now I hate it because it means more water flooding into the mine.
Delfina Cabrini, with her baby tied around her under her wrap, brings Mrs. Potts and me two blue-speckled tin cups of coffee. Hester wanders over to talk to Sheriff Hardman, who’s just arrived with a posse from town. I duck my head when I notice the two city slickers from the courthouse. Are they some kind of feds investigating moonshiners or marshals looking for me? It’s been years since the riot at Blair Mountain, but I feel sure my mug’s displayed on a yellowing wanted poster somewhere. When you’ve been a radical, lived with radicals, marched in the streets, and spent time in jail, you are, forevermore, wary of coppers.
