Growing
up on the farm, we had a few traditions---mostly imported. New Years
was a family holiday. Kith 'n kin visited on Thanksgiving and Christmas.
New Years, however, was just Mom, Dad, me and later Grandma.
The
farm was located in the middle of coal country in southern Illinois.
The population was mostly Scots/Irish/English who brought mining skills
learned in the coal mines of England and Wales. During the Union/Mine
Owner wars of the early 20th century, many East Europeans were brought
in as strike breakers. After the strikes were resolved, the East
Europeans---Poles, Hungarians and various Russians, became good union
members and added their traditions to those of their predecessors.
However, the new traditions were more aimed at religious holidays than
of New Years.
One tradition that became almost universal was the
tradition of the gift of coal. The tradition was that the home would
have good luck if the first person to cross the threshold in the new
year was a dark Englishman, Welshman, Scot, Irish (add other nationality
here) wishing everyone within Happy New Year and bringing a gift of a
bucket of coal to warm the hearth. My Dad fit that job description and
since I was the next oldest (only) male in the house, I assisted with
the tradition.
Come New Years, around 11PM, earlier in some
locales, the men of the house would leave with a bucket of coal, their
shotgun, and, for those who imbibed, a bottle or mason jar of holiday
cheer. In town, they would usually head for the closest bar or other
gathering place and wait for the mine whistle indicating midnight.
At
the farm, we had three close neighbors; John Davis, our neighbor just
across the road from the farm, Sy Malone, a friend of Dad's who had a
small farm a quarter-mile to our west, and Ken Shoemaker who lived a
couple of hundred yards to the east. All were coal miners or had been.
Ken Shoemaker was also a bus driver for the High School. John Davis' place
was the most central of us and he had a heated barn for his heifers.
That was our gathering place.
Ken and Sy usually arrived early
bringing some 'shine that Sy made in the woods in back of his house.
John would join next. By the time Dad and I arrived, they were sitting
around a kerosene heater and usually well lubricated. The men talked and
drank. Dad sipped tea from a thermos he had brought. I listened. I
heard quite a bit of gossip, bragging and stories while waiting in that barn.
Remembering
those times, I'm amazed that with all the drinking that occurred, there
was never a firearm accident. I think folks were more used to guns in
those times. Many were WW2 veterans such as Ken and Sy Malone. John
Davis added to his mine income as a trapper and occasional commercial
meat hunter. Dad was a long-time hunter as well. They were experienced folks
who acquired gun-handling habits that just weren't broken even when one has
consumed large amounts of alcohol.
In coal country, the time
standard was the mine whistle. The whistle blew at shift change each
day, at noon, and on New Years Eve, at midnight. The closest mine to
the farm was about five miles away. That mine, Orient #2, was on the north edge of West
Frankfort. Dad, John and Sy worked there. Ken worked occasionally at
Orient #3.
When midnight neared, everyone loaded their
shotguns---usually with #6 or #7 1/2 shot, and went outside to listen
for the whistle. At the stroke of midnight, delayed only by distance, we
heard the mine whistles; Orient #2 to the south, followed by Old Ben #9
to the south-east. Another whistle arrived from the west, followed
slightly late by Orient #3 from the north. The men raised their
shotguns and in turn fired three times into the air. Nine shots in all.
As the sound of their shots faded away, I could hear the patter of
falling shot and the echoes of other shotguns rolling in from
surrounding points. In the far distance, I could hear the Sheriff let
loose with his Thompson sub-machine gun that he had confiscated from
Charlie Birger just before Charlie was tried for murder and later
hung---the last public hanging in Illinois.
As the gunfire died
away, each man picked up his bucket of coal, his shotgun and began the
trek home to be the first dark-headed man to cross the home's threshold.
In lieu of hair, John Davis wore a dark hat.
It was a short
walk for Dad and me, just across the road and up the drive. Dad walked
up to our front door and knocked. Mom would answer and Dad would
exclaim, "Happy New Year!" and we'd go inside to the warmth. Mom would
have coffee or more tea for Dad, a glass of milk for me and either cake,
sweet rolls or home-made doughnuts depending on what she and Grandma
had made that day.
New Years was a family celebration, but New
Years Eve was one for males. A celebration in the cold or in a warm barn; a
gathering of men, boys, talk, drink and memories. A communal
celebration of the coming year.
Memorial Day......
14 hours ago









