A short story by Joseph R. Goodall

Joseph R. Goodall is a writer and civil engineer whose fiction, essays, and poetry explore the intersection of human communities and natural landscapes. His short story collection, What the Bird Sees in Flight, examines the unraveling and reunion of a strong-willed farming family. Born in New Zealand and now based in Atlanta, he draws inspiration from watersheds, local history and a diverse range of storytellers. His work has appeared in publications such as Flora Fiction, Litro USA, The Masters Review, and Lostintheletters. 

A coal miner, his wife and two of their children pose for a photograph in 1938 at their home in Bertha Hill, West Virginia. (Library of Congress photo by Marion Post Wolcott.)

Possessed With Dignity

By Joseph R. Goodall

When I was a boy, Mama invited all manner of people into our home. Practically the whole valley could identify our handsome two-room cabin with the slanted roof, which Papa built before I was born. In winter our red door was especially prominent through the bare tree branches. Mama traded three dozen eggs for the can of white paint, which she mixed with rusty tools and ochre clay recovered from the nearby creek bed. My father wasn’t home much, but his reputation was as unmistakable as our red door. When I would walk to the post office, many a man in a coal miner's suit would ask if I was David’s son. Others would say my father taught them arithmetic, launching into a story about coughing in a cloud of chalk dust while he instructed them on long division.

Both my parents had been educators, until the state board required a year of formal training. Once Papa started working in the coal mine, Mama stayed around the house, sewing, washing and ironing clothes, while attracting a hive of activity to our small clearing in the woods. 

Mama trusted people easily, opening her arms in an embrace to every visitor who crossed our threshold, just as soon as she’d wiped her greasy fingers on a burlap apron. She took joy in asking folks questions while feeding them grits and greens from a large aluminum stove pot. Most of the visitors were women wearing thick cotton dresses in earthen tones, some with heads covered in flea-bitten hats, some barefoot, others with worn leather shoes. Some would take cornbread home to their children or bring their kids to our house for a hearty meal. I would get angry at Mama for giving so much food away, but she would chide my lack of faith. Without fail, the meager contents of her pot and pantry seemed to multiply, as if her generous wiles could feed every family living in the valley.  

Our house stood at the top of a slope. A winding path led down past a stone-lined well and an abandoned house. Broken glass littered the partially collapsed porch, and light shone through holes in the roof. The clapboard siding was green with lichen. Sometimes I would wander inside and draw pictures on the mildew-stained walls with a piece of coal. Paul would ask incessant questions about the family who had once lived there, but I was content to let my mind and fingers wander, creating a network of images unencumbered by words.

Even Mama’s kindness hadn’t been able to anchor the parents and children who had once inhabited those decaying walls. They’d been cast to the wind by harsh winters, tuberculosis, a mining accident, indiscretions whispered between adults. Grand ideas germinated in my mind as I etched black powder into the softened wood. My renditions of human anatomy, a map of our valley, portraits of neighbors, biblical scenes, depictions of the divine. When Paul wasn’t there, I would hum to myself, hear the birds chirp, and feel the rumble in my belly as I considered the inhumane conditions that drove this family away. 

Out of Paul’s reach, I hid my fishing rod and tackle box under a loose floorboard in the old house. Paul had broken his fishing rod, and I didn’t want him taking mine without asking. Besides, I preferred fishing on my own. The winding forest path ended at the steep banks of a bubbling stream, where Papa taught us to fish for trout. In the springtime, the speckled brown fish would leap and dance across the water like the revivalists in the next town over. In his wisdom, or perhaps because he had limited time, Papa expected me to pass on my skills to Paul. But patience did not come naturally to me. I could picture an end goal and start toward it, but the slow steps between the vision and reality stirred my frustration like a provoked hornet’s nest. Especially when Paul was involved. The number of times he cast the line into a tree or tangled it around a hook made my ears burn. When I needed a break, he’d hide in the big oak tree leaning over a bend in the stream and watch me fish. He must have thought he was subtle, but I could hear his breathing a mile away. 

