Coal Camp Days: A Boy's Remembrance

Preface

Most events in Coal Camp Days really happened in one of the mining camps located in the Colfax County coal fields of northeastern New Mexico: Blossburg, Brilliant, Dawson, Gardiner, Koehler, Swastika, Sugarite, Van Houten, Yankee. Each camp thrived and later died between 1880 and 1955. Because people literally lived in tents when some of the coal towns were first established, they were called coal camps.

There is little written about the people who worked, played, married, raised families, or died in the coal camps. This book tells about some coal camp people. The fictitious coal camp name Chicorico was suggested by chicorica, a Colfax County place name of unknown origin. Its anglicized pronunciation, sugarite [sugar-REET], was given to the canyon, creek, and coal camp five miles north of Raton.

Though the book is fiction, the people and their zest for life are real. I’ve tried to be true to the spirit of coal camp life as I remember it. The barely visible remnants of coal camp people—crumbling foundations, decaying slack piles, rusting pots and pans—hardly reveal their spirit. I hope Coal Camp Days rekindles memories of that ebullient spirit and joy for life.

Thanks to Todd Wildermuth and staff at the Raton Range, Thayla Wright and the staff at Johnson Memorial Library, David Vackar and staff at Vermejo Ranch, John Evans, Thelma Fuller, Charles García, Sarge Rivali, and Vesta Toller, and others who’ve generously shared their coal camp experiences with me. Thanks to Jill Root for sensitive copyediting and to the staff at UNM Press for shepherding the manuscript, and to the ghost-editor who helped immensely with my New Mexico Spanish. Special thanks to Sharon, whose meticulous editing gave spirit and soul to this book.

Ricardo L García

Lincoln, Nebraska

Invitation

Come climb these hills

with me,

where Dad dug coal

for us.

For thirty years he dug

these hills

and came home by these tracks—

we scrambled for the scraps

soggy in his lunch bucket.

Come walk these tracks

with me,

where Mom collected coal

for us—

fallen

from the train’s sudden stops,

she hiding from company cops.

Come climb these hills,

Come walk these tracks . . .

1. Dios da, pero no acarrea

Our days in the Chicorico coal mining camp were abundant with tales of brave and daring deeds. Always, the heroes of Chicorico were common, ordinary people who celebrated life, inspired by the dream of better days through hard work, sacrifice, and thrift. By good example, they encouraged us to make something of our lives to benefit our families and communities. Above all, they taught us respect.

On my sixth birthday we celebrated a victory over death. There were no cakes, candles, nor gifts, only a song and a story. At supper, Dad and Mom led us through a lively rendition of the Happy Birthday song. Then they took turns telling about my birth and first six months of life. Like me, my brothers and sisters—Juan, José, Angela, and Ramona—were all ears. My oldest brother, Arturo, was not present, though he had been at my birth in 1938. He had joined the navy in 1940. Now, in 1944, he was flying airplanes somewhere in the Pacific. But then, he had been a witness to the victory.

On May 25, 1938, six o’clock Wednesday evening, Mom proclaimed to Dad, Manuel, the time’s come. He’s been kicking in my panza all day.

Dad sent Arturo to fetch the Company doctor, Dr. Monty. Arturo returned, puffing heavily. Dr. Monty can’t come! He’s in Swastika! Some kid’s got the whooping cough!

Dad rushed next door to the Malcolms. Dick! Mary! I need your help! Dr. Monty can’t come to deliver Clara’s baby.

Let’s go! Mrs. Malcolm rose abruptly, dropping a sewing project into the chair. She clenched her right hand into a fist, smacking it into her left. My turn to help!

This was payback time for Mrs. Malcolm; Mom had helped deliver Petee, the Malcolm’s youngest, the same year my brother José was born. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and grabbed some washcloths and towels made from Gold Medal flour sacks. She handed them to Dad, speaking to her husband at the same time.

Dick, you stay here! I’ll send Clara’s children over. Put ’em to bed. It’s getting late. Tomorrow, you watch José and Petee.

But Dick has to work tomorrow, Manuel protested.

No, I don’t, Manuel. I’ll switch with Onorio. Git! Don’t leave Clara alone.

Dad and Mrs. Malcolm skittered out of the Malcolm house. Outside, the dry air was cool. The stars shimmered brightly. They crossed both backyards, entering our house through the kitchen.

Mrs. Malcolm issued her first orders: You kids! Sleep at our place! Take your school clothes. After Mr. Malcolm feeds you breakfast, go to school with Freddie! José, you stay there with Mr. Malcolm. Manuel, take these towels and washcloths, stack them nearby. We’ll need ’em. Heat plenty of water. Find Clara’s mending scissors. Sterilize them!

Arturo, Angela, Juan, and José gathered their toothbrushes, sleeping garb, school clothing, and books; they left. Mrs. Malcolm went into the bedroom, where Mom was resting on her bed.

Before searching for Mom’s scissors, Dad drained some of the hot water from the boiler pan of Mom’s Majestic fogón, poured it into a pan, and placed it on the stove to boil. Fumbling through Mom’s sewing basket, he found all kinds of needles, but no scissors. He looked where Mom was last sewing, spotted a receiving blanket on a dynamite powder box by Mom’s chair. The scissors were on the box, beneath the blanket. He ran his forefinger along the blades. Sharp as razors, the scissors were German chrome-plated, made of finely tempered steel. He returned to the kitchen and put the scissors in the hot water, but it wasn’t boiling. The fogón needed stoking.

Dad grabbed some small lumps of coal from the powder box next to the fogón. He wrapped the lumps into a roll using the May 24th edition of the Raton Range. He opened the fire door and shoved the roll into the firebox. Repeatedly he took deep breaths and blew, till the paper ignited.

Before long, the water on the fogón was boiling, and the water in the boiler pan was considerably hotter. Dad needed to moderate the temperature of the water in the boiler, or it would be too hot to use for my delivery. Because there was no running water in the house, Dad had to bring cold water from our backyard faucet pump. He grabbed a bucket, went outside, and drew water from the pump, carting the water back into the kitchen.

When done with the preparations for my birth, he walked out to the back porch where it was cool and leaned against the porch’s railing. It was a quiet night in Chicorico. Light dimly beamed from a few of the neighbors’ living room windows. The stars still shimmered brilliantly. Dad heard Mrs. Malcolm call from within the bedroom: Manuel, best you get in here!

Dad stole a momentary glimpse at the bright, beaming stars and entered the house, rapping lightly on the bedroom door. Meekly, he turned the doorknob, barely opening the door. He spied Mom lying on top of the bed dressed in a nightgown. He hesitated—flustered, embarrassed.

Mrs. Malcolm scowled, glaring toward the slightly ajar door, face flushed: Get in here, Manuel! No time for modesty!

Dad recoiled, pulled the door shut, stepping back. From deep within the bedroom, Mom pleaded:

¡Sí! Entre!

Dad was still reluctant. Cautiously . . . tentatively . . . he opened the door again.

Mrs. Malcolm detected his shyness. Don’t worry, Manuel. You’re no different than Dr. Monty. He’s a man, too. He can’t be here. You’re needed.

Hesitantly, Dad entered the room, gazing directly at Mrs. Malcolm, avoiding eye contact with Mom, meekly asking, How can I help?

Clara’s ’bout ready to birth! But the bed’s too soft. She’s not laying flat. We need to lay her flat! The bed mattress was old, its cotton stuffing matted and broken down. The extra weight of carrying me caused Mom to slump into the mattress, an awkward position for birthing.

We can lay her on the floor, Dad recommended.

No! Too dirty! Heaven knows what’s been on the floor.

But Clara washes the floor once a week!

Manuel, the floor won’t work!

Only other place I can think of, Dad suggested, is the kitchen table.

The kitchen table? Mrs. Malcolm did a double-take. The kitchen table . . . She turned pensive, ruminating.

Wipe it off! Put a blanket on it! I’ll help Clara to her feet.

Dad dashