In my recent novel, Growing Up Tough, I weave stories my father told about his childhood in a small mining town in Utah during the twenties and thirties. A key theme is the interaction of various immigrant groups who had come there to work in the coal mines. They started as Greeks, Italians, and others, but they ended up as Americans. Here is Chapter One:
Chapter 1
Eddie
Eddie giggled as he nudged the big chestnut forward. Mother stood in front of him, head up and very straight and stern, but took a tiny step backward.
“Shirley Edwin Taylor,” she said, “You come down from there this instant!”
Eddie had found the horse wandering about the alley behind their lot. Carefully he had walked up to him, speaking softly and quietly until he could stroke his neck, being careful not to look him in the eye, not to spook him. He then pushed him over next to a trash can he could climb on to, and from there slid over to his back.
He hugged his new animal friend, buried his face in his thick neck and mane, and breathed deeply. There was that good smell of life. Eddie loved life. And this horse was a wonderful living creature.
Now that wonderful living creature towered over his little mother, who was less than five feet, even when she pulled herself up as straight and tall as she could.
He laughed more loudly. “Uh uh.”
The horse took another step forward and Mother stepped back again, one hand patting the hair that strayed from where it was gathered on the top of head.
She shook her finger at him. “I mean it. You are too small to be on such a big horse. You could fall off and break your neck. Come down!”
Eddie considered her demand. He loved Mother and tried to be a good boy, but he knew her fear of horses. This was just too much fun to resist. The horse snorted, flicked its ears, and pawed the ground a little.
“Uh uh.”
Before she could stamp her feet and speak again, Father came out the back door, suppressing a smile. He strode over to the horse, reached up, and pulled the five year old down. “Come along young man. I want you to go with me. And stop teasing Mother.”
He looked at the horse, made a clicking sound, and said, “Go home.” The horse ambled away toward the alley.
He then swatted Eddie on the bottom, squeezed Mother’s arm, and said, “I’m going over to Anderson’s office to watch the strike. Taking Johnny and Junior too. We’ll be home in time for supper.”
“He deserves more than a swat for that. He could have been hurt.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Father said as he headed around the side of the house to the front yard.
Eddie’s older brothers were waiting for them. They shared the prominent nose, sharp features, and natural spunk that were typical of the Taylors.
“Follow me, boys. We’re going the back way.”
They struggled to keep up with their father, who always walked briskly. As they crossed the side streets they peeked to the south where in the distance they could glimpse Main Street. It was filled with people. Some carried signs, some stood, others milled about. There were loud voices, but Eddie could not make out what they were saying.
From Sixth Street they went east past the construction site of the new Roman Catholic Church, around the back of the Mormon Tabernacle, across the gravel play yards, behind the City Office Building, to the back entrance of the Carbon County Courthouse, a big double door beneath a portico with square pillars.
Eddie’s eyes widened. A soldier with rifle and bayonet stood guard by each pillar; they stiffened a little as the man and his sons approached. Behind them a sheriff’s deputy leaned against the door frame. He tipped his hat and waved them on, saying to the guards, “It’s okay, boys. They’re friends of Judge Anderson.”
“Hi there, Carl. ‘Come to see what happens, huh. Go on up, there’s a crowd gathering.” They hurried up the back staircase, avoiding the county staff and officials and reporters milling in the foyer to hear what was going on.
The second floor judge’s office had a large window that looked out on Main Street. About a dozen people were in the room, alternately looking out at the street or passing back and forth into the hall to the other offices. The transom window was open so they could hear the voices outside.
Judge Anderson was older than Father, with a sprinkling of grey in his hair and cheery smile wrinkles around his eyes. He stuck out his hand and shook Father’s. “I am glad you could join us, Carl, and I see you brought your boys.”
“Yes. These are Junior, Johnny, and Shirl.”
“Call me Eddie,” piped up the youngest.
“Mind your manners! He prefers Eddie, from his middle name. I thought it would be good for them to see a little history in action. They might remember it later.”
The Judge laughed. The man next to him snorted and said, “History! Bunch of nonsense by a bunch of troublemakers. They did the same thing in ’03.”
