The Story of Jon

Jon was born in 1887 in the usual way a seven pound, fair skinned, blond haired, blue eye boy of European immigrants; his father one generation removed from the homeland and his mother only a few years new to a promising new country with hopes and dreams of a future without the famine and disease she experienced in the Highlands of what was once her home. Named after his grandfather, his father's father, an imposing figure of a man, it was believed that Jon would be a home for the spirit of his grandfather who struggled to educate his son hoping he would brake free from poverty who then became an accountant for the mines in the hills of the new west. His mother was a petite and seemingly gentle soul, well loved, and not very well known. She quietly hid the haunt of the specter of leaving a home where daily suffering befell depression which never left her. She mourned the loss of her family, her home, her way of life, and everything she knew. The promise of a good life with a good husband could not shake the heaviness that walked with her every step of her remaining life. Jon's father was too preoccupied with creating a wealth for the succeeding generations that he never took notice of his wife's torment. She lived the long journey aboard a ship that operated past it's time as steerage along the rails. She lived the humiliation of inspection, interrogation, queuing, waiting, pleading, the crying, the food, the facilities on the grand island of hope which she saw as dirty and demoralizing. She was quarantined and branded for 7 days but not ill. She greatly feared every moment of the sea, the island, the journey west, the prospect of an unknown life ahead of her, the fear of failing as her family had for generations, and the fear of her own father who was a tyrant of a man being born anew in her new husband she barely knew before marrying at the age of 16. Indeed Jon was born in the usual way for many. Vacuous of knowledge, innocent of any crime, and yet fit to serve the sentence of generations before him as it is still done today. Jon was born in the usual way.

Jon grew tall quickly as his father and grandfather had. He was stout and fair; handsome by anyone's measure. He was bright and liked to play rough though he possessed a gentle heart to the weak no doubt a gift from his mother. She was not always doting as she preoccupied her mind putting aside the fears she possessed. His father was also preoccupied with accounts and standing tall amongst the men in the town. Jon was alone most of his life free to explore anything without parameters as free as the cattlemen on the plains he would see from time to time. He quickly became a leader within the group of boys he played with adding only one or two as he became older. He led them without a doubt as Satan leads his minion straight into trouble most days. Though he was rarely punished by his father, except during a night of drinking, he left that chore to his wife. She was as hard as her father was. A laborer by day and drunkard by night, he was everything the vicar warned about. He was never around except to dole out punishment late into the night before staggering into the role of a marital rapist. She beat Jon with the anger that he gave. She beat Jon. She beat him. She beat him daily at times more than once rarely stopping for more than one or two days and as long as week. She was possessed with the only thing she knew about raising a child, the only thing she experienced, the only thing she was taught; violent rage. Jon grew tall quickly out of necessity as he began to tower over her making her fear him for the first time. The beatings became more savage as she was beating off the rage of her father now a shadow over her and a vision in her head. Jon symbolized the power of men even though he was still quite young. She beat him with all the strength she had which had become quite formidable. Jon grew tall quickly in that he understood that his mother was sick and that he should never raise a hand to her though he did one day block a slap to the face which put a fear on her face that Jon would never get over. His hand was high and reminiscent of a position she was all too familiar with. Jon grew tall quickly in that he knew that must never happen again.

Jon left school most days dreading going home. He was both rebelling against his upbringing and fearful to go home wanting to leave his town without anyone knowing. It was a sadness really. He mourned for what his life should have been and what his future will not be. He knew that he was damaged goods. He was broken. And when you are broken, “Does it matter where you go and what you do?” Still, Jon knew he would have to go home and face the consequences for his upbringing. “Children are what you make.”, he thought. “And what did you make of me? Heart ache, pain, suffering, fear?” Jon rebelled against fear the most while being fearful of going home. He would change that finally fighting back against his father's hand. He fought back as his mother tried to punish him. Jon saw the fear in their eyes. It was a necessary thing to do, and yet, the fear he brought to his mother and father felt wrong. “You don't lift a hand to your parents.” He hated that he did. He did not have respect for either of them and especially his father. “He is a cruel man. How does a man become so cruel?” He understood his mother more. “She was sick.” It made no sense to Jon why women would put up with such abuse – especially haven been abused themselves. There was no joy in anticipating going home. Still, Jon would take in the grasses and the leaves. He would go down to the creek as cold spring water rushed by. He would think that he would enjoy these things some day. He was lost in his mind mostly while the fear built up to a sickening feeling. Then he would walk home slowly knowing that he would have to pay a price he could not afford. Day after day, Jon became further away from his prayers for better days. Day after day, that sickening feeling grew worse.