Mama was mighty openhearted, and sometimes I wondered why her bold unselfishness had skipped me over. But for all her magnanimity, she didn't suffer fools. Occasionally certain white ladies who frequented our house turned up their noses at neighbors of a darker complexion. Mama would rush to greet the disdained women, a wordless ultimatum for the scandalized onlookers to settle in or leave.

One summer afternoon a boy a few years older than me approached my perch on the stream bank. In a deep voice he said he needed something to eat. I recognized him from school, where he often turned up barefoot and dressed in tattered clothes. His eyes grew wide when he saw the sack of snacking peanuts next to me. Even the wriggling worms in my hand seemed to make him lick his lips.

I thought of Mama’s oversized pot and the goat Papa had given to a family with newborn twins last week. I reckoned he could help me catch extra fish, so I invited the squatter to join. He had an earnest face, his eyebrows arched high over his eyes as if he could see far into the distance. He was talking an awful lot about fishing and wanted to see the collection of lures I kept in the tackle box Papa had given me. As he turned each one over in his grubby hands, he told me he’d started working in the mine, and that his family had moved on to another town, leaving him behind. I recognized how twitchy and stressed the older boy seemed, but could also feel Paul’s watchful glare from the oak tree.

“Give me a turn,” the boy said. He laughed and took a swipe at my sunburned ear as I hesitantly passed him the rod. Edging me out of my seat on a tree root, the boy deftly cast into a shady patch in the stream and reeled in a sizable trout. He beckoned me to clean it, and while my back was turned, snatched up the tackle box and shoved me to the ground. I struggled to catch my breath as he rifled through my fishing gear with his dirty hands. Though my voice wouldn’t cooperate, I leapt to my feet to fight back. The boy laughed, his eyes narrowing in greedy defiance as he stuffed the colorfully feathered lures in his pocket.

When my would-be fishing buddy began to walk off with my fishing rod, Paul’s horrified squeals sent the birds flying. With a billowing skirt, Mama came running down the hill to investigate, and at the sound of her hollering, the lousy thief dropped the pole and shot away like a scorned fox. A gale force of relief rushed through my lungs as I pressed my face into Mama’s apron. Even so, a knot of embarrassment and anger toward Paul twisted in my chest.

While staying closer to home, Paul and I played in our swept front yard, where I often observed Mama's community gatherings from outside the largest window off the kitchen. There was one pane of glass missing, and the other three gave the women wavy faces and distorted bodies. Through the small opening I could hear some of their words — lively and conversational, whispered and conspiratorial, occasionally erupting into laughs. Paul wasn't interested in the adults. Everything was a game for him, and he was desperate for my attention.

One women’s meeting in particular enraptured me, marked in my memory like the brand on a cow. The morning came with a heavy rain followed by a dense fog. It was muddy in the yard, so Paul and I stuck close to the side of the house and built a miniature cabin with gathered sticks. Under the window I heard the usual chatter overwhelmed by a series of loud, bellowing sobs, punctuated by Mama’s words of comfort. I peeked over the windowsill and saw a tear-stained woman reclined against mother’s shoulder. She had the top of her dress unbuttoned, revealing her brown skin darkened with bruises. The other women were huddled together, looking somber and swaying collectively. Mother grew as tense and commanding as I’d ever seen her, more solemn than when she caught me in a lie.  

“This shouldn't have happened.” Her fierce blue eyes darted around the crowd of women. “I won’t stand for this, for any of us. You hear me?”

Paul was tugging on my sleeve, yanking my face out of the window. I told him to knock it off, and he kicked in the miniature cabin we’d built. My face went hot. He slumped his shoulders and stuck his tongue at me. Obeying the flash of anger coursing through my arms, I lunged forward and punched him in the stomach. He keeled over into the scattered sticks. My hands were shaking, my cheeks still flushed. Then I heard a gasp from the women inside.

“Nance, what can we do? You know what happens when one of us speaks up,” said one of the women near the stove. From my tiptoes I could see her sour expression. 

“Now there's a brave question.” Mama put an arm around the sobbing woman. “If we put our minds to it, if we stand by each other, what can we do together?” 

I could hear Paul whimpering at my feet, and a twinge of regret rumbled in my gut. He was still doubled over, clutching his stomach and clawing at the mud with his other hand. I bent down and saw his eyes were red. With a grunt, he pitched a red clump of clay at me. I worried Mama would hear us and come outside. My hands balled into fists again, ashamed to be caught over my brother’s wounded body. But we continued to stare at each other, frustrated and uninterrupted as intense voices added to the discussion inside the house. 

“The problem is bigger than the man up at Gloria’s house,” a woman said loud enough for me to hear. “It's his job. That goddamn mine. The coal in his lungs. The flask he carries on his hip. It makes a man do things.” 

“And the nasty winter we had,” said the woman at the stove. “There ain’t enough food to go around. Gloria has a dozen mouths to feed.” 

“Excuses, excuses,” Mama chided. “Now, I ain’t saying we got it easy. But we won’t get anywhere with a defeated spirit.” Mama was silent for a moment, and the restless murmuring died down.

I edged my hand toward Paul to offer comfort, but chickened out halfway. He scrunched into a ball like a possum under attack. Sighing, I pivoted to my hands and knees and crawled back to the window. A hum filtered through the open pane. Reassuring and confident, it reminded me of Mama’s healing presence the last time I was sick in bed with a fever. Then, lyrics came to Mama’s lips, melancholic and deep with longing. I looked into the candle-lit house to see some of the women with folded arms and foreheads creased in disbelief. But others joined in, their voices betraying a hint of hope.  

I crouched and leaned back against the rough stone at the base of the house. Meanwhile, Paul slinked off to be by his lonesome. I considered following him, but the apology was still lodged deep inside of me, unwilling to surface. The women’s singing persisted as the trees danced in the breeze and dried out from the rain. It was easy to pick out Mama’s voice leading the chorus. 

Eventually, the bruised woman’s face inherited the same resolve as Mama’s. Resplendent and heroic, she bore a quiet confidence in her eyes as she marched across the muddy yard with her dress again buttoned up to her neck. The other ladies subsequently filtered out, chatting among themselves. 

“Amos, come in here, will you?” Mama beckoned through the open door. I scanned the beech tree trunks, but there was no sign of Paul. I kept my head down on my solitary walk into the kitchen.

There were dirty dishes and soiled cloth napkins piled into the center of the table. Sprigs of sage and lavender hung upside down from the ceiling, their perfume wafting on the breeze filtering between the open window and door. Mama was scraping at the bottom of the stove pot with a wire brush, the sleeves of her dress pulled up over her elbows. 

“Help me fill this with water.” She frowned at me. “We’ll find your brother on the way.”

I nodded and took one of the aluminum handles. We waddled down the steps with the pot between us and marched through the yard. The puddles from before were almost empty, the exposed earth wrinkled and dark. Mama called out Paul’s name as we approached the stacked ring of stone down the hill. Beyond the well, Papa’s lantern would come bobbing up the walkway after dark. The woods were still as I dropped the bucket into the hole in the ground.

It felt like a hook pierced the silence between us as we lifted the bucket from the well, and I imagined the sharp object lunging at me, seeking to retrieve an explanation of Paul’s absence. Clearing my throat, I snuck a glance at Mama’s face. She peered down into the well with a craned neck, her lips moving slightly as if she were still singing. Her demeanor was expectant, peaceful. 

“How did you know what to say to that woman?” I asked. 

Mama pursed her lips as she splashed the water over the blackened crusts on the sides of the pot. She didn’t scold me for eavesdropping, or ask how much I overheard. Instead, she sighed and relaxed her shoulders after the pot was filled at our feet. “Talk is cheap when people are hurting. We might injure them even more with our honey-tongued words. But sometimes they need to hear they’re not alone. That someone sees their pain and is brave enough to name the horrible things done to them.” 

I felt my fists tighten again, felt the ghost of fear and anger that had possessed me at the window as I stood over Paul. I thought of the blazing menace in the older boy’s eyes by the stream. How his family had left him to work shoulder to shoulder with my Papa in the bowels of the mountain.  

“Do you reckon we can stop horrible things from happening?” I asked Mama. 

She smiled as we hefted the pot and took careful steps back to the swept yard. I expected she might laugh at my question, but soon her cheeks gathered below her eyes and the wrinkles in her forehead pushed into the bandana covering her graying hair. 

“Amos, I’m not as old as the hills, but I’ve seen my share of darkness,” she said through labored breaths. “Violence is like a flash in the pan, burning the fuel in an instant and leaving only smoke. It calls our name when goods are scarce, deceiving us into believing there won’t be enough to go around. If we don’t stop and think, we’re liable to claw and steal, to wound the people next to us. We end up making a home for the nightmare we were trying to avoid.” 

A strong wind summoned the trees to bow around the two-room house as we approached, and advancing clouds darkened the sky. We lowered the pot at the foot of the stairs and Mama rushed to the corner of the cabin. Next to a stack of chopped wood, Paul was curled into a fetal position. I approached more slowly, with trembling hands. Mama sang softly in my brother’s ear and wiped his muddy face with the hem of her apron. His eyes were closed, but I noticed he was still clutching his stomach. Crouching to join them, I placed a hand on Mama’s shoulder and bowed my head.  

From our spot against the house, I wondered if Gloria’s head was still lifted in courage, or if she would again succumb to crying after the sun set and the wolves came out to howl. Would the man with the flask be waiting for her when she returned home? Could she rest her head on his shoulder as easily as she had on Mama's?  

I like to imagine Mama accompanying Gloria on her walk, and me tagging along, watching behind a tree as she returned home with her chin held high. Maybe Paul would be on the lookout with me, and I would be able to ignore the deceiving whisper of the angry ghost in my ear, wanting to take up residence for the night and then leave me with nothing. Instead, my hand would be loosened from a fist, and we'd be ready to sing like Mama, our voices low and deep and possessed with dignity. 

A note from the author: 

This story was inspired by the history of the Highlander Folk School, a citizen training and cultural center in the hills of East Tennessee, founded by Myles Horton, Don West and James Dombrowski in 1932. I first learned of Highlander while reading His Truth is Marching On, a biography by historian Jon Meacham about the African-American civil rights leader and statesman John Lewis. Before the lunch counter sit-ins and bus boycotts, the March on Washington or the passage of the Voting Rights Act, many Southerners who became influential in the Civil Rights Movement, such as Lewis, Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks and Septima Clark, defied Jim Crow laws to gather in the racially integrated environment at Highlander School, dreaming of a more inclusive society and devising methods of non-violent resistance. 

Myles Horton and his partners in community organizing, including his musician wife Zilphia Mae, were driven by their Christian theological training, travels to Denmark’s folk schools, research among poor mountain communities, and coordination with Appalachian labor organizers to enact social justice in their region. Their educational work began in the Great Depression and was focused on improving working conditions in rural Tennessee. However, voting registration for disenfranchised citizens became a larger focus in the 1950’s under the leadership of Septima Clark, as well as the wider goal of racial desegregation and the equal treatment of Black Americans. Up to today, the Highlander Folk School’s progressive social efforts are still the source of both inspiration and controversy. 

Reading about Highlander made me think about how even the lives of inspirational people, such as Myles Horton, can have a shadow side, an undercurrent of internal struggle. In his arc toward non-violent approaches to shaping and improving society, how did he deal with his own human tendency toward violence? How did the unique land of Appalachia, his parents, community, and his own prejudices drive him toward challenging harmful social customs?  

There is a thread of good through all of us, even when it becomes obscured by greed or violence. Storytelling is an avenue of rediscovering this thread, making a way for it to be tied with others into a tapestry of mutual flourishing. 

— Joseph R. Goodall