“Snake again,” was all he would say, meaning he hadn’t been able to mine enough coal to pay off the bills at the company store, that he still owed for food and doctoring and his work tools and blasting powder, that his paycheck had a single wavy line where the money figures should have been. But I learned about those things later. At that age, I thought he meant he had seen a copperhead, and that was why his eyes looked so wild and frightful. I lived in terror of snakes.

Daddy sank slowly into the round tub of hot water, moaning as he went down. The tub was just large enough for him to sit in if he drew up his knees under his chin. The edge of the tub scraped his backbone just above his fleshless buttocks. Mommy stood over him pouring water from her pots and kettles. She scrubbed his face like he was one of us babies but never got all the coal dust off. His face was gray on Sundays like a newspaper photograph.

We lived in Winco, West Virginia, once our homeplace. American Coal Company owned our house. Richmond and Western Railroad owned our land. Mommy never talked about the old days, but Daddy told me how it used to be. Our cabin had set on the same piece of ground as the company store, which was three stories high, wood painted white with black trim, with stone steps trailing up to plate glass windows. “American Coal” was painted in gold on the glass door. Daddy said the cabin used to creak when it was windy, but the company store stood firm and unyielding. The railroad track, its ties oozing tar, ran through Mommy’s vegetable garden. Most of the houses were built around the hill where the cow and sheep had grazed.

“The creek was clear as glass, and we used to git trout outen it, and bullfrogs,” Daddy said. “You aint et till you had frog legs. Now the creek wont run clear till kingdom come, I reckon. We let it git away from us.”

We never ate trout or frog legs, but mostly beans, biscuits, and gravy. The creek water was black with mine drainage and raw sewage, and acid stained the rocks orange.