Some days he did not come home until the sun was setting over the mountains and before he would be prey to the mountain lions just beyond the towns edge. He walked slowly and alone looking down most of the time. The town is alive with drunk miners and yet his street was barren. A ruckus in the bordello was distant to him. By now his friends have long left him. He walked down the street where he lived and ducked as not to be seen as he passed by putting off the moment where he would have to face his truth. He walked the streets again and again until finally the lights would go out. No one would wait up for him anymore. He could sneak in through the cellar sometimes. It was quieter than the heavy front door or even the kitchen door. His father would sometimes sleep in a chair in the back parlor so Jon could not sneak in there. The cellar was best if done at all. By morning he could sneak out again before anyone being the wiser. Jon left school most days sooner than it ended until one day he never returned. Then Jon was gone for good. Lost without anyone paying attention. Jon was gone now and only God or the Devil could reach him. And yet there was hardly a stir in the house where he was born 14 years earlier. That joyous day reduced to nothing now. Jon was gone and that was that. Nothing more to be said. Hardly a mention anywhere as people feared to bring up what they all knew was coming all along. It's not that Jon was good for nothing, he “was a fine boy, just wild that's all. Just wild.”

Jon began to walk west toward the mountains. His mind would wander. Walking seemed to have an effect on Jon. He thought of the good times and there were some good times. He thought about his teachers and kids he went to school with. He thought of his friends running around town getting into trouble. These were the best of times. He would miss his friends. He would wonder what would happen if he stayed. “Nothing good.”, thought. He saw stages in his life where fundamental changes were made. This time he would force a change. Not knowing what laid ahead of him, Jon imagined what his life could be. He had trouble thinking ahead. He was trying to think of good things being so close to everything he was escaping from.

Jon would stop from time to time and look around him. He looked at the fields of wild grass as something fresh. It was neat and clean and stretched further than he realized. He walked through the grass feeling the grass on his hands as he parted it. He could smell the suns warmth upon the grass. The grass was drying after going to seed. It was not as gentle as before. It seemed to scratch his hand some. He took a leaf and brought it up to his mouth trying to make music on the taught reed. He threw the leaf away before reaching the end of the field. He was nearing the road, well worn with deep ruts where the wagons would go. He sat there for a while taking a rest before going on.

Jon hitched a ride, so to speak, out of town that night with an old miner heading to the next mine. His opportunities burned up, the miner was looking for gold over the other side of the mountains. “You can't ride my horse and you can't ride my pack mule boy!” Jon lead the mule as he followed the miner on his horse through the cut in the mountain high up where the air was so thin Jon could hardly breathe. Jon narely spoke a word as the miner sang off the drunk that his last flakes of gold could buy eventually falling to one side or the other before calling it a night. “Can't use my pack boy!” “Get your own.” Jon made himself comfortable on the slope of a rock that sheared off thousands of years ago when the mountains pushed upward. He slept there till the sun come up but the drunken miner still laid where he fell. Jon rustled a rattler from under a rock and killed it. He started a small fire and strung the snake on a stick to cook. Just then the miner stirred. “Whatcha doin' boy?!” Jon turned his head and with contempt for drunkenness and intolerance for being called “boy”, he just starred. The miner dusted himself off and began to pack his mule still staggering partly from drink and partly because he did not have his barrings yet. Jon ate his snake and began to walk again leading the mule even higher till they crested the edge.

There they rested. Jon snared a rabbit for dinner. It was not much of a rabbit, too skinny for most. It was still a large rabbit all said and told. He shared the rabbit with the miner and both sat back this night with the miner moving slower and with purpose. He was sober tonight and did not snip at Jon as he did before. The miner even smiled slightly through the otherwise stoic glances.

“Where you from boy?” “Boy” took on a more fatherly tone and Jon felt a more warm feel for the man he had contempt for just the night before. “Oh here and there.” Jon replies. That was the only thing he knew to say. You see, Jon had wondered around for years and never thought of home as being his. He thought of the streets of the town as his home dodging in and out of one place or another. Jon did not want to really say either. He did not want to admit his shame. Jon learned hard lessons about talking too much. “It never profited a man”, he thought, “to say too much.” He was beat if he opened his mouth so he learn to shut it. Jon did not have the restraint it took to survive his father's drunken fits of rage who would take offense as quickly as he got drunk. And Jon could offend. His staccato way often got him in trouble. He was sometimes defended. “It is just his way.” one women said some years ago. “He don't know no better. You seen his parents. You seen his home. How can a boy like that ever learn anything. I feel for him some. He has hard rows to hoe in this world. He better learn quick!”

And there it is. Another adult looking down on Jon like so many. Little was ever said of him. There would be some kind words though not many. No one held a standard for Jon except for failure. Jon knew better. He was smart enough to get around people sometimes and was smart enough to avoid them too. For Jon, it was a necessity to manage his environment and escape it risking more judgment and scorn if he did not.

Jon studied the miner. He studied his face. It was worn by his travels, the hard work, and the exposure to the sun. He was gray with long hair and unshaven. The miner would just keep his eyes forward never looking to one side or the other. He was not a tall man. He was strong though time has robbed him of his vitality. He was as battle worn as his clothing. Except for his fur coat, the miner wore the same clothes he mined in. He would wash them out in a creek with some soap before ringing them out and throwing them over a branch to dry. The clothes were hardly dry before the miner put them on again. Jon got a good look at his face this time. He was once was a ruggedly handsome man. No doubt. Jon imagined that he was hurt by a woman scarring him with hurt and pain. Jon imagined that at one time the man had prospects only to leave it all behind him. Jon was not convinced that the man chose the life of a miner – at least not for a long time. No. He carried more weight on his pack mule than his gear. He packed away all his troubles, pain, and regrets too. He took them everywhere and would think of them with a long sigh from time to time.

The miner said, “You from somewhere boy. Speak up.” Jon felt the sharp tongue again though he understood. Jon told him, “I am not from nowhere. I left home a long time ago.” The miner did not push the boy. He understood as well as anyone could. He was “not from nowhere” too and left home when young. He said, “I don't even remember where I am from and when I left. It was cold though. Damn cold. I never got used to the cold.” Jon gave a slight nod as he thought about the cold he felt. “Yea. It was cold where I from.” as Jon looked away at nothing at all. The miner was a hard man only softening slightly. “You a good boy. I can see it. Anyone should see it like I do.” Jon looked back and looked at the miner longer than he had before. It welled up inside. He felt it behind the eyes. A sadness that was different than any sadness Jon had felt before. Jon began to think about what he has lost over the years. He never thought of it before. It never occurred to him.

Maybe he was wrong about the miner. Jon had seen good people go bad wondering from one town to the next. Perhaps the minor had some good in him still. Jon had no use for his father. He saw his mother as like a wounded dear lashing out and trying to run when someone would get close. Jon could see their scars. Jon was beginning to see scars as pain instead of what he thought before. He saw battles. He saw meanness meant for no one. The Miner asked, “Who hurt you son? I could see it in your eyes. You too young to hurt like me.” Jon did not want to answer. He took a small breath and a pause before admitting, “My dad was a hard man.” It was all Jon could say. How else could he tell a stranger what his father was like. “It is a shameful thing to admit.”, he thought. Jon never imagined he would have been asked that question so he did not have an answer.

“Better turn in.”, the miner said. “There's a blanket on my mule.” And that was it. Time to turn in. Jon just sat there for a while thinking about the night before slowly getting up to get the blanket. He wrapped up warm. It was cold and getting colder. “The blanket would have to hold him.”, he thought. And soon, the sadness Jon felt turned to a deep sleep.

Jon woke up early. He rekindled the fire and put some wood on it before making coffee from the miners kit. The air was clear and the next mountain laid just on the other side of town. It was a long way, but Jon could see clearly the jagged rocks, the weather worn pines, and the wagon trail weaving up the side of the mountain. Jon thought to himself that there was no finer morning. Jon looked over the valley and imagined living there. He was like anyone, he wanted to be appreciated and loved. He imagined a house finely furnished and painted as white as a newly bleached shirt. He could see himself sitting on a porch rocking the evenings away just as clearly as he sees his wife coming to join him, It was all just fantasy. To Jon it all felt real - at least for the moment. As the sun came over the mountain ridge, Jon could smell the warming of the alpines and the needles. Jon wondered why they could not capture that smell and use it for candles or perfume. He smelled the cedars amongst the pines. Cedar was different. It was shorter, more rugged, and a bit spindly. Cedar was more susceptible to the decades of wind and rain. Where alpines stood tall and straight, cedar with all of it's strength would be shaped by times ravages. Jon lost himself for a good while.

The town was clear down in the valley. It would be like the one he just left of course. He knew that. What was promising was there was another mine where he could be on the payroll without detection. After all, what did he not know about mining growing up in a town where damn near everything was mining. It was just another step on the road to another place. Just a way to afford more than rattlesnakes on the road. It would not take long before Jon would be found by travelers so he would lay low and say nothing and do his job. Nothing more. He learned that the quieter he was, the less people bothered with him. There is comfort in this if you want to go dark in the night. He learned that well enough walking the streets waiting to go home. They descended down the mountain as Jon imagined how best to hide in a crowd. This town would do but only for a little while. Then he would leave again. “Yep.” He would be gone just like before starting a well planned pattern that should get him by for a while. At least until he figures out what to do next.

He and the miner parted ways at the base of the mountain. Jon walked to town on his own. It was much further than the thought. Jon hunted a rabbit, then a couple of rattlers again squatting silently near the fire to eat. He was cold at night and shivered but persevered stoically with a single vision of escaping and starting a new life. He saw promise in this. He had no home to speak of so what was he missing? “Nothing” he figured. He could not go home now. Likely he would be kicked out of the house. “You're man enough to be away so long you're man enough to leave and git gone.” he imagined his father saying. So he thought it was “best to git gone” never knowing what happened since he left. Jon dipped himself in a water tank used by the mine to clean off. He was burned up so he would need a couple of days out of the sun. He dove into a cellar window of the local church and hid there going out at night to hunt and eat. He was hungry alright. Rabbits were hard to come by now. Rattlers leave you running. He would sneak an apple or two from a cart outside of the market when he could. Apples were prized possessions since they only just been planted in groves for the past few years or so. They were good too. Sweet and fine as anything he ever ate. “Damn! Rabbits and apples. Nothin' better.”, he thought. A few more dips in the water tank, a few more days, rabbits, rattlers, and apples, and Jon was ready for work. “Best not to go to the mine office. Best not to go to the assay office neither. Best just to go to the mine directly and look for work if at all.” “What to say?”, he thought. “Best be careful what you say too.” He pondered this all the last night before setting out in the morning.

At sunrise, Jon could see the miners walking to the mine. He could see them filtering into the mine entrance, the mine office, the assay office, the out buildings, the lift house, the pump house, the engine house, and it seemed that one man stood out conducting people off their course and onto another. “That's the man to talk to.”, Jon thought. “Best be him.” As he walked he thought, “Best not be Mackey. Best not be Hopper neither.” Jon raced names around in his head, looking away when people looked at him. Who does he know here? Jon tried to remember anyone who had been at the house. Then Jon thought he “Best not look like a convict neither. Best not draw attention.” “Good.”, he thought. “He ain't familiar to me.” So Jon straightened up and walked right to the man he thought would be a mine foreman. If there was anything his father taught him was to be bold as brass if you want something. So bold as brass he was. He imagined he was told to see this man about a job. “I can swing a pick with the best of them.”, Jon barked as he stretched out his hand to shake his. “You kinda young boy!” Jon choked back all his pride. “I can swing a pick with the best of them.” Best keep the message simple he thought. “You look strong enough.” “Yep.” Jon's build would help him today but would be a detraction inside the mine with it's low overhead. He knew it but would sacrifice what he needed to be able to eat a steak again. Jon shook his head to one side and repeated with a smile, “I can swing a pick with the best of them.” The foreman was instantly disarmed. “I could take a shinnin' to you son. Be careful what you wish for.” “Yessir.” The foreman reached in his pocked for a book of vouchers and began to write. “Get some gear son. Get what you need from the store there and come back tomorrow.” “Best start tomorrow. I will have a partner for you. Show you the ropes then son.” Jon thanked the man and did what he was told. As easy as that Jon had a job. It seemed that Jon's whole life went that way. Easy sometimes. They must of liked his strapping good looks, his manly adult charm, his smile. He was grown for his age and still possessed that boyish charm that no one wanted to resist. It seemed that strangers were better to Jon than he deserved if he told it. “Best to take advantage. Yep. Best take advantage.”

Now Jon didn't know that the foreman marked the voucher. This means that Jon had a place to stay and that Jon would be shown a big cabin with sixteen bunk beds. He had a place to put his gear and his head for the night. That was more than Jon had in almost two weeks. Jon would also have some beans and salt pork too. “Not as good as rabbit, but easier to catch.”, he thought to himself. “Yessir. This is the life for a boy on his own.”, as he stretched out his feet hanging his boots over the top rail. “Nare a worry in the world.” So Jon waited the day napping here and there till the miners spilled in. “Damn! They was drinking already?” Jon did not like noisy drunks. Had his “belly full of 'em” at home. But this is the life of a miner if you want to be one and Jon knew it. It was not long before it was quiet again except the slapping of the screen door when a miner stumbled in to go to bed. It was startling if you were not used to it. One by one they all fell to their deaths for the night only to be woken by the mine bell.

It was a rough night for some, but Jon was ready. He was clean, dressed, and walking toward the mine before the bell rang. He walked fast and with a purpose. He shook the hand of the foreman as he greeted him. “Go with Robert there.”, instructed the foreman. “He will show you what to do.” And with that Jon was set.

Jon walked toward the mine. It was older than the one at home. It might have been quite old. You can tell by the smell. Old wet timbers change their smell over time and these timbers are quite old and wet. Fresh cut timbers smell welcoming. Old timbers smell of damp and age like “the woods” after a good soak where the leaves that have accumulated over the years and have compacted themselves as they deteriorate. This mine smelled like old wood, a lot of old wood. You can smell the ore too as it is cracked from the mountain. There were the tall tailings of ore to one side of the entrance. Mountains of them it seemed. Wet ore and ore dust was strewn all up and down the mine floor over the decades making the smell unmistakable. Wet old timbers and ore. For Jon this mine would be more forbidding than the mine at home where he would play and get chased away when small. That was a young mine. Not like this one.

As Jon walked toward the mine he remembered the many miners who would just look at you at quitting time like they had nothing inside them, a disturbing sight, almost unholy, like you were staring into a dead mans eyes. He remembered their stoic demeanor almost anytime of the day. There was little chit-chat or simple pleasantries except in the morning or evening in the changing room or at home when a banjo, mandolin, or harmonica was handy. They would sing the old songs of hardship and woe from the old country with a mix of mining songs as if the two were interchangeable. Jon began to feel awesome responsibility as if he was to join a long line of miners. There was a beginning sense of belonging to an exclusive club who's members paid their dues through decades of toil, sweat, and blood. Jon wondered if he would measure up. These were serious men doing the work of real men in a job that few would take on. Somehow he felt a superiority over more timid men that would quickly distance themselves from the mine. Jon knew that, over time, he would measure men by the work they do. Who could measure up more than a miner? Few will. Damn few can.

