A Thimble Full
By Carol Guthrie Heilman
Years ago, in a creative writing class, we were assigned to write about an important person in our life, past or present. My daddy, Charles Ison Guthrie, immediately came to mind. But where to begin? It was like being asked to write about the ocean—immense, powerful yet calming, regular as the sunrise, plus a multitude of other attributes. I was overwhelmed. Then my professor said, “Take a thimble-full and concentrate on that small amount.”
I followed his advice and that piece was afterwards published in a newspaper. Now, as Father’s Day approaches, I’m considering another ‘thimble-full.’
A man of few words, Daddy could cause a person to smile or chuckle.
Some examples of his “tongue-in-cheek” Appalachian humor.
“Come sit yourself down. Make yourself at home. (As an aside: Where you ought to be.)”
A visitor in their home once remarked to Daddy, “Charlie, you ain’t got enough chairs for everybody.” Without hesitation, he answered, “Got plenty of chairs. Too much company.”
As you can see, Daddy wasn’t comfortable around large groups of people, but he loved small gatherings of friends and family.
In his later years, he was known to say, “My mind’s writing checks my body can’t cash.” Not an original, but one of his favorites.
Beginning as a youth, he was a miner into his 40’s. He worked in camps with such names as Arjay, Big Jim, Turkey Pen, and Cow Branch. He first worked as a breaker boy, picking the slate out of the coal before it tumbled down a chute into the coal cars below. The slate was hauled a distance away from the mine and dumped there over and over until it looked like a mountain of rock. Here’s what Daddy told me: “The slate dump would eventually catch on fire and would burn for years. Sometimes the burned slate would be put on top of dirt roads. It was called Red Dog.” (The burned slate took on a reddish color. The dump also emitted a strong sulfur smell as it burned.)
Entrance to the mines, called a drift-mouth, was about 16-18 feet wide.
Daddy often checked the underground tunnels for gas before the miners were allowed to enter. In his words: “I had to go in every morning with a safety light to test for gas, chalk my initials and date on the timber at each tunnel then come out to tell the men it was okay to go to work.”
The flame in a “safety light” was encased in glass or metal gauze to prevent combustible mine gases (called fire damp) from exploding, as would happen with the open flames of carbide or oil-wick lamps.
Using dynamite to break loose a seam of coal was against the law, yet here’s what was allowed:
“We used black powder stuffed in a foot long wax-paper tube. A denotator cap, with two wires, was then inserted. These were tied to a ‘shooting cable’ which at a distance of 30 or 40 feet was touched off by your light’s battery. The battery for the light was on a belt around the waist and weighed about 3 pounds. A cable ran up the miner’s back and hooked to his cap and light.”
More details of Daddy inside the mines:
“I loaded coal at Cow Branch using a number 4 Red-Edge shovel, about the size of a snow shovel. I also had a sharp pick and a four-foot-long bar. During the night, about 6 feet of the coal seam was under cut and shot down. Sometimes they didn’t use enough powder to shoot it down and I would have a time using my pick and bar to break it up so I could load it. I averaged 12 tons a day while I worked there.” (Undercutting was done below the coal seam so it was more easily ‘shot down’ or blasted using the black powder.) After graduating from a special miner’s school, Daddy earned the title of First Class Mine Foreman, but even so he always worked alongside his men.
Beekeepers
“We had about twelve hives of bees located underneath a stand of paw-paw trees. We would add sections to each hive as needed. Some hives were about three feet high. Mr. McClean helped me rob the bees. He did not wear a veil or gloves, but I did! I don’t think he ever got stung.
We would uncap the frames of honey and put them in a large barrel-like thing. It had a crank which whirled it around and slung the honey out. We would sell the honey in pint jars. When I wanted to go to a show, I would go down to the barn, get a jar of honey and sell it.
Once someone took one of our hives down to the creek and drowned the bees to get the honey. This guy worked at the mines. Dad noticed the man’s jaw all swollen up and found out he had taken a bite of honey and gotten stung inside his mouth. Dad made the fellow pay for the hive.”
