The UBB Memorial and More

It was, as Larry had warned, a good step out of our way to visit the memorial to the miners killed in the explosion at the Upper Big Branch mine. We followed the Big Coal River as it snaked its way through one mining community after another.

Most of the mines in the area appear to be shut down although there were a couple that looked like they were still in operation.

Empty houses lined the road in some places; in others, neatly kept homes with mowed lawns.

A damaged swinging bridge led across the river to what looked like a whole community of empty houses.

Whitesville has definitely seen better days.

Most of the storefronts were empty, and on this Saturday night the streets were almost deserted.

Larry remembered when tractor trailer trucks lined the main street and the sidewalks were crowded with people; today the lone stoplight seems like a leftover from those better days.

But the memorial is a work of art, well-kept and striking in its position by the side of the road. Another car pulled away as we arrived and I was glad to know we weren't the only visitors on this rainy evening.

More than just a listing of names and dates, the memorial includes a history of coal mining in West Virginia as well as a detailed account of how the explosion happened. For someone like me, both are valuable tools to understanding the tragedy and the reasons for it. Sadly, it was neglect, ordered by the mine operators, of standard safety procedures that caused this accident. While culpability was charged and some went to jail, even justice cannot bring back the men lost. One of them, I remembered, is buried in Larry's family cemetery. As far as we know he is no relation to Larry but must have some connection to someone in the Holstein family.

We left, both of us quiet as we thought about the miners, their families, the memorial.

The road twisted and turned and then opened up to several long straight stretches. This is the area known as Twin Poplars, named for two huge poplar trees that once stood at either end of the straight stretches of road. I remembered when, about 10 years ago, I told ghost stories at the middle school in Whitesville. the principal told a story about Twin Poplars. As I remember it, he said that the area was popular for drag racing back in the 1950's. One night two boys faced off in the game called "Chicken," where the drivers head straight for each other until one "chickens out" and veers away, avoiding a collision. (Flashback to James Dean.) This time, neither one veered off in time, and both were killed. The principal said that if you are on the road late at night on the anniversary of the accident, you may see a car coming right at you at full speed, but it will disappear just as you are sure you're going to die. I have never found any other version of his chilling tale.

Twin Poplars, WV

Southern West Virginia is struggling, and yet there is such heart there, and such welcoming courtesy. This last was exemplified by the man I asked for directions to the memorial. "Yes ma'am," he said, "you're goin' the right way. Just keep goin' til you get to Whitesville. You can't miss it." He touched the bill of his cap, and pulled away in his 1980's primer-painted Ford pickup.

Manners. Even hard times can't erase them.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Indian Creek: Searching for the Past

We were on our way to Charleston after I attended a writing workshop this past Saturday. Our goal was to be at the bookstore to hear some live music, have a glass of wine or beer and perhaps see some friends at the store. But a sudden idea struck me.

"How far is it to where your mother grew up?", I asked my husband.

"Well, if we turn here, it's not too far. We can still get to Charleston in plenty of time, I think." He turned quickly onto WV Route 3. "She grew up in Indian Creek. I haven't been there in years."

Indian Creek, according to his granny Virgie, was so named because Indian women would do their wash there in the creek. Virgie loved to tell ghost stories ("haint tales" she called them), and this was one of her favorites.

"Them Indian wimmen would knee there by the creek and you can still see the places where they'd kneel and the rocks where they'd scrub the clothes. There was another rock, kindly scooped out, and that's where they'd lay their little babies. If you go there at night, you can hear them Indian wimmen singing, hear their little babies cryin'. I ain't never heard it myself, but it's what people say."

As we drove along Route 3 a little park caught our eyes. Drawdy Falls, the sign read. Larry did not remember it being there when last he drove the road, at least 40 years ago. The park is maintained by local residents, and when we were there it was clean as a pin, a testament to their work and attention.

Drawdy Falls are known for the way the falls wrap around the park. I could not get photos of the best part of the falls because the water was very high from recent storms and to get that photo, I would have to walk out into the creek.

But it was beautiful to see, and the grounds were so pretty, shaded over by tall trees and overhung by high rock cliffs.

Someone had put up a lean-to shelter, apparently having spent a night or two there.

Was this the place Granny Virgie referred to in her story? It surely could have been. The falls and the rapids below would be good places to wash clothes and there is probably always a deep water hole in the creek in that area. A sign noted that remains of ancien Indian camps have been found here, with several artifacts recovered. Given its ideal location--sheltered and protected by the cliffs but with good flat areas for camping and plenty of water and fuel for fires (wood and coal both abundant)--it seems very likely. We heard nothing of course, but it was daytime.

We drove a little further and came to a bridge across the Big Coal River. This bridge accessed the community of Indian Creek, a small settlement on the banks of the river and the creek. As far as Larry could remember, there had never been a bridge there, and certainly there was not one when his mother (Dollie May Walls) lived there. Probably there was a ford in the river and perhaps even a stout swinging walking bridge, as there are several of those still in use in the area.

Larry did not know where in the little community his mother might have lived, or how long her family was there. Coal miners followed work--if word came of a new mine opening or better working and living conditions in another coal camp, families often just pulled up stakes and moved. Few actually owned their homes anyway; most of the land was owned by coal and timber companies who rented homes and lots to the miners and their families.

He also does not know how his mother met his father. His father was raised in Cabin Creek, WV, a large coal-mining area. After marrying, his parents settled down briefly in Witcher Creek, WV (so named, the stories go, for witches who once lived there, a story for another post). This was some distance across steep mountains from Indian Creek, so we surmise that his mother's family moved somewhere near Cabin Creek for work, and she met his father there. His oldest brother and sister, I believe, were born on Witcher.

When we left Indian Creek we continued along Route 3 through Bloomingrose (I love that name) and a few other former coal camps, Larry pointing out some places he remembered and the mine where he almost went to work. Thank goodness he did not, or I might never have met him, and his life would have certainly been far different.

As we were turning to go north on WV Route 94, another sign caught my eye--UBB Memorial, it said, the arrow pointing to the road we were already on. "We need to go there," I said.

"We won't get to Charleston in time then," Larry replied. "But I'm game if you are." So instead of turning north, we continued south.

I'll have more about our trip in tomorrow's post. There is a lot more to tell.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.