Coal Valley Silk

Woods Graham Lynelle

Description

Coal Valley Silk is based on true events characterizing a young boy growing up in the productive coal-mining town of Coal Valley, Alabama. He bares for a lifetime the undue reproach for his family's biased and schismatic genealogy, and also imparts the means by which the brilliant youngster works out his own salvation through agonizing years following life's poisonous inflections. Historical facts confirm the mining town Coal Valley's bye-gone era that now is oblivious to present day generations.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 10 décembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781645753179
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Coal Valley Silk
Lynelle Woods Graham
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-10-12
Coal Valley Silk Who Is a Writer Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI September 1950
Copyright © Lynelle Woods Graham (2020)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Ordering Information
Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Graham, Lynelle Woods
Coal Valley Silk
ISBN 9781645753162 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781645753155 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645753179 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020913954
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
[e-mail]
[phone]
I shall never feel tired of thanking those of you who have contributed either bits or bundles of historical facts pertaining to the coal mining town Coal Valley, Alabama, and to the rural community Enon, Alabama.
And yet more than these, I wish to extend a special appreciation to Coal Valley’s native son, Kelsey McMillan, for his patient endurance of my bold introduction into his earned siesta. And to those fine gentlemen who gather regularly in downtown Oakman, Alabama, to enjoy breakfast at Tiffany’s. Your jolly alms are not forgotten.
Thank You!
In the Good Old Summertime is a 1949 American Technicolor musical film directed by Robert Z. Leonard. The song was written by George Evans and Ren Shields.
Jackson is a 1963 song written by Billy Edd Wheeler and Jerry Leiber and first recorded by Wheeler. It is best known from a 1967 release hit single by Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood. Also, recorded by Johnny Cash and June Carter. Lyric: “Hotter than a pepper sprout” .
The Marines’ Hymn is the official hymn of the United States Marine Corps, introduced by the first director of USMC Band, Francesco Maria Scala. Lyrics written by Thomas Holcomb in 1942. Music by Jacques Offenbach from the Gendarmes of the Jacques Duet in 1867 Offenbach opera Genevieve de Brabant .
Lawdy Miss Clawdy by Lloyd Price in 1952. Published by Specialty Records in Los Angeles, CA.
Coal Valley Silk Creative Art Direction and cover design by Barry Graham. Photograph montage by Laura J. Brookhart. Special editorial assistance by Landi McAdams.
All historical names, personal and commercial, are valid.
Creative liberties regarding names of various staged characters wearing fantasy attire within the story content have been changed.
Geographical places, industrial, corporate structures, and residential dwellings are authentic.
This one’s for the Cherub.
A Skylark wounded on the wing
Doth make a Cherub cease to sing. - William Blake
Who Is a Writer
A writer is a dreamer
Who seeks to share her dreams
She is a bank of knowledge
A rolling river stream of information
Writhing to escape from its buried dome
Just put a pen within her hand
’Twill make her feel at home
The things she brings back from the past
Might not have been thought for years
They might bring hefty laughter
Or lonely burning tears
A writer is one who paints sweet pictures
With her words
Of rolling hills or sloping lands
Of animals or birds
Of love affairs that are long gone by
And long kept hidden woes
A writer can when her words command
Bring tingling to your toes
She gives gifts to those who are yet unborn
In such a lovely fashion
The words then strewn across the page
They’re from her heart, her passion
Oh, ’tis good to take a look
And relax for just one hour
And become lost without much cost
Within a writer’s power
You’ll bask within her soulful words
Whether she gives you country or city, because
The writer commands her words
And sits them down so pretty
I have a friend who is such a one
I love her oh so much
A writer she is, I know she is
Because she’s got the touch
By Jean Karrh Odom
Chapter I
While crossing over a monumental mountain of time, a recently widowed lady, having been kept in total darkness regarding the true identity of the man she married in days long gone by now, pursues the light of truth. Aware of the many secrets that lay smoldering on the other side of the mountain, the gold-aged widow began in confidence the upward climb.
First she dug her heels deep into the firm soil of sincere grit, down, down into the mountains table where there would be no fear of neither slipping nor sliding either this way or that way, assuring solid footage to this million-dollar entourage.
The widow, being well-equipped with the common knowledge that our modern day society now views those over the age of eighty to be ancient, realizes that she herself despite her resentment of their vexing outlook toward the aging, also falls among those short on time; and so with pioneering moments being removed daily, many opportunities to gather in the rye seed grain of the past are swept away, and so the anxious widow presses onward in a most deliberate determination, ’ere too soon the sun goes down.
During the insurgent scale of the widow’s imposed mountain, many obstacles of doubt, fear, and passionate respect for those deceased loved ones come up before her as a beloved memorial yet unchanged, a mint protected. The encumbrances stay uncomfortably heavy at her feet, a needling weave stitching an anchor to the heart, a chain of force pulling backwards.
And so once the tried and true widow’s feet were planted firm upon the mountain top, she paused for a brief moment to claim for herself a much-deserved refreshing breath of air; breathing first in then out great swirls of unapproved hesitation.
At once she asked of herself, Is this really a wise endeavor? Will the garner of buried secrets fill the pot with gold at the rainbow’s end? Will there be found wealth or fame enough to warrant such an uncertain mission or is there a crushing blow to my soul lurking inside the vessels’ hollow in wait to howl, Glory! Glory! Such thoughts once considered, the weary widow prepared for her defeat an about face; but at that precise instant, a distant glance deterred the cowardly agreement.
Beautiful stone up ahead and underfoot as well, shined so brightly that the darkness felt within her heart immediately faded away to forgetfulness. In disbelief this time, the widow opened up the windows to her soul and looked again, but the repeated draw moved with a composed comprehensiveness.
She observed in amazement the lovely but frightening pathway that stretched out before her—long and rambling, seemingly untouchable yet pleading to be handled—slurped too closely at her fingertips.
This intriguing lay of stone was sure to be the pathway that most assuredly would lead the brave widow at last into the lake of well-kept secrets that for far too long had tugged at her heart strings.
The outstretched pavement stacked a seducing chain of gold stone, silver stone, bronze, copper and stone formed of brass. Some were even formations made of straw, wood, and clay.
Currently the stone to which the widow’s foot clings is one molded of pure gold, or so it seemed. This special stone had been molded long, long ago to its present-day sheen while enclosed within the walls of a small rural church building located in the southern community of Walker County, Alabama, called Enon.
The white frame structure was owned and sustained by the Enon Community Christians. The memorable event took place the year 1952 on the coldest day in the February or any other winter month as far as that goes-late evening of the third day.
Reflection from this magnificent stone (as the saying goes) ‘lit a fire’ under the widow’s cooling down feet and rekindled the previous bravery.
And so the fine lady’s arrival face to face with the defiant warning of KEEP OUT, once painted in a wicked black, has now cleaned up to a more tolerable appearance and has for over a period of fifty-six years held the patient widow at bay.
“No more,” said she, “today is the day that your snarling bluff shall surely be silenced. It’s time, old foe, for you to tumble and how great will be your fall.”
At once the refreshed widow sharpened her wits, forced open the posted warning to KEEP OUT from its common place center to the gates of her humble heart’s closure and forcefully cast it aside. At that moment, the gate fencing her entrance to the forthcoming journey swung outward. Inside her chest a dancing heart refused to sit this one out, already the dance had begun. Tears ran as if they were a river of diamonds and gilded the happy face of the aging widow. Right away, a bit bewildered but joyful, she moved on from the stone of purest gold, stepped through the open gateway then placed confident feet upon the next stone in line.
Thence its placement which towered over all others, she could see more clearly to the journey’s end. There were yet more stone. Some beautiful like diamonds spread in harmony with the one of purest gold.
However, further down life’s unpredictable footpath, the widow’s eyes swept over what seemed to be many more golden gems; but over time she, like many more of her own standing, had learned the hard way that not all that glitters is gold. The charming glitter that so mischievously drew her attention were stone sprinkled fat with the deceiver’s gold known as fool’s go