After Daddy and Mother married, they moved into an isolated mountain cabin near where he worked. He left each evening and walked to his night job as a coal miner. Mother was left alone, nervous and fearful. She never dressed for bed, never slept as she waited for him to return. I’m sure she heard frightening sounds, perhaps a screech owl that sounds like a woman screaming or a panther or any number of creatures moving about in the woods. One-night, heavy boots clomped up the steps and a fist pounded on the door. “Open up!” a man shouted. “I’ve come for my liquor!”
She grabbed an iron skillet, pulled a straight-back chair to face the locked door, and sat down. The man rattled the doorknob and refused to leave. “I’m gonna sot right down here until I get what’s due me.” The man slurred his words, most likely drunk, and didn’t know the former tenant, a moonshiner, no longer lived there, even though Mother tried to convince him it was so.
By the time Daddy returned home at daybreak, the man had gone. After Mother released her pent-up emotions and the details of her night, Daddy’s comment was: “Well Edith, all I can say is that moonshiner’s liquor must’ve been good.”
Daddy never said “I love you” to me, but I always knew he did. He was the one who named me Carol Jean just because he liked the sound of those words. He drew cartoons for my sister and me, especially Blondie and Dagwood, for our entertainment. Many evenings we sat on the floor in front of our RCA cabinet radio and listened to music, Bluegrass or Fats Domino’s gravelly voice with “Ain’t That a Shame” or “Blueberry Hill.” These very different types of music were our favorites.
Even though Daddy must have been work weary by the end of his day, black as the coal he dug, I remember him chasing us around the house growling like a bear. Yes, he loved me and my sister without saying those words. When I needed correcting, we usually sat on the back porch steps where he gave me “a talking to.” I often wished he would spank me and get it over with. And one time he did. My sister, Bonnie, and I, curious about where Daddy went to work each morning, ventured up to the mine’s drift mouth. I don’t know how he found out we were there, but he did. I’d never seen him so angry. He gave us both a good spanking and sent us home crying. No need for a “talking to” this time.
And so, I’ve shared another “thimble-full” about my Daddy, Charles Ison Guthrie, a Kentucky coal miner, but so much more. I can see him unwrap a piece of Juicy Fruit gum before he tells of playing high school basketball, fishing for sunfish, tending bee hives, or discovering chestnuts roasted by a forest fire.
He lived a long and healthy life on this earth, ninety-three years. He flew to heaven thirteen years ago. I miss him still.
By Carol Guthrie Heilman
Years ago, in a creative writing class, we were assigned to write about an important person in our life, past or present. My daddy, Charles Ison Guthrie, immediately came to mind. But where to begin? It was like being asked to write about the ocean—immense, powerful yet calming, regular as the sunrise, plus a multitude of other attributes. I was overwhelmed. Then my professor said, “Take a thimble-full and concentrate on that small amount.”
I followed his advice and that piece was afterwards published in a newspaper. Now, as Father’s Day approaches, I’m considering another ‘thimble-full.’
A man of few words, Daddy could cause a person to smile or chuckle.
Some examples of his “tongue-in-cheek” Appalachian humor.
“Come sit yourself down. Make yourself at home. (As an aside: Where you ought to be.)”
A visitor in their home once remarked to Daddy, “Charlie, you ain’t got enough chairs for everybody.” Without hesitation, he answered, “Got plenty of chairs. Too much company.”
As you can see, Daddy wasn’t comfortable around large groups of people, but he loved small gatherings of friends and family.
In his later years, he was known to say, “My mind’s writing checks my body can’t cash.” Not an original, but one of his favorites.
Beginning as a youth, he was a miner into his 40’s. He worked in camps with such names as Arjay, Big Jim, Turkey Pen, and Cow Branch. He first worked as a breaker boy, picking the slate out of the coal before it tumbled down a chute into the coal cars below. The slate was hauled a distance away from the mine and dumped there over and over until it looked like a mountain of rock. Here’s what Daddy told me: “The slate dump would eventually catch on fire and would burn for years. Sometimes the burned slate would be put on top of dirt roads. It was called Red Dog.” (The burned slate took on a reddish color. The dump also emitted a strong sulfur smell as it burned.)
Entrance to the mines, called a drift-mouth, was about 16-18 feet wide.
Daddy often checked the underground tunnels for gas before the miners were allowed to enter. In his words: “I had to go in every morning with a safety light to test for gas, chalk my initials and date on the timber at each tunnel then come out to tell the men it was okay to go to work.”
