Chapter Three
I sat snugly wrapped in my quilt, perched on the edge of our stone fireplace. The fire’s prehistoric dance mesmerized me. The flames would leap, then fall, casting a reflection of silhouettes against the neighboring three walls. Snow blew within the cracks of the old house—making itself at home until it melted into large puddles. Mama would mop up the water and toss it out the backdoor, almost in vain. Once, a gust splashed her head to toe as the wind seemed angry. It howled and groaned as it knocked the loose shingles off the roof while slamming our shutters against the windows’ frames. The cold winter wanted in and succeeded.
Papa slept like a baby, resting for work like all was right in the world, bundled beneath a layer of covers. I fear even a tornado would not have awakened him. Maybe miners aren’t afraid of such things. I may never know whether Papa was brave or too tired to care, but that night helped make me more courageous. But Mama was exhausted and mad at Papa for his lack of help and concern. Even amidst being soaked and chilled, she refrained from uttering a harsh word about him.
Papa slept like a baby, resting for work like all was right in the world, bundled beneath a layer of covers. I fear even a tornado would not have awakened him. Maybe miners aren’t afraid of such things. I may never know whether Papa was brave or too tired to care, but that night helped make me more courageous. But Mama was exhausted and mad at Papa for his lack of help and concern. Even amidst being soaked and chilled, she refrained from uttering a harsh word about him.