Although the mine and its economic health were of mutual interest and concern to everyone in the small town, sometimes the mine was the only thing the townsfolk had in common. Sparwood was divided in multiple ways. Most of the town was situated downtown, where there were amenities like the school, grocery store, and post office. Sparwood Heights was a newer suburb, located in the higher elevated lands along the Elk Valley Highway, across the Elk River from Sparwood proper. A golf course and a Christian church were built within this mini-community. The townspeople often took to the neighbouring Cypress Hills on their motorbikes and ATVS. No matter where you were in Sparwood, though, you could always see the mine in the distance, perched on the mountain.

Aside from the geography, the town was divided in other ways. Greenstar Mining, the company that owned the main mine in Sparwood, was a large corporation with employees all over the world. A few of the people managing the mine came from big cities in Canada and the United States. They lived in large houses in one culde-sac in Sparwood Heights called Sycamore Road. This was where the nicest cars, the largest boats, and the biggest mansions could be found. All the houses faced the golf course. People in town, including my parents, would gossip about all the material possessions the residents owned on Sycamore Road. Nobody ventured there unless invited, including kids.

Father routinely bragged that he had scrounged together all of his overtime pay to put a down payment on our modest three-bedroom home in the Heights. He was proud to live in a new house, something he never imagined to be possible. Father showed me the photos of the house being built, many of which had my pregnant mother and a toddler version of me posing in front of the lot, with the chaotic construction zone behind us. Week after week, he drove us along the Elk Valley Highway until we reached the suburb to watch the house slowly rise from the ground. He had an entire photo album dedicated to the house and proudly showed it off like an athlete would display a gold medal. Bea sulked whenever Father and I flipped through the photos because she wasn’t born yet.

Our house was on the main thoroughfare, Ponderosa Drive, where many of my father’s workmates also lived. Over the years, Father identified our neighbours to us by their occupations: truck drivers, lift operators, machinists, electricians, dozer operators, welders, and mechanics.

Intersecting with the end of our street, noticeably more upscale than Ponderosa Drive, was Hickory Crescent. This was where many of the townsfolk who worked in what my father called “management” lived. Their houses were bigger, with larger yards and nicer cars. Those who worked in management for Greenstar Mining were not the executives from the corporate office but rather middle managers, as Father put it. Some were foremen, working in the mine alongside my father but bossing him around. Others worked in the office buildings for the “bigwigs on Sycamore Road,” as Father called them. I caught Father giving the management who lived on Hickory distrustful glances. The same look I would give the bullies on the playground.