The flame in a “safety light” was encased in glass or metal gauze to prevent combustible mine gases (called fire damp) from exploding, as would happen with the open flames of carbide or oil-wick lamps.
Using dynamite to break loose a seam of coal was against the law, yet here’s what was allowed:
“We used black powder stuffed in a foot long wax-paper tube. A denotator cap, with two wires, was then inserted. These were tied to a ‘shooting cable’ which at a distance of 30 or 40 feet was touched off by your light’s battery. The battery for the light was on a belt around the waist and weighed about 3 pounds. A cable ran up the miner’s back and hooked to his cap and light.”
More details of Daddy inside the mines:
“I loaded coal at Cow Branch using a number 4 Red-Edge shovel, about the size of a snow shovel. I also had a sharp pick and a four-foot-long bar. During the night, about 6 feet of the coal seam was under cut and shot down. Sometimes they didn’t use enough powder to shoot it down and I would have a time using my pick and bar to break it up so I could load it. I averaged 12 tons a day while I worked there.” (Undercutting was done below the coal seam so it was more easily ‘shot down’ or blasted using the black powder.) After graduating from a special miner’s school, Daddy earned the title of First Class Mine Foreman, but even so he always worked alongside his men.
Beekeepers
“We had about twelve hives of bees located underneath a stand of paw-paw trees. We would add sections to each hive as needed. Some hives were about three feet high. Mr. McClean helped me rob the bees. He did not wear a veil or gloves, but I did! I don’t think he ever got stung.
We would uncap the frames of honey and put them in a large barrel-like thing. It had a crank which whirled it around and slung the honey out. We would sell the honey in pint jars. When I wanted to go to a show, I would go down to the barn, get a jar of honey and sell it.
Once someone took one of our hives down to the creek and drowned the bees to get the honey. This guy worked at the mines. Dad noticed the man’s jaw all swollen up and found out he had taken a bite of honey and gotten stung inside his mouth. Dad made the fellow pay for the hive.”
After Daddy and Mother married, they moved into an isolated mountain cabin near where he worked. He left each evening and walked to his night job as a coal miner. Mother was left alone, nervous and fearful. She never dressed for bed, never slept as she waited for him to return. I’m sure she heard frightening sounds, perhaps a screech owl that sounds like a woman screaming or a panther or any number of creatures moving about in the woods. One-night, heavy boots clomped up the steps and a fist pounded on the door. “Open up!” a man shouted. “I’ve come for my liquor!”
She grabbed an iron skillet, pulled a straight-back chair to face the locked door, and sat down. The man rattled the doorknob and refused to leave. “I’m gonna sot right down here until I get what’s due me.” The man slurred his words, most likely drunk, and didn’t know the former tenant, a moonshiner, no longer lived there, even though Mother tried to convince him it was so.
By the time Daddy returned home at daybreak, the man had gone. After Mother released her pent-up emotions and the details of her night, Daddy’s comment was: “Well Edith, all I can say is that moonshiner’s liquor must’ve been good.”
Daddy never said “I love you” to me, but I always knew he did. He was the one who named me Carol Jean just because he liked the sound of those words. He drew cartoons for my sister and me, especially Blondie and Dagwood, for our entertainment. Many evenings we sat on the floor in front of our RCA cabinet radio and listened to music, Bluegrass or Fats Domino’s gravelly voice with “Ain’t That a Shame” or “Blueberry Hill.” These very different types of music were our favorites.
Even though Daddy must have been work weary by the end of his day, black as the coal he dug, I remember him chasing us around the house growling like a bear. Yes, he loved me and my sister without saying those words. When I needed correcting, we usually sat on the back porch steps where he gave me “a talking to.” I often wished he would spank me and get it over with. And one time he did. My sister, Bonnie, and I, curious about where Daddy went to work each morning, ventured up to the mine’s drift mouth. I don’t know how he found out we were there, but he did. I’d never seen him so angry. He gave us both a good spanking and sent us home crying. No need for a “talking to” this time.
And so, I’ve shared another “thimble-full” about my Daddy, Charles Ison Guthrie, a Kentucky coal miner, but so much more. I can see him unwrap a piece of Juicy Fruit gum before he tells of playing high school basketball, fishing for sunfish, tending bee hives, or discovering chestnuts roasted by a forest fire.
