Camelot or Cantankerous

This is a cantankerous town that I am born to.

Cantankerous in the sense that this is a hard working no nonsense town inhabited by men who go deep into the earth to dig out the gold that lies therein. Lead. The very name says mining town. The name comes from the main lead of gold that lies buried deep under the town. This is the home of the largest gold mine in the world. Mining shafts run over a mile deep into the earth.

My father is a miner, one of the men who ride down into the earth to dig out the gold. You may have seen pictures of them coming out of the mine after a day of work, dirt on their faces and the carbide light bobbing up and down on their foreheads. That’s who my father is.

Cantankerous because during the winter months Canadian arctic air sweeps down over the Dakotas and puts the whole area into a deep-freeze. When the winter winds bring deep snow you may have to leave the family sedan and walk up the hill to get home. This is long before four-wheel drive, SUVS and that entire sort. One cold winter my Dad’s ’35 Ford would start, but despite his great strength he could not turn the frozen steering wheel.

Cantankerous because the folks at the Pentecostal church at the bottom of the hill don’t mind telling visitors that the main service is over and now they plan to get serious. Leave at your own peril. You have only your soul to lose.

These are the days that when you pick up the telephone to make a call an operator comes on the line and says, “Number Please.” Dial telephones are something you see in a movie.

My brother tells the story about how after being informed by my mother of my arrival some months away, and then being cautioned to say nothing immediately runs out and tells his best friend Bubby his secret.

Now these are the polio years and that dread disease struck at my brother’s friend, Bubby. After we move away to my grandfather’s house the news came that Bubby has succumbed to this dreaded disease. I still remember hearing those hushed tones that the conversation turned to on that dreadful day that we hear of his untimely death.

This must have been Camelot that I was born into. My father works in the mine and my mother stays at home to take care of my brother, my sister and me. The country is just coming out of the great depression and my father has steady work when most of the country is still out of work.

The location of our little house is about halfway up the side of the hill. White scalloped shingles adorn the sides and the sturdy roof supports green shingles. Built square and low to the ground the little house provides the necessary warmth to withstand the cold Dakota winters.

My brother tells me of the time he turned the water hose on a nest of wasps and when the little critters dried out they were mad as hell at the destruction of their home.
Then they came looking for any passerby and that happened to be me. Somehow I managed to survive my brother’s youthful exuberance during those early years.

Our family moves from the little house on the hill that summer to our grandfather’s house. We do so with the understanding that we will not be there very long because my father wants to go to Wyoming to farm with his brother. That fall my father gets very sick and the plans to move to Wyoming are put on hold.

Viewing our old home from the street with my sister and brother, during our recent vacation, we can see no signs of life. I imagine a mineworker and his or her family dwell there and they are about their work and their school.