Furnace Mountain: or The Day President Roosevelt Came to Town Read online

  Furnace Mountain

  Rebecca Patrick-howard

  For DJ

  Chapter One

  FURNACE MOUNTAIN WAS DYING. It was a fact that everyone knew, but few would acknowledge. Its prosperous days were long gone and unlikely ever to return. Even with such bleakness facing this small corner of the world tucked away in Eastern Kentucky, life continued, as it is prone to do.

  Only a selected few retained hope and faith. And their optimism was dwindling.

  The world begins to change with a whisper, not a shout. And on that fateful day in 1936, soft–spoken Marianne Casteel, decided optimist, did not realize that her quiet words would be the first. She was simply offering her students an assignment.

  ***

  On a cool, spring afternoon, Miss Marianne Casteel stood by her desk in the railroad town’s only school and addressed all twenty–nine of her students.

  “I realize that everyone is ready to go outside and enjoy this beautiful day, but I do need your undivided attention for at least a few more minutes,” she said. She spoke softly, as was her style. “Each of you is to write a letter to someone you admire and might someday like to meet.”

  It was a simple assignment, one that even the youngest would be able to complete, although the little ones would still need help with their lettering. Still, it wasn’t easy to inspire responsiveness, not even from her best students. There were only five weeks left of school and already the children’s attentions were turned elsewhere; some to thoughts of playing in the creek and running wild through the woods–others to farm work that inevitably came around every summer.

  Marianne knew, even as she spoke, that few were listening. The younger ones closest to her tried to, she knew, but it was the end of the day and most had taken to drawing on their boards. Linden McIntosh’s attention was currently consumed by a green worm he was letting inch up one arm and down the other. The middle grades were chatting amongst themselves, stealing furtive glances to the front of the classroom, less they be caught. And the oldest? They weren’t even trying.

  Alice Johnson was sixteen and in her last year of school unless, by some miracle, she was able to follow the path of higher learning (which wasn’t likely given current conditions). She now gazed out the window at the railroad tracks, not with boredom, but with a yearning that could have meant anything.

  “Me too, dear,” she wanted to reassure the young woman.

  Using her splintering ruler, Marianne rapped her desk, bringing everyone to attention.

  “I repeat,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “You may write to anyone you wish, but you must first create a written presentation to me before you continue with your correspondence. In this presentation, you must list the reasons why you admire this individual and the personal attributes and qualities they possess that make them commendable. The idea is to convince me that the individual is worthy of the assignment. Remember, this should be someone you’ve never met, who is highly estimable, and who, if granted a wish, you would choose to spend time with.”

  Some of her students groaned aloud; Marianne chose to ignore these.

  “I will need your papers on Monday so that I may approve or deny your requests. If they are approved, then I will acquire the addresses for you and you may commence the writing of your letter. These will be posted, so please keep that in mind. I will supply your postage.” She added the last part and then inwardly sighed when she saw the flood of relief wash over the faces of half her classroom.

  “Who all can we write?” This from Molly Land, a twelve year old in the middle.

  Molly’s father was a farmer, a relatively profitable one by current standards, and Molly had the distinction of being the only girl in school that had ever been to Frankfort and seen the capitol building. When she had traveled there with her parents there two years ago, she had returned with a postcard which had been passed around during History. All had been suitably impressed.

  “You may write to whomever you wish,” Marianne answered. “As long as you can convince me that they are deserved of your attention. Remember class, just because someone is well–known doesn’t necessarily make them commendable.”

  “Can I write to Jesse Owen?” called out Tommy Clark, an eight year old in the front. “He’s gonna win the Olympics!”

  “I think that would be acceptable,” Marianne chuckled. They had studied the Olympics during the winter and the younger ones, especially, had become fascinated with the athletes. When the temperatures warmed in the spring she would occasionally see them outside in the yard, practicing their long jumps and racing one another to the railroad tracks and back. She still laughed when she thought of Linden seriously asking her if she had ever been to “Garnish Parched–kitchen” herself.

  Now that Jesse Owens was on the table, pandemonium reigned. Shouts rang out across the cramped room as students argued over who got first dibs on Henry Fonda and James Stewart and whether or not Margaret Mitchell was too scandalous.

  Feeling the beginnings of a headache, and knowing that school would end in just a few minutes, Marianne sat down behind her desk and rubbed at her temples. She wondered if there would be a variety or if she would have to sift through letters going to the same four or five people.

  It was always interesting, never a dull moment in her little school. There was a lot on her mind, however. The consolidation would start in a year and her tiny little school would be merged with the others in the county. Students would no longer be in the same classroom; they would be divided by age. The Furnace Mountain School was one of the last one–room schools in that part of the state. She wasn’t sure what the future would hold or what the consolidation yet meant for her.

  With a sigh, she began stacking and organizing loose papers on her desk into neat little piles when she suddenly became aware of someone standing very close.

  “Miss Casteel?” It was Sam Walters, ten years old, and normally one of the quiet ones. Marianne tried to brush away her frustration so that she could look up at him with a smile. Despite the fact that Sam probably cleaned and even mended his own clothing, he was always neat as a pin and today he wore a thin flannel shirt and blue trousers. Both were patched, quite poorly, in several places but there were no grass stains or mud spots, unlike the other children’s. “Miss Casteel?” he asked again, politely.

  “I’m sorry Sam, do you need something?”

  He stood before her, hands clenched together in tight fists, his eyes bright. “I know who I want to write!” he cried. The crack in his elevated voice was jarring.

  “And who would that be?” she asked politely, her head continuing to pound.

  “Franklin Roosevelt!”

  Some of the children in the front heard him and snickered. Marianne cast a disapproving glance and returned to Sam. “Well, I think that writing our president is a grand idea.”

  “And I’m going to ask him to come right here and visit us!”

  At his joyous outburst, the low rumble of the children’s voices came to an abrupt stop as they ceased their chattering. The room grew quiet as expectant eyes awaited Miss Casteel’s reaction.

  “Well, Sam,” she began slowly, trying not to form her words too quickly. “He’s a very busy man you know, with the reelection coming on. I don’t know if he will be able to make it all the way down here. But I am certain he would appreciate a letter from you.”

  Sam’s enthusiasm did not appear to wane. “But didn’t you teach us that somebody wrote Abraham Lincoln and asked him to come and visit and he did? Or was going to and then he got shot?”

 
Yes, she had taught them that.

  “Well, you get your letter to me and I will certainly mail it for you.”

  Sam turned and proudly marched back to his desk, the children resumed their talking, and Marianne returned to her papers. The matter was forgotten.

  Chapter Two

  THE MATTER WAS FORGOTTEN by everyone except, of course, by Sam, who thought about his letter all the way home.

  He thought about it as he walked through the school’s front door, with its peeling paint and broken stairs. He thought about it as he and his two best friends walked down the quiet Main Street together. He thought about it as he passed the boarded-up furniture shop. Past the bakery where he sometimes bought his sweet treats from the money his brother sent home from Cincinnati, and past the clothing store that his mama had always wanted to go in but was too embarrassed because she couldn’t buy anything. He thought about it as he waved goodbye first to Leroy at the edge of town and later to Linden when they reached the place where the railroad tracks turned to follow the river.

  And he thought about it some more as he walked the rest of the two miles home down the long dirt road. He thought about it so hard that he didn’t notice the warm spring breeze trying so hard to take the chill out of the day or the squirrels that played on the path in front of him. He even missed the deer that darted into the woods–things that he usually would have enjoyed on his way home.

  By the time he reached his front door, he thought he had a pretty good idea of what he was going to say.

  The little cottage his daddy had built when Sam was born was dark when he stepped inside. A call to his mama got him a muffled response from the back bedroom. He could tell from the reply that she was in bed. From where he stood in the small front room, he could see the kitchen; the dishes and food were still on the table from breakfast and he thought that maybe she had been in bed all day.

  Shoulders dropping and the wind momentarily knocked from his sails, Sam shook his head and turned to his own bedroom. He did his best to ignore the empty bed in the corner that always looked as if it were waiting for the person that Sam knew was never coming back, and he went straight to his own.

  He was tired, and thought about a nap, but he was also excited to work on his presentation. Those things would have to wait, however. After gently stacking his books on his quilt, he returned to the kitchen.

  The cupboards yielded little, but he thought they still had flour and it had been cool enough that the butter on the table hadn’t melted. With the potatoes and few apples in the barrel, he could make them a good supper. With his letter put on hold for the time being, Sam set to work clearing off the table.

  ***

  On the other side of town, but in the same world, Alice Johnson was having a similar afternoon. She, too, had walked home with her mind elsewhere.

  The real Furnace Mountain, the one the town was named for, stayed in view for most of her walk and hovered over her like a beacon; its pointy top watched her every move, its bright green shadows offered hope of warmer days to come.

  Alice, unlike Sam, was not thinking of her letter or presentation and had no idea as to whom she was going to write. It had briefly crossed her mind to write Coco Chanel but that had felt frivolous. Anyway, she didn’t know what she would say. She had never owned a dress by Chanel, although she had seen them in magazines, and it was highly unlikely that she ever would. Indeed, she had never owned a dress bought in any store, although she was getting quite good at copying the patterns by ripping apart the old dresses that had belonged to her mother.

  “Wasting them,” her father snapped at her whenever she’d pull one from the trunk. “Wasteful, wasteful.”

  It was as though it didn’t occur to him that, by remaking them, she was being conservative. It would’ve cost far more to purchase the fabric. She knew what he really meant–he couldn’t stand to see something that had been on his wife “torn up.” Indeed, he hardly looked at Alice when she wore the dresses.

  Alice’s mind was on the weekend and housework ahead. Her daddy didn’t mind if she went to school, so long as everything was taken care of at the house. She tried to get as much done of the evenings as possible, but after her reading and the supper making and the washing up she didn’t always feel like dusting or cleaning or mending clothes.

  She saved those exciting things for the weekend. And she’d managed to save up a lot for this weekend in particular. It had been a very long week.

  Alice was so lost in her reverie that she was completely unaware that Nicholas Lewis was following in her shadow. Consequently, she liked to have had a heart attack when he jumped onto the dappled path in front of her and grabbed her around the waist.

  “Alice Johnson!”

  Screaming loud enough to have the birds in the trees around her to squawk and take off, Alice dumped her books on the ground and swatted at Nicholas while he laughed.

  “You almost gave me a heart attack,” she admonished when he released her.

  Unruffled, Nicholas laughed and collected her books. He dusted them off while she waited. “You were looking absorbed in something there. I thought for sure you’d hear me when I came through the trees.”

  Sighing, Alice pushed a strand of auburn hair behind her ears and attempted a look of annoyance. She failed. “And why are you following me?”

  “Who says I’m following you?” he asked impishly. “Maybe I have places to be, too.” The dimple in his left cheek, the part of him that she had first noticed when he was eight–years–old, flashed.

  Alice, knowing she was wasting valuable daylight hours, turned and began walking again. This time, Nicholas was at her side. “Well, perhaps because you have no business being on this side of town and you’re miles from home. You’re headed towards Four Tree and I know you don’t have any business there.”

  “You’re right. I’m supposed to be studying. But it’s such a beautiful day and so I said to myself, ‘I’ll find Alice and I’ll walk her home!’”

  “You’re going to get in trouble.”

  “Oh contraire. My father thinks I’m down by the creek. He knows it’s difficult for me to read with all of the work that’s going on in the house. And Mother, well, she has a headache and wouldn’t notice if I were there, much less if I’m not.”

  Alice snorted. “I’ll get in trouble if anyone sees us.”

  “That’s precisely why I’m only planning on walking with you to the field. You’re on your own after that, so don’t get lost.”

  Alice grinned and shook her head. She’d been walking the same route to town since she was three years old; she could do it in her sleep.

  Together, they strolled on in companionable silence, with only the honeybees and birds above for noise. Their reappearance offered a certain amount of relief to Alice–it meant the world was continuing to move forward. “Nothing ever lasts forever,” her mother used to tell her, “good or bad.” Alice found herself taking comfort in those words. A lot.

  In truth, she was glad for Nicholas’ company and happy he had sought her out. She’d missed him when he’d gone home for lunch and lately it felt like he didn’t have a lot of time for her. “Have you made a decision yet for August?”

  Nicholas shrugged, as carefree as only someone in his situation could be. “I haven’t decided. Father says Boston, I’m thinking Hartford. I still have time.”

  To Alice, both sounded worlds and worlds away. They may as well have been on different planets.

  Alice wasn’t jealous that Nicholas was leaving for college. She wasn’t even jealous that he’d had the smarts and family connections to get into two very good schools and the family money to pay for one.

  She wasn’t jealous that Nicholas was smart or had money or had a good family or got to leave Furnace Mountain–she was jealous of the new people he would belong to. Nicholas would never be all hers again. Their friendship and closeness would be lost. She was jealous of a future for him that she wasn’t a part of.

  Unaware of her thou
ghts, Nicholas continued to talk. “It will be strange being someplace new,” he said. “Exciting, though, I think. Wouldn’t you like to leave Furnace Mountain? I mean, if you could?”

  Alice shrugged. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Most days I like it here just fine.”

  Alice herself had never entertained any dreams of leaving Furnace Mountain and there certainly wasn’t anyone in her life that had encouraged such notions. It was her home, and she loved it.

  She loved the small span of Main Street, even with its boarded–up shops and sad window fronts. She was old enough to remember a time, before the bad times came, when she was still a child and her daddy’d had a shop on that street. He had built wonderful furniture for people from as far away as Lexington. Alice could still remember walking to town with her mama on sunny afternoons in the summertime. He would always take a break to escort them to Pat’s store where he would purchase both of them ice cream cones. Afterwards, they would go down to the depot and watch the trains coming in.

  Of course, it hardly mattered now. The trains had mostly stopped coming; they were bypassing Furnace Mountain and stopping up at Four Tree instead. Other things had changed as well. The iron forge had ceased to work years and years before that, and only a few people were able to buy ice creams on a whim on sunny, summer afternoons.

  Worst of all, her mother was gone.

  Still, those were good memories for her. She also had good memories of swimming in Calico Creek, playing in the caves, and eating cotton candy at the Gingerroot Festival with Nicholas. Many of her growing–up memories revolved around him. So she wasn’t jealous of Nicholas. But she would miss him terribly. He was, after all, her best friend.

  “Do you think you could get out any this weekend? Sneak away for a little while?”

  Alice shook her head. “I doubt it. I have a lot of work to do and I don’t know what I would say to Daddy. He might need me close by and wonder where I’ve gone.” Yet, even with Alice’s youthful hopefulness, both knew that this wasn’t likely.