He lived a long and healthy life on this earth, ninety-three years. He flew to heaven thirteen years ago. I miss him still.
When Daddy crafted a sign and planted it along my pristine new driveway
leading to my vacation mountain home, I’m sure he could hardly wait for my husband and I
to return from South Carolina. The sign announced this 64-bypass was now a toll road
and it listed who, or what animal, had to pay certain amounts--but turkeys were free.
Maybe he decided this was appropriate because we had named our place Turkey Creek Farm. He attached a tin can at the bottom of the sign. Sometimes we would discover a dime or quarter there, but most of our guests must have been turkeys. My first article, Appalachian Humor, grew from this experience. After that, I began to devour books on the craft of writing and continued to write.
One day Mother said, “We don’t have any secrets anymore! ” I think she was afraid to see what might be coming next as my human-interest stories began appearing in our South Carolina paper, The State. Daddy took it all in stride and even carried my stories around in his shirt pocket. He said, "Just In case anyone should inquire about his children, he could pull one out—or several." Those stories were probably worse than having to endure pictures of the grandchildren!
In a creative writing class, at USC in Columbia, SC, a professor asked us to write about someone we loved. I chose my daddy, but then felt completely stumped. There was so much to tell, where should I begin? The instructor wisely said, “Our lives are as broad and as vast as the ocean. You don’t have the space to tell it all. Start small, with some details that will make that person real to the reader, and see where it leads you.”
And so I wrote: In Honor of an Appalachian Coal Miner, Charles Ison Guthrie. It was published in our local newspaper.
What seeds in your life have turned into stories?
A Beginning |
I have always envied writers who make statements
like I wrote my first story at the age of five. Or, When I was ten, I began my first novel. Those experiences were not a part of my writing journey. In fact, the opposite was true. I had no idea I wanted to write, or even if I could write, until I had approached fifty years of age. Perhaps I was having a mid-life crisis and didn’t know it. As I look back at that time in my life, I didn’t know myself at all. At the age of thirty I had left teaching second graders behind and became a stay-at-home mom. Years flew by until our two children had gone. One graduated from college as one enrolled. With too much time on my hands, what would I do with all this freedom? For one thing I could travel, and be gone for days, or even weeks, without worrying about teenagers congregating in our empty, and inviting, home. I accompanied my husband to one of his many conferences and looking for a good book to read, visited a nearby bookstore. Normally, I read Historical or literary fiction, but I came back to our hotel room with a book on writing exercises. I began ten-minute segments of free writing. I was astounded at the words that fell across the page, and I was hooked. From there I began writing stories of growing up in Appalachia where daddy was a coal miner and mother managed the company store. My first tiny article, accepted by Blue Ridge Country magazine, was entitled Appalachian Humor. Since that time my articles and stories have found homes in various newspapers and magazines. Now my first novel, At The Bridge, Adventures of Agnes Series, will be released this fall by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. My mother’s spunky spirit lives on in the character of Agnes Hopper. If you are a writer, how did you begin? |
"I write poetry with my whole being--especially with my ears and my eyes--and, usually with a pot of coffee." -- Betsy Thorne
A Dry Spell
by Betsy Thorne Here it is the end of January and the cold ground is brittle dry like the rusted hull of Papa's jon boat down by the water's edge. Granny says it'll take days of rain before the ground gives way to boot heels. Miraculously, the red berries of the holly tree grow more brilliant and fat with each rainless hour as if to lay waste any cardinal's worry. One of those berries in a bird's beak is like a promising line to a poet long without a poem. |
A graduate of the University of South Carolina, Betsy is a lifelong resident of Columbia, SC.
Her art work is represented in USC's permanent collection, as well as the Governor's Christmas collection. She has participated in art exhibitions in South Carolina's State Museum, Virginia's James Center and Chicago's Lake County Museum.
She is a published poet and a member of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers.
Her art work is represented in USC's permanent collection, as well as the Governor's Christmas collection. She has participated in art exhibitions in South Carolina's State Museum, Virginia's James Center and Chicago's Lake County Museum.
She is a published poet and a member of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers.