I love you, sis.
1922
Water gushes down the hills, washing out roads and bridges and sweeping away cars. As Blacklick Creek starts rising, families at the lower end of town begin moving their furniture to the second floor. Pretty girls. Personable men. There’s a lovingkindness there in the hills capping Blacklick Creek.
Young men in this town are trying their best to do something right. The horses are tired and still. All the men feel like running down a rocky bank.
They get licked. They say to each other in private, more than once, “My poor wife. My poor girls.” The only thing they get to keep is love from their girls.
It’s 1924. A walkout takes place at Mine No. 6. A cross gets burned on the hill by the mine. About close to some dozen people gather at the Baptist church on 5th St. to talk about the burning cross.
As that’s happening, a poor pretty girl looks out above her sink. She’s barely 19. This young girl, she’s tired. She’s finding out what it is to have to do it all on her own. She has 2 dresses. She puts 1 on Monday and wears that dress til Saturday. The other she wears on Sunday. She prays something’ll come up and get them off welfare. She wants to go back to Kentucky and stay there til she dies.
And her heart is pulled by her man.
Waste rock and loose coal get discarded at rock dumps. In 1996, the coal will catch fire by spontaneous combustion, and the rock dumps will burn for years. A by-product is red-dog clumps of baked clay that are used to patch ruts in the streets. Blue smoke covers the town.
1982
Cloud, lake, interstate. Flowering Dogwood, White Oak, Yellow Birch. Construction lights—Serene white dots, Burger King.
Mariah in the backseat, Heidi hit I-80 like it was acting up. Heidi loves to drive. She loves Montana. She loves driving in Montana. Heidi and her daughter Mariah are driving to Pennsylvania.
A trumpeting ambulance wakes up The Great Spirit Mother. She puts in place a thunderstorm all around and above the pick-up truck. Heidi pulls over somewhere near Bethlehem. Mariah, backseat.
“What’s the name of this storm,”
Heidi looks at a black cloud;
“You can name it.”
Mariah stares at the wet, bright Sunoco symbol and says,
“Hurricane Hidy.”
O Hidy, hidy, hidy, what's she trying to prove. Mariah’s maybe saying that Heidi is young and wild and free like a storm. Or she could just want to say her mother’s name.
Heidi and Mariah are driving up 3rd St. A parked car. The Peter and Paul Russian Orthodox church. She revs her white truck. Florabelle’s been on the porch waiting for her girls. They’re here.
House is beautiful. Pennsylvania beautiful. Pocono mountain beautiful. Bricks laid beautiful. Mariah’s hair is in her opaline eyes. Heidi dressed Mariah up for the trip but her daughter's hair is as it always is. Heidi’s straight onyx hair is parted. Her young-mother face shows her prominent cheekbones. Like Mariah, she too has opalescent eyes.
A girl skips up to them. Ida-Mae’s granddaughter. She talks with a stutter and she’s got 6 brothers.
A sweet girl, you’d probably be her best friend. Heidi stands next to her and Mariah’s suitcase. Mariah is being tugged away from Florabelle’s side by Ida-Mae's Grand-Daughter. Let’s call her Tulip-May. Mariah and Tulip-May get t’playing in the yard.
Tulip-May hit the front door breathing heavy. Her breath comes in a sharp panting, Hum! Hm! Hm! Hm!
“Can I have get-get a glass of water,”
“Here sweetie,” And a glass now in Tulip-May’s hand. The woman inside teases her,
“Don’t let the screen-door slam,”
“OK promise,” Tulip-May promises. And she runs back out. Drinking the water like there’s never been a tomorrow.
It’s late. There’s black against the mist. Mom leans on mother. All of the women leave the table like it’s life itself. Then Heidi picks up their suitcase. She puts it upstairs on a bed. My god, you’re all perfect daughters!
2022
Young women face this problem. Young men take this risk. Young women take this risk. Young men face this problem. Young men in this town face this problem. Young women in this town face this problem. Young women always take risks.
I’m interrupted by a fucked up handsome man with a South-Shore accent in the laundry-mat.
“Who’s yea moutha,”
“Mariah,”
Toothless grin. Nice hands. We both have nice hands. Holding each other's hands.
“Blue-eyed kids,”
“Hers are blue. Ours are kind of green. Brown. Blue,”
He spits a little, “Big guy now.”
“26 yea, hey it’s nice to see you bud.”
He let go. We let go. We let go of each other's hands and I put my dirty clothes in. I started the cycle. I’m cut from a dirty cloth but I’m alright. It’s spinning harder and faster because it can’t clean me—make me a cleaner cloth.
The man limps out of the laundry-mat with a girl version of himself. She’d been sitting on a dryer-machine by the door. Her necklace says Love. Or Loyal.