The Mining Town

Last night I found pages from a journal among my mother’s belongings. They were brown and brittle; the ink had run in places. The loose sheets had been forgotten among other memorabilia she had saved and had come to light only now, the day after her burial. They told a story I had never heard.

“Never again would I take a trip like that. Why I agreed to do it in the first place, I can’t remember. I was freshly twenty that fall when my aunt wrote my mother with the news that her husband had died and left her alone in the mining town of Silverton, Colorado. I don’t know whose idea it was for me to go and stay with her until spring, but I can tell you I was cursing them before I ever got near the place.

“It’s a long way from San Francisco to Silverton when you’re traveling in a wagon. The journey was hard enough but to make it worse, the road cut into the mountainside leading into the mining town was narrow and the driver was so familiar with the terrain that he had no fear of the drop-off. The wagon wheels skirted the edge and I felt sick. I held my lace handkerchief over my eyes until the driver said to me, 'Miss, yur missin’ the scenery.'

“He was right. The aspens were turning and the mountainside was awash in the gold and yellow of their sleeping leaves. Some of the trees had leaves that were painted pink atop the yellow, giving them a vibration that made me dizzy.

“The trees created a golden corridor for us to pass through, all the way down to Blair Street, which was where the merchants had their shops, where the Women worked, and where the saloons could be found.

“I have to admit that I didn’t have the best attitude when I got there. I’d grown up in the sophistication of The City and this mining town was populated with unrefined, uncouth people. No one knew how to dress or wear their hair properly. The women went out without wearing gloves, or carrying a parasol. Pardon me, they called it an umbrella. What a coarse term!

“I did stand out, but I wasn’t going to compromise my standards of decency. If I could give the men and women of Silverton a taste of refinement, then I’d do it and hold my head high, despite the snickers and whispers.

“I seldom put on my silk because I realized that fetching water, carrying in wood and scrubbing clothes would quickly ruin my dresses. Even so, I never walked the few blocks into town without getting properly attired. A proper woman wore her fine underwear, trimmed in lace; a neatly pressed skirt, preferably silk; a spotless blouse; her shined kid shoes; soft kid gloves; a hat, set angled atop up combed hair. And she always carried her parasol, no matter what the weather was like. She would no sooner be without her parasol than a gentleman would be without his walking stick.

“When I had to run errands, I would time my trips to avoid the rain. I was no stranger to rainy weather, and I hated it in San Francisco as much as I hated it in Silverton. All the mud! A woman’s shoes and skirt got so filthy and the work to clean them was a chore I didn’t relish.

“Generally I was successful in avoiding the rain while wearing my nice clothes, but on one occasion I missed my guess. I was in the grocery buying a pound of sugar when a downpour descended.

“’You may as well wait it out,’ Mr. Thomas said to me. I nodded my thanks and stood by the door watching the rain darken the boarded walks and soften the dirt road. I watched unhappily as it puddled around the small piles of aspen leaves that had been blown here and there on the street. My mood grew foul as I thought of the mud and water stains that would besmear my silk skirt.

“When the rain became a mere shower, I set out. I have to admit that even in my bitter mood I was aware of the picture I presented, walking down the brown street in my brown dress, against the backdrop of brown buildings, holding my bright pink parasol over my brown hat.

“I walked quickly, but gracefully, keeping my eyes ahead, as a lady should. I turned to look at a group of miners heading down the street to spend their wages at the saloon or at the brothel, when I stepped onto a pile of the wet, slick, yellow leaves.

“Next thing I knew I was sitting in the mud, in utter humiliation! The bag of sugar broke and dusted my dress with white powder that soon turned to a sticky mess in the rain. I dropped my parasol, and couldn’t help noticing my hat fall across my eyes. I think I screamed as I went down.

“And to have it all witnessed by those ill-mannered miners who were rude enough to laugh at me! How I kept from crying I still don’t know.

“One of the men separated from the group and came to my assistance. Courteously, he took my muddy gloved hand and helped me to my feet. He stood by quietly as I readjusted my hat, and he picked my parasol off the ground, twirling it to spin off the mud and water before handing it to me.

“Then, he walked me home. I didn’t really want to be seen associating with a miner, even a semi civilized one, but it would have been impolite to refuse his gracious offer.”

Here the record of my grandmother’s story ended, but I knew what happened next, by virtue of the fact that I had been born into this world, the grandson of a Harvard Medical School graduate who had spent a summer and fall working in his father’s mining company.


1,001 WC