Where Your Treasure Lies

Heaven's Gate holler is just outside Cow Creek and about three miles in length down a pot-holed, gravel road. There's one tidy little house at the mouth of the holler, then just rusty old coal tipples, big tumbledown machines, abandoned cars, and other junk scattered here and there, left from the coal mining days, I'm guessin'. Two dirt roads growed over with brush head off into nowhere, probably abandoned mines. It don't look a bit like I imagine heaven. I asked Mr. Solomon once how it got that name. He said his kinfolk named it that long before his time, and he still remembers it looking like paradise before the coal companies came. Pinched between my legs my Mountain Dew keeps wantin' to slosh onto my uniform. There's a row of old burned down houses along the road. Mr. Solomon said they was old Jenny Lind houses and a company store for the mine workers. “How'd they burn down?” I asked once. “Fire.” “But what happened?” He acted like he didn't hear me, looked afar off. “Mr. Solomon?” “Just let the past lay,” He gruffed and creaked off to his bedroom. I didn't bring it up again. These hills keep folks separated, like we's all got our own hidey-hole in our family's hollers. Growed our own food, took care of each other and our livestock, lived off the land for generations, and buried our dead in our own hollers. For most folks, our neighbors and friends are our kin. We don't need nobody else. We kindly like to stick to ourselves. Mr. Solomon's all by hisself in Heaven's Gate holler. Got his own kingdom, for what it's worth. The gravel ends and there's another quarter mile or so down a bumpity dirt road. At the head of the holler is Mr. Solomon's house. Said it was where he was born and raised. It don't look like much of a house. More like a bunch of old boards and tar paper stuck together. It's seen better days, that's for sure. Inside is drafty and the floors, some with layers of ripped linoleum stapled to them and some bare wood, swoop up and down. His toilet is outside but, thank you, Lord, he does have a sink inside in the kitchen and electricity. Otherwise, I don't know what I'd do. Probably have to haul in fresh water to wash him with. As it is I have to heat water in the old kettle and what pots and pans he has. He'd do better in a nursing home. Probably can't afford it, the old coot. Plus, he's too hardheaded. This is his home and his land, and he'd have to die on it before he'd leave it, he's said. I imagine that's how I'll feel, too, at his age. The land is part of who you are. You take a person from their home, and they feel lost. I've seen it happen with other home health patients who couldn't stay at home no more, wasn't safe for them and they didn't have no kin left to look after them. They didn't last long once they was in the nursing home. Mr. Solomon said he used to work for the mine down the road until it closed in the 60's. By then him and most Lloyd County had the black lung. Said he puttered around after that. Kept a garden and a couple huntin' dogs. Made a little 'shine, travelled some in his pick-up, sleepin' in the back under the shell top. He's done good to live this long. Ain't really surprised with how ornery he can be. His chart said he's born in 1915, coming up on 80 years in a couple months. Chart says death has looked him square in the face a few times – he's had some close calls and been laid up in the hospital a couple times – and he stared right back without batting an eye. We've talked some about dyin'. He ain't afraid to go, even sometimes wishes it was his time. I don't relish when he talks like that. He gets in a dark place sometimes, real broody and quiet. It usually don't last long. He snaps back when I hum some ol' timey tunes my Papaw used to sing while I'm sweepin' and dustin' and cookin'. I like coming up here. Me and Mr. Solomon have some good talks. He reminds me a lot of my Papaw. He knows a little bit about everything and a lot about a few things like these hills: The plants, trees, and history of Appalachia. Sometimes he likes talkin' about books, but he kindly loses me there. I ain't got time for readin' I tell him. Then he gets on his high horse and says I should read more, that it's "good for ye," it's a window to the world. I ain't never thought much of readin'. It was somethin' I just had to do for school. Maybe some day I'll get to it. I pull up to the front of his house, wipe the crumbs off my uniform, and check for Mt. Dew spots. I gotta take extra good care of my uniforms since I only got two and these, they had to special order on account they don't keep size 3's on hand. Said nobody's worked for them's been so small. It was embarrassin' for weeks wearin' them big 'ol size 10 polyesters with a belt til mine came in. Gettin' out I grab my bag of supplies off the passenger seat and Mr. Solomon's books. He gave me a list on Monday of books to get at the library. On the porch next to the wash machine is a fat, dirty, wore-out chair and a wore-out Mr. Solomon sitting in it. His eyes is closed. "Mr. Solomon?” I say, walkin' up the steps. He's dozed off in the sunshine.