As Jon got closer, he could feel the air from the mine rush by him still quite a distance away. Yep. This mine is much older and larger too. The air rushed out of the face of the mine fast and it was very cold as he approached. It was not like mountain air at the peaks where it would be brisk and dry. The mine was damp. You would shiver and you could not stop shivering as you got closer. And it was damned cold once you got inside. Sweat made it worse. “Best not wear a jacket to the mine.” The work would heat you up and most miners would strip down to their undershirts before long. Then you would sweat as that cold damp air came over you. It was not uncommon for a miner to get pneumonia even in warmer months. And with the ore dust, it could be lethal. Miners would work when sick. They could not afford to lose a day's pay let alone a week or more. Don't tell the doctor either. He worked for the mine. Treat it at home where it is quiet. The miners wives knew what to do and they would nurse any miner back to health if it was possible and they would get you back on your feet very quickly even if you were not at your very best.

Jon could smell the sweat going through the mine and you can smell the breath of men toiling the work suited for the damned. “Its a hell-of-a smell.”, Jon thought as he began to duck down to enter the mine knowing that this was the best of it. As Jon went deeper, the mine got smaller. There was no place to stretch out beyond a stoop after a while. Some places you had to crawl over loose ore that would slice your pants and cut your knees leaving the warmth of blood and the feeling of wet pants. That was another smell of a mine. Many men would leave blood behind. The old timers would wrap their knees and lower legs with old well used rags. Jon knew this but did not think to get any rags before he left. He would remember tomorrow. It was excruciating as he went on and it seemed as though he would never stand again. It was tight. Big enough for a strong man but not big enough for a fat man. Miners were strong and lean. The passage was just enough to get through. Jon felt a twinge of fright and he fought back against it. “If I am to be a man, I cannot be afraid of a hole.” He went on and the fear grew greater as Jon got snagged on a jag or two as he went further in. Still Jon fought back. “I will get used to this eventually.”, he thought. “Others have. I will. Be a man and not a boy.” Jon fought on and then the mine would open up again to a large room. Jon never thought that such a place inside the earth ever existed. It was part of a natural cavern on one side and cut face on the other. There was a very large steel bucket that lead to the surface for taking ore out. It was a shaft. A shaft head tower stood above him with huge sets of pulleys and an engine to lift the ore out. It was slower than taking ore out of other parts of the mine. Still, it was faster than carrying ore or using a muck and a cart that you had to push and pull up to the surface.

Jon went deep to the end of the face to set dynamite. It was damp now. You have to acclimate the dynamite overnight so fresh dynamite was lowered during the night for blasting during the day. “It smelled like bananas.” not like on top where you would smell the paper. It was all overwhelming. Jon was with about a dozen men who used a star chisel and sledge to drill the blast holes. It was slow work as the ore was hard and Jon hung in as best he could. “Don't show them a boy.”, he thought as he struggled at times to swing a sledge or hold the chisel straight. It took nearly all day before the dynamite was inserted into the holes and the fuses set. The fuses had to be tied together just right to a fuse on a roll that was then brought back through that “God awful” hole again. “Fire in the hole!” was shouted three times by the blast foremen before the fuse was lit. The miners took their place for safety behind face walls, old fallen ceilings, down mine fingers, but never behind a pillar that could fail from time to time. The blast forced air from the mine and would knock the strongest man off his feet. The dust was great and rock would go by you like bullets. And then the air would rush back into the mine just as fast. It would be a while before the mine would be cleared of dust to see anything at all. The shaft for the ore bucket let air in and moved the dust throughout the mine. Miners would wear bandannas to keep the dust from their lungs. Another thing Jon did not remember to bring. Jon tasted the ore as he spit it out and dusted himself off. And then there was the final smell. “Powder.”, Jon thought. It was pungent and would go through the mine far slower than the dust. The muckers rushed to the cut face wall before Jon knew what to do. Jon went in with them just behind to remove the rock blasted from the face wall. It would have to be broken up and Jon quickly took a sledge and began to break up the rock so that it could be picked up and fit in the ore bucket. It was back breaking. Those words never mean anything until you are there doing the work. Jon was not used to this work but he would be soon enough. When it was time to leave the mine, Jon could hardly make it out. And when Jon laid down for the night, he understood the looks the miners gave him when leaving the mine back home. You leave with nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing left to give.

The next few months passed faster and faster as time went on. The work was hard though not as hard as being home. Jon could never compare the two. Except to say they were a struggle. He was beginning to get used to having something to eat, people close by, and some friendly words here and there. Not what he was used to at home. He thought he would never get used to it but he did. He did not notice that he had friends now and spoke more than he ever had. Do not get me wrong, Jon still measured his words and spoke as little as possible. Now Jon had people he could say “Hello.” to without consequence. He thought of them as his friends even if it was just a word or two here and there. Some even took him under their wing and soon he could laugh at night as the miners sat around the bunk house bullshitting. Jon liked this. Jon was a bullshitter and could measure his skills against the “best of 'em”. Jon was smiling more than he ever had these nights. It was strange to him. He felt vulnerable, weak, like he will be discovered as an impostor, like he was messing up somehow, like he would regret it. He struggled not to let the men know too much about him. He did let 'em know a bit, something about his town and things that do not really say too much. He never gave too much away. Jon began to feel safer even fighting his nature to close up and become suspicious of people's motives. He wondered if anyone would recognize him after these months. He felt as though his world would end if they did. The truth is that no one at home thought of Jon. He was as forgotten as that stranger who hung out the courthouse back home after one of the miners was shot. Jon was less worried about being seen. For him, it was not their concern and Jon would put out his chest as if he were saying “Come mess with me.” – “I dare ya.”.

And the miners were cautious too. Too many of them die. Too many leave the mine and do not come back. The miners were just as guarded though they also knew that telling is not the same as knowing. Stories won't hurt you if the details aren't right. Jon sometimes took the stories a little too literally as if they really happened that way. It was just his age though he had some idea from home. He knew that miners tell half truths. It was “best” not to count on anything a miners says as gospel. Unless the miner was married and has children, it was better not to trust them too much. Many miners had a past. It was not just work for them but a place to hide just like it is for Jon. And what was better than a hole in the ground to hide in? Jon began to sort his character out for himself more and more over time. He just did not realize the depth of it all. Jon was growing up.

Jon trusted the foreman. There was a line that no one dare cross between a miner and the people who run the mine. They were easy to spot in their suits. They never talked to the miners. They would just glance at you without any of the pleasantries. Foremen were miners that talked to the “stiff shirts”. Foremen have been known to lie for the company though there were always clues to what the truth really was. The “stiffs” were lousy liars and relied upon the foremen to do their dirty work. Some foreman you knew would not lie to you face to face just at the meetings at the start of a shift that the “stiff” would attend. The foreman that started Jon, was different. The foreman did not speak too much at work. It was all business with him. Still, Jon was able to get a few sentences out of him and they were able to build a trust between the two. If Jon knew something, however he got it, he would never tell. Jon was in a good position where there was trust with the foreman and being young enough that miners did not turn to him for any news. Jon would just listen. Listening was better than gold sometimes. Any small town news paper would report the news but could not replace the news that spread around as gossip. Anyone in a small town knows this.

There were miners in the camps, miners in the boarding houses, and miners who settled in town in hotels and houses. There was a class distinction between them. Miners in the camps had money to spend and would run off to another town as they pleased. They were trusted the least, same with the miners in boarding houses. The miners in the hotels and houses were looking for something more permanent, a place to hang their hat. They had possessions and blended with the people of the town. They were not the rowdy bunch that came in on payday to get drunk, gamble, and visit the bordello. There was a higher expectation if you lived in town. There was a divide and the gossip would be different between the two sets of miners. One was of riches in the next town and the other of riches in this town. Jon could learn a lot from the two. He knew this and would work his way into smaller circles that could give access to the news. It was easy for Jon to know what gossip was true. It was a matter of contradiction in the gossip and how closer to the source it seemed. Stories would get wild and new spoken facts would appear. If you listen in the right places, you knew what the truth was and Jon wanted to know his future. Jon stood out. He was from the camps but behaved as someone from the town. He seemed settled and this was important to Jon. It seemed to open a few doors for Jon too. Jon had respect from the different miners and the people in town. He was well liked.

It was about eight months and Jon was already looking much the man he had become and less of the boy that walked in. He was bigger, leaner, and somewhat worn like a hansom ceder fence just put up last year. He was sharp too. He had moved up and was about to begin working at the pump house or the lift house from time to time. He would catch on quickly and the foreman liked that. Jon could be trusted. He never said anything at all. He just did his work, stayed clean and sober, never gambled, and was polite when spoken too. Not like he was taught. Not like what people at home expected of him. For he was a loser punk kid in his home town and he is an honorable man in this one. It felt natural to him, his new life, the people he knew, and the dignity of work. How could there be such a difference? He felt as though his natural self is represented here. He wondered how so many people came to dislike him so at home. It was his family, it was the negativity, the towns peoples gossip, it was fear, it was many things. And while Jon had some responsibilities, he did not wear the weight of the people from his past as much as before. He felt lighter, less burdened. He liked his new life.

He was almost sixteen and nearly as big as anyone there. There was not too much trouble for Jon because he was still a kid. “Leave the boy alone!”, some would bark. Others would fight for Jon. Time was good to Jon as Jon had settled in, but the blacksmiths fire had something to say about that. Jon was hard iron for sure. Heated by trial and beaten hard by hard hammers over a lifetime. Some could not see Jon as a man but as a boy. Sure he looked young, anyone could see that for themselves and yet, so many men treated him as an equal, grown up, and worthy of their time, while few did not. Jon did not think too much about it. He simply put it out of his mind, Sure it hurt, but Jon knew that it would all end in just a few years. No more badgering. For even they will respect him as he got older.

