I am sitting in a cabin on the banks of a river in Montana. I don’t know the name of the river (it is a tributary to the Clark), but I am near the tiny town of Paradise and if this place is any indicator of the little town, then I would say it is aptly named. It is quiet here except for the occasional train that comes by on the track across the river. The train brings a chugging sound, though not bothersome since there are no whistles bursting forth announcing its passing. Shortly beyond our cabin, it disappears into a tunnel carved into the mountain. The train cars are filled with coal, piled up high, car after car, coming from somewhere north of here. The coal cars bring to mind my mother’s father, Robert McClucky Waugh, full-blood Scot, and coal miner by trade.
I never met my grandfather, but my mother’s description of him has brought him to life for me. He was a small man, not quite 5’8” and very slim. He wore round spectacles and had bright eyes that shone when he saw his only daughter, Helen Marie. He called my mother his “little gurl,” since his Scottish brogue was still strong and she said that he was the kindest man she ever met. He died when she was in her mid-20’s, but he told her from an early age that no matter what happened to him, he’d always be right above her shoulder watching over her for her whole life. She told me that she felt his constant love with her all the time and she expected that would be the case until the day she died.
All the men in my mother’s family were coal miners in Scotland and my grandfather and his brother came to the United States in search of a better life. Ironically, that life didn’t exclude coal, but over the years, my grandfather moved from far below the ground to the superintendent of the mine, which was not only a cleaner and healthier job, but also extremely well paid. Mom described her life growing up as a time of privilege with her father making more money than the bank president in their small town of Bastrop, Texas, just 25 miles from Austin. She said that was the time when “coal was king,” and her father drove a brand new Packard when she was in high school. Since my mother was born in 1918, the date of that Packard would have been around 1936, at the end of the Great Depression. It doesn’t sound as if my mother’s family felt the cruel bite of that era; however, their good fortune would soon end. Only a year or so later – just after my grandfather bought his own coal mine – the entire country shifted from coal to natural gas for heating needs. With that change, my grandparent’s life shifted, too, from affluence to a life with more struggle. My grandfather died of a heart attack in 1944 when he was sixty-five. I suspect it had something to do with the stress over that bad business decision, but then again, that’s a good long life back in that era, particularly for a man who had spent at least part of his time in coal mines.
My grandfather sounds as if he was quite a fellow: enterprising, smart, kind and good. My mother would say those words only scratch the surface of how truly wonderful he was. A man who came to this country and lived the American dream through the power of his own two hands and a clear head for management.
My mother passed on to me that same gift her dad had given to her. Before she died she said, “Never doubt that I’ll be right above your shoulder, watching over you all your life.” I feel my mother’s constant love every day. I suspect my granddad might be there, too. Just adding a bit of quiet happiness to the scene.
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