Judge Anderson laughed again, “Carl, you probably haven’t met Fred yet; he’s County Clerk and Town Cynic. Carl just moved here from Provo.” Fred was short, shorter than Dad, thin, and quite a bit older. His skin was tanned and leathery. Anderson added, “Fred is a rancher when he’s not clerking. He has a spread out north of Castle Gate. ‘Doesn’t think much of miners.”
“Oh, nice country,” said Father. “I go out there for customers.”
“Carl is in the wholesale grocery business. He also manages the old Scowcroft warehouse over on the southside,” the Judge added. “He’s Karl Karlson’s new boss.”
“Carl and Karl. Nice to keep things simple.”
“Yeah. He’s Karl with a K. I’m Carl with a C.”
“Ah, that makes it easier.”
“My territory goes out to the Ute reservation and Roosevelt; I cover much of the eastern and northeastern parts of the state.”
“Must be a lot of travel.”
“At times. Life’s a lot easier now with telephones, when people have ’em. Unfortunately, a lot of my customers do not. I spend a lot of time in town at the warehouse too.”
Loud voices from Main Street interrupted the conversation. Eddie stretched to see.
The town of Price was platted with very wide streets, large blocks, and large lots. Main Street ran from East to West parallel to lettered strees, with crossing numbered streets from the train tracks in the west eastward. Now that large Main Street in front of the Carbon County Courthouse was filled with people for as far as Eddie could see.
Most were men in work clothes, not very clean looking, the coal dust permanently staining them. Like nearly all men in 1922 they wore hats–homburgs, bowlers, newsboy caps. No fedoras like father’s, and no cowboy hats, which was disappointing for Eddie, who had understood they were moving to Cowboy Country when they left Provo. Then again, these were mostly foreigners.
Shirts were buttoned right up to the top and had long sleeves. There were very few ties. Grown men usually wore ties, but most of these miners did not. Almost all the men had dark hair, with mustaches, and a few beards. And they all had unhappy, angry expressions. One authoritative voice rose over the others.
“I want to assure you, we are giving every consideration to each of the complaints we have received. The governor and the mine owners are meeting with leading individuals in the mining community. But nothing will be accomplished by marching around here this afternoon.”
Eddie craned his neck to see where the voice was coming from. It belonged to a man standing beneath the portico in front of the courthouse to the right of Judge Anderson’s window. He was distinguished looking, with a large round belly, and dressed in a suit with black top hat. All the officials wore top hats.
About this time the whistle blew; it was one o’clock. The whistle was at the steam laundry and blew every day at 8 am, noon, 1 pm, and 5 pm. This was convenient since it helped people keep track of time and stay on schedule. Coming now, though, it caused a stir in the crowd, startling a little at first, then just nervous shifting of weight and more milling around.
It was then that Eddie noticed the machine guns.
Thirty or more soldiers with rifles and bayonets were on either side of the portico, with more right behind the speaker. In front of the right and left pillars were machine guns secured behind sandbags, with soldiers manning them, hands on handles. They looked grim, and nervous.
Looking back to the crowd in the street, Eddie saw that most of the men had a pistol at the side or were carrying a rifle or shotgun.
“Old windbag,” muttered Fred with a scowl,nodding toward the speaker in front. “It’s all the Italians’ fault. ‘Bunch of Bolsheviks. Anarchists. They oughta just clear ’em out.”
“Well,” added Anderson, “it did start with them, but now the Greeks have joined in, which is a bit of a surprise and a disappointment to me. I didn’t think they would.”
“They’re troublemakers too. The refuse of Europe. And it’s not the miners I mind, at least not as such. It’s the blasted immigrants.” Fred thought a moment. “Well, not immigrants really. Mother’s family came over from Ireland not so long ago. It’s just this lot, they’re full of communists, want to do the same thing here they did in Russia.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch, Fred,” replied the judge.
“Listen, if they can take down a czar, they can take down a president too.”
“Getting carried away, Fred.”
Fred sighed, “Oh, I don’t know. What I do know is they started coming too fast. It takes time to turn ’em into Americans. ‘Takes time for the stuff in the pot to melt.”
“Huh?”
“You know, the ‘melting pot’. It takes time for them to not be foreigners anymore and start thinking like Americans.”
“You have a point there, Fred.”
Father asked, “What are they striking about?”
“Wages, mostly. They were cut when the price of coal fell after the war. And working conditions–they are bad, especially living conditions in the camps. They want improvements in the company houses–but I don’t see how they can be made any better without a lot more money than the companies can spare. And they want a union, the UMWA.” He looked over at Father. “Have you been in the mining camps?”
“Drove past. Didn’t see much. I don’t have many customers there.”
“The companies own it all. They rent the houses to the miners and their families and sell them everything they need at the company stores. Oh, and don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of good things about the camps–ball fields, dance halls, theaters, schools, churches. Lot’s to do to keep people happy. It’s just the homes that need improvement, especially in winter.”
“That’s where it started,” said Fred. “That guy right there.” He pointed a bony finger at a young man in the front row of the crowd just below the portico. “Frank Bonnaci. The union sent him here as an ‘organizer’. More like Italian immigrant troublemaker.”
“Well, talk is one thing,” added Anderson. “Problem is, now there have been casualties on both sides. Some Italians were wounded, and Greeks shot a company guard and a sheriff’s deputy.”
“Yes. I read about it in the paper.”
“We have several in jail, but whether they are really the culprits–who knows? No one admits anything.”
Fred’s face brightened. “Did you say your name is Taylor? Are you the son of Alfred Taylor? I knew your father. A good judge. Straight shooter.”
He looked out at the crowd again. “He would have known what to do with a mob like this. He spent most of the war chasing Quantrill in Kansas, you know.” He meant the Civil War.
“Yes, I know.” Being the son of Judge Alfred Taylor meant automatic acceptance into the social and political leadership circles of the state, at least those that were Republican. It had counted for a lot in Provo, but not so much in Price, where Democrats were the majority.
Another man ambled into the office, square jaw, straight shoulders, and sandy brown hair, about Fred’s age. He wore a fedora like father’s only a lighter shade of tan. And he wore there was a star on his shirt.
“Matt Warner,” said Anderson, “good to see you.” They exchanged pleasantries and introductions.
“Matt is a justice of the peace and deputy sheriff. He usually hears civil disputes and juvenile cases.” He cast an eye at Eddie and his brothers. “Stay out of trouble!” The boys’ eyes widened. The judge turned away to smile. “But it wouldn’t hurt to get acquainted with him in any case. He spins a great yarn.”
“Nothin’ but the truth,” insisted the deputy.
The adults turned back to politics, but Eddie kept glancing at Warner. There was something about him that was interesting. Eddie was not sure what it was. He seemed a little different from the other men in the room, jovial, yet at heart very serious, and a little sad. Eddie thought he had a rough edge to him. Finally it occurred to him that Warner reminded him of the cowboys he had seen at the movies, sort of like Fred the rancher and Town Cynic, only more so. Sort of like what’s his name in The Great Train Robbery? Tom Mix. Neat name, thought Eddie.
Warner looked at the street a few minutes and grew quiet. “Mobs give me the willies. Maybe ’cause most of the ones I’ve seen, they were after me. These fellas’ look a lot like a bunch that surrounded me in Ellensburg. Only they had ropes.”
Anderson chuckled, “I remember your telling me about that. If I remember right you talked your way out of it.”
“Yeah. I was pretty darn lucky. Problem with a mob, you cannot predict what it will do, except it’s usually nothin’ any good. It has a lot of emotion, but no brain.” He stared out the window a minute or two at the crowd milling about. “Looks like the mayor has plenty of help. I think I’ll go home.”
After he left, Anderson said quietly, “Matt is quite a character. A real cowboy. He’s a reformed bandit, you know, partner of Butch Cassidy. One of the more interesting people you will meet in our little town.”
“Aha!” thought Eddie. He was right. He looked over to where Warner had just left. Mobs had been after him–what did that mean? He looked a little harder at the crowd outside and marveled that so many people could get so upset. “A lot of emotion, but no brain”–that sounded important. Eddie tried hard to remember it.
There were only a few women, uniformly thin. Prominent cheekbones, hardly any muscle on their arms and no fat. If Eddie had known the word he would have called them gaunt.
There were only a few boys–no girls–standing close to men Eddie supposed were their fathers. One of the boys caught his eye, a boy about his age with jet black hair. The boy was staring back at him.
Grow, Heal, Improve 