LIVING THE FAITH OF OUR FATHERS. Donald E. Wilson

A coal miner’s son

      Dad was a country boy in the truest sense of the word. His father, Jonathan Franklin Wilson and mother Minnie Bell Wilson, were migrants from Virginia. Records indicate that my Grandmother, (maiden name Minnie Marshall) was a decendent of James Marshall, brother of John, the first and perhaps greatest Chief Justice in the history of the Supreme Court. Beyond the fact that the family pedigree of both grandparents can be traced back to Seventeenth Century England, little else is known as to when the two families migrated to Kentucky, or the pioneering existence of their early life.

      Nor was the history of Dad’s personal life recorded, and his childhood as a barefoot blond headed blue eyed youngster in a coal miner’s family, constantly struggling to survive, left few records. But, from the few things related to me, and my sisters Doris and Linda, we do know he endured a meager existence in the family of five boys and four girls, and that the harsh existence created in him a strong character and determination to make his life different from that of his farming, and coal mining father. And, guiding him every step of the way was a faith in God, that in good times and bad, never waivered.

      His earliest memories began with my grandfather’s decision to move his family from Pineville Kentucky, an area in the Cumberland Mountains that literally reeked with stories of settlers who followed Indian trails, to settle in Corbin, the railroad and rich coal mining town located 40 miles to its west. Apparently he moved for two major reasons. First, Pineville, not then an incorporated town in the last decade of the century, had turned into a very wild and dangerous community; certainly not conducive to raising a family. Much like the gold mining regions of the “old west,” the town had 40 saloons, with shootings and lynchings a common occurrence.

      Also, since the town was located on a major fault line and carved into a valley between two mountains bordered by the Cumberland River, it was often flooded, and it was only a matter of time until the Wilson family could expect to have to deal with the worst of nature’s wrath.

      The clincher came in 1890 when three fires destroyed much of the main business district, followed in 1893 by one of the nation’s most severe economic panics, causing over one half of Pineville’s population to leave. Jonathan joined the exodus, and moved the family, that at that time included Dad, two older brothers and his mother to Corbin, a major rail station and “round house” for trains in and out of Southern Kentucky. He purchased a large plot of land about five miles south of the town and about 20 miles from Cumberland Falls. His property included several small coal mines owned by a local mining company that provided him employment along with an abundant supply of coal, the principle fuel badly needed for cooking and heat in the harsh winter months. There, about a mile off the highway on a dirt, rut filled road that was originally carved out of the area for movement of coal from the mines. He constructed a small frame home with a well, a storage shed, and shelter for his animals. And even though the land was hilly and rocky, my grandfather did produce enough food to feed his expanding family. Life was difficult with no electricity, or running water.

      Electricity would later be installed when TVA made it available to much of Eastern Kentucky. Until that time, coal oil lamps provided the light Dad used for his school studies.

      The well house was constructed next to a spring that flowed through the property, and the cold spring water became the only source for refrigeration. I remember on my visits to the home as a kid, my grandmother kept the milk in that stream, and I must say it was never cold enough for me to drink, nor would it pass inspection today with the modern sanitary and health regulations.

      The house apparently was modeled after the old colonial cabins of early America; an entrance through the front door led to a single sitting area adjacent to the only downstairs bed room, and a large fireplace off the entrance was the source for warmth along with heat emanating from the kitchen coal burning cooking stove. Meals were served on a crude table around which the family would gather for meals in shifts. On my visits to the old house, I remember that the legs of some of the cane back chairs around the table were shortened, and was told that they had to conform to the low canvas ceiling in the wagon used to move the family from Virginia to Pineville and later for the move to Corbin.

      While I will further discuss my experiences in that old home in later chapters, I must mention here some of my early memorable moments of summers there as a ten and eleven year old boy. During those lazy summer days, just prior to World War Two, Dad was frequently on the road as a tire salesman traveling throughout the south. During the summer months my parents would send my sister Doris and me, to spend time in both of our grandparents homes; the Wilson's and Burton's( see Chapter 3),. Prior to our trips I joined a children’s book club at the neighborhood library that included a challenge for young members to reach certain reading goals by the end of the summer. We could choose our topics, within reason, and as was typical of kids during those carefree days, I let my imagination soar, and especially into the history of early Kentucky.

      In preparing my reading list, I stumbled on a collection of early adventure books written by noted historian and novelist, Joseph Altsheler. He wrote one series of historic novels that followed a teen age boy and three seasoned explorers as they braved the wilderness lands and trails once belonging to Shawnee and Cherokee Indians. So, the wilderness around the old house was made to order for the imaginations of a ten or eleven year boy.

      I remember sitting on the front porch imagining what early Kentucky was like and especially whether or not the Indians that once frequented the area might still be in the woods. The eerie call of an owl at night convinced me that I was not just over extending my imagination and also caused me to move further under the covers!

      My favorite and enduring memories were of the hikes dad and I took on the well beaten path through the woods to enjoy his favorite past time, picking blackberries, and on at least two occasions, go fishing in the Cumberland River. Those rare moments went far in helping me round out my reading while also helping me know my father. When I returned to school, I found time to read every Altsheler book in the public library. History, especially American became a major part of my life, and as noted later, my occupation.

      I will never forget one particular time as we trudged through the woods to Dad’s favorite blackberry patch, when he suddenly stopped with his eyes fixed on a huge dead tree that had obviously been there for many years. He was quiet for a moment, and then, with a distant look on his face said that old tree was the remains of a huge American Chestnut tree, and a reminder of the time in his childhood when that species covered over half of the Southeastern United States. He told me that in 1912 a fungus swept through the forests, killing all of the American Chestnut trees in the Southeastern states, and that overnight an important part of his childhood vanished. I asked whether or not the trees would ever return, and quietly he replied that every living thing had to eventually die, but a day would come when many would live again. For reasons that are hard to explain, so many times since that rare conversation with Dad, as Alleen and I visited places with many trees, I often looked for the American Chestnut tree, and always associate Dad with my search and that day in the blackberry patch.

      While a Chinese variety Chestnut tree was introduced to parts of the United States, the American Chestnut tree was but a memory.

      However, years later, long after Dad’s death, I was walking through my neighborhood in Birmingham, Alabama, and suddenly in front of me, beside the street, stood a very large lone obviously old American Chestnut tree. I had to stop and examine the tree and a few of its nut pods that were on the ground, and as if it were yesterday, that priceless moment so long ago flashed through my mind and Dad was there giving me that ever present winsome smile, and saying, “see, I told you so.” I don’t know how old the tree was but it had to be very old by the look of its gnarled bark and huge branches. It was most likely there before the blight hit the Southeast. But to me I as I walk past it, a Dad who loved to pick blackberries walked beside me with a reminder of how, in that tree was a message of faith that no age can destroy.

      Prior to age sixteen Dad attended a little country school that was a mile or two from home. When I talked to his brother and sister about him they always told me how much he loved education, and as far as they knew, he never missed a day of school in spite of the weather and walking, often barefoot to get there. That was often preferable to the ill fitting hand-me-down