Like at home, Jon would duck in and out of places here and there. He found that he could help people when he had the time. He would stock the bar when it was crowded, he helped the restaurant clean the table cloths and napkins or do the dishes in the kitchen, he would tend to horses at the livery, he would sweep the boardwalk up and down the town, anywhere he could help. He would meet people that way. Jon said little, And he was appreciated for the things he did. He never got too close with anyone, but he would be rewarded for time to time. Jon refused money, but was rewarded with a meal or a drink, little things. He did like the bar owners daughter. He would watch her work or try and talk to her when he restocked the bar. She was busy and never said too much. Pleasantries sometimes, and of course she would ask for a brand of liqueur from the back room or anything she needed. Jon felt it was not going be easy getting to know her. There was too little time or when there was a minute or two, she knew her role as a server and she knew Jon's role as a customer. It was hard to get past their roles, but opportunities would avail themselves from time to time where Jon would think that he could crack her shell to see what was inside. She liked Jon, or so it seemed, with her glances and smiles, it seemed at that moment that they shared a little secret between them. “She sure is beautiful.” He would feel a bit of a skip in his heart when he saw her. With her crimson hair and bright blue eyes, Jon could not imagine a prettier girl. She was about Jon's age and quite feisty with the drunken miners. “Could she like a miner?”, Jon would think. It was a battle in his head. “What is my place in her world?” Jon would soon have his answer.

It was a bright day, fresh warm air that smelled of dust and the far away grasses, and a nice breeze to keep it all in check. Jon was enjoying the weather after breakfast as he stepped out on the boardwalk. Jon lit a pipe which he just picked up the other day. It was a rare day where Jon had gotten a day off. He sat on one of the rockers outside the general store, put his feet up, and began rocking attending to his pipe here and there. “I could sit here all day.”, he thought, so Jon enjoyed watching people as they went about their day. He would sometimes wonder what they were up to and put dialog in their mouths when he could not hear. His mind was busy supposing peoples lives, when a horse drew up quickly, the rider dismounted and loosely tied the horse to the rail. Then as fast as the rider arrived, just a few long strides and they were gone again inside the store. Jon did not get to see who rode up so quickly to only vanish seemingly into thin air. He got a feeling he knew who the rider was though he could not say for sure. All he knew was the rider was wearing light swede leather pants and jacket and boots. It could be almost anyone from his description. And yet, the feeling inside of Jon deep within his bowels echoed an image. The image of the bar owner's daughter was all he could think of. Jon's heart skipped a beat. He wondered, “What if it is her? Would I even get to say hello?” He fumbled around in his mind when he got his answer. She steps through the door and stands there for a few seconds. “Your name Jon?” “Why yes ma'am.” he replied. They had not been introduced before. Jon knew here name by overhearing it. She sticks out her hand to shake Jon's and says, “I am Rita after my aunt.”. “Rita, I like that name. It is short and simple. Nothing complicated about it. Straight to the point.” Jon thought of his own name. It too is simple and to the point, however it also speaks of strength. She sits in another rocker close to Jon. “Mind if I have a smoke?” Jon was taken aback. “A woman that smokes?”, he thought. “Why not?” She pulled a cheroot from her breast pocket and lit it. “Ever have one of these?” “No.”, Jon replied. She reached into her pocket and pulled out another cheroot handing it to Jon. “Save this one for later.” You might like it.” she says as she stares off into the distance. “I'm sure I will.”, Jon replies.

They sat there quietly rocking saying little. Then she spoke. “I don't say much. I hear you don't either.” Jon laughed a small laugh as he smiles and says, “You got that right.” I don't say nothin' especially to strangers.” “Am I a stranger?” “No.” Jon replied, “Best not be.” They continued rocking sitting quietly. “I noticed you.”, she said. “I noticed you too. Your the prettiest girl in town. You got me tongue tied when I see you.” “I know.”, she replies. With that, she got up and mounted her horse and said, “See you again?” She spun the horse around and took off just as quickly as she arrived.

She and Jon did share some time and a few words here and there. But as it seemed, there was still a barrier Jon had to cross. And for Jon, it seemed impossible. It had become clear that she liked him and Jon liked her. They did get quite familiar with each other over time sharing a look and a smile as if they were the only two where ever they were. People in town began to notice them too. It was expected that they were a couple. She denied it. And with Jon's ways, he shied away from such talk. There was no courting. Jon wanted to break the barrier but could not get out of the invisible box she put him in. There was no getting past it.

Jon did not know what love was. He did not know how men and women should be with each other. He did not know how to get a girl interested in him or what to do if they were. His parents did not love each other or so it seemed. There was no tenderness, no cooperation, no bond between them. Jon had little examples of love in his life. He did not know what love should be because he rarely experienced it. Still, there were loving couples and children Jon knew. Jon imagined what love was watching them. He would learn as much as he could. Even then, with the disrespect given his parents and by extension him, he mostly knew hate and disrespect. Jon was unable to love that bar owners daughter though he tried. He liked her, there was a real affection for her. She was magnificent. Jon did not know how to tell her his thoughts for her. It was another fear in him he would have to conquer. He never had the chance. And with that, Jon focused on his work spending more time there taking on responsibilities and learning what he could.

It was about the time the mine bell would ring and Jon was already up. But the bell rang early it seemed. Sure enough, there was smoke coming out of the mine shaft. The bell was to alarm the miners of the fire. Jon ran to the pump house and began to run a fire hose. The pump house pumped water out of the mine and pumped water into the mine where is was needed. There was not too much hose and Jon could only get only part way into the mine. Some miners were already in the mine to set the timbers and were working through the night when a lamp tipped over and set the stacks a blaze. It was spreading through the timbers and heading toward the top of the mine quickly. The timber crew mostly got out, but a few remained. Jon ran in but the flames raced through the stacks too quickly to be of any use. Men were lost and the mine had begun to fall in. The stacks and trusses surely collapsed by now. No way to get into the mine to save anybody. The lift houses were busy pulling miners to safety with the lifts. The pump house was pumping as much water as it could. Jon and others proved to be too small to put the blaze to rest. It was over. Men lost their lives and the mine would be shut down for a good while if it opened at all. It was a long day when finally the fire was under control just as the sun sets. There was nothing left to burn. The mine collapsed in places and it was impossible to tell the extent of the damage. Jon could smell the burned damp timbers and little else. There was another smell Jon knew. It was flesh. He knew it from a barn fire back home. Only it was much worse this time, a smell that would never leave like a ghost forever haunting you long after their death.

The whole of the thing was too much for most of the miners. Some cried. Others just sat there. The wives and some of the older children held away for safety came to see who was left. Maybe their husbands could be found safe all fearing the worst. It is the plight of a miners wife to wonder which day their husbands would not come home. Would a rock fall on them? Would they get caught in a blast? Miners were known to fight and some miners were killed in fights. There was no law inside the earth. The truth never made it to the surface. Which day would it be? Today? Was it today? Wives shouted names. There was so much confusion as people tried to find their way through the dark looking for the survivors and loved ones as bodies were recovered. There were tears when people were reunited with their loved ones and tears when they were not. Only the sun could help as it rose over the mountain. You could see faces then as the last of them found each other and the foreman's tally was finished. It is like the devil came calling as the preacher said prayers throughout the day and all night long into the morning. There was work to be done. Caskets made, graves dug, as some miners cleared what they could to recover who they could. “Would I recognize them?”, Jon thought as he worked. “How can we return them to their families when they are so badly burned?” It was dirty work and it had to be done. Jon felt a duty to find the dead and return them home. And when he could not find them all, he felt empty, like he failed somehow. “Could I have done more?”, he thought. “No. All was done that could be done.”

Prayers went to God that night. If ever there was ever a time, this was it. People prayed that never did before. Jon did not believe in God much even though his grandmother would take him every Sunday she could, He was not sure that God would hear him now. Still, he prayed where he could between bodies and timbers as he moved them. He thought that, “Hell has to be like this.” He could not imagine anything worse. Jon grew up that night. It changed him. He became slower and more thoughtful. He was quiet before, but now he seemed to take on a more somber quiet. Like someone who has seen too much. Jon never let on just how hurt he was or how it effected him. He would just look off to nowhere and stare lost in his own mind. He would go inside himself to a world where his mind would wander here and there and nowhere. That sadness would come back behind his eyes again and it was much stronger now. It was “best” not to shake him or ask him what he was thinking. You would not get an answer anyway. He would just say, “Hum.” and look away again in another direction. “Let him be.”, someone said. That was sound advice. “Best let him make his own peace with God for his own sins and remember the dead as he should. Best let him make peace with himself.”

Jon went to bed that night while many of the remaining miners pulled out for greener pastures. By morning the bunk houses were nearly empty and the hotels and saloons were vacant. What was left would have to rebuild or move on. Jon thought it best to move on but felt a duty to stay behind. Word got around fast and Jon knew, if he wanted to stay hidden, he would have to head west. “Best go for the coast.”, he thought. But Jon felt a strong duty to stay and vowed to stay if needed. By that evening his mind was made for him. The mine was shut down. Nothing he could do about that. So he left. He bought a horse and a small wagon and headed west on a trail well worn by fortune seekers and fortunes lost and headed over the next ridge a bit higher than before. He knew what to do. Not as wide eyed, this time he would build a house. This time he would settle in. This time he might get married having never thought this way before, he was hopeful for a partner to share a life with. It would not be his fathers life. It would not be his mothers life either. It would be Jon's to make and, “It damn sure was not going to be what he was taught.” Not this time, the man would not be so hard. Not to his woman. not to his kids either. No. He would take a gentle hand and lead. Something he only saw at the mine from the foreman and a few others. Jon never thought of it till now, the foreman was a damn good man. He was as strong and tough as any man, but Jon was remembering his smile now, his gentle guidance, how he got work out of the miners. Jon had learned so much.

Jon had escaped. His fears behind him, the further west he went, the easier he felt. He met quite a few men who had taught him what it meant to be a man and others who taught him how to be a man. One in particular Jon hoped to see again. Jon wondered what happened to the miner he met when he left home. Somehow Jon could measure men by his time with him and others. He was as hard a man to be sure as a man should be, but Jon remembered his eyes and what he thought was a deep loss behind them. The miner must have felt the sadness too. Not like the other miners. Jon saw his time with him as telling Jon's story too. He felt he understood the man, the real man, and there was no guessing either. Jon felt he understood him through his own life's experiences. Jon knew if he were to ever understand a man, he would have to know him and that took looking into his own life. Jon knew that for anyone to understand him, Jon would have to share some time and more than a few words. Still not too many. Not ready for that yet. Nope. Not ready for that at all. Still, he would try.