A House in a Village

by

Rick Ready

            We grew up poor, my sister and I, in a small house overlooking the Black Warrior River and the Gorgas Steam Plant. We never knew we were poor, thanks to Dad. We always had clothes, shoes, and something to eat. Only later, when we were adults, did we learn he made a hundred and sixty dollars a month. Out of that, he paid to live in company housing, made a car payment, bought groceries and clothes, and somehow managed to take us on a vacation every year.

            Growing up in a power company village had its advantages and disadvantages. In the village, everybody knew your business. All the adults were our parents, watching over us, unafraid to say something to us when we misbehaved, unashamed to praise us when we did something right, never too busy to answer our questions or spend time with us. When I was a kid, I thought they were nosy. Now I wish I could thank them.

            Our house sat on the edge of the mountain, closest to the plant and river. Typical for that time, no air conditioning, but we did have inside plumbing and coal-burning heat. One of my chores was to keep the hopper filled in the winter. Most of the time I remembered to shovel the coal into the hopper. When I forgot, the house filled with smoke. Of course, the smoke always came around midnight. I knew this because of the pain in my left ear. That was the ear Dad held as he frog-marched me down to the basement in the middle of the night to fill the hopper. Guess it didn’t matter to him that I had to get up and go to school the next day and that the right amount of sleep is important for a growing boy.

            Our house was unique for the village because it was isolated from the other houses. The reason for isolation was the old cemetery that hid us from view. Now that I’m older and can reflect on the circular cemetery, I suspect there were thirty to forty graves. The headstones were red clay mixed with  sandstone with dates scratched on them—1822, 1831, 1845—the names worn smooth from wind and rain, now unreadable, people long forgotten, left with only a fading marker to tell future generations they even existed.

            The other kids in the village made a point not to visit us at night unless they walked around the cemetery. My sister, Gayle, and I always took the shortcut through the cemetery, except on Halloween. Even we weren’t that stupid.

            Dad enjoyed Halloween. He would spend hours rigging an elaborate array of pulleys and wires with sheets shaped like ghosts attached to controllable lines. He hid the lines in the trees by the cemetery, hoping moonrise held off until his work was finished, waiting for darkness to settle in. He waited ’til the kids rounded the bend, laughing, joking, carrying brown paper sacks filled with candy and gum and the occasional apple they would give to their mothers. When they reached the point of greatest darkness, Dad’d loosen a line and a white sheet would float from the branches of a gray, leafless oak. As the “ghost” made its way toward the kids, he’d issue forth a loud, maniacal laugh. The kids screamed and dashed away, only to come back later when their heart rate returned to normal. Dad would pat them on the head, give them a hug and some candy, and watch to make sure they were alright as they rounded the bend by the cemetery and headed for the next house.

            Mom was pretty twisted too, in her own way. I thought it was cruel to make me go out and cut my own switch. And she always rejected the first one I brought back, so I had to go out and cut another one. I suspect this damaged my psyche but didn’t know enough about that stuff to care. All I knew was that I was high-steppin’ around the livin’ room when the switch touched my legs. I like to think it made me a better dancer when we started doing things like the Twist.

            The village was where we were taught that we were responsible for our actions and that there were consequences when we misbehaved. There were no lawyers or lawsuits, and when we got a paddling at school we got a whipping when we got home. These were some of the lessons that shaped the village children.

            As a kid, I never thought the house was special. The floors were made of polished oak, the walls painted a muted green, and the windows coated with the residue of burned coal from the steam plant. In the summer, the hot Alabama sun caused waves of heat to rise off the asphalt, heated the black soil, and baked the red clay. Windows were left open, hoping a breeze might find its way into our rooms. Doors were never locked, and visitors were always welcomed. Supper was a sit-down meal where we talked about our day and were reminded to eat everything on our plate because there were starving kids in China. Like we even cared about the kids in China. Like we even knew where China was, although we were pretty sure it was somewhere south of Birmingham.

            As an adult, the memories of that time in that house in that village remind me of innocent days with an unknown future ahead. The house was nothing more than stucco and brick and wood and paint and glass. It was only when our family lived there that it became special. Our house became a home.

            We grew up rich, my sister and I, in a small house overlooking the Black Warrior River and the Gorgas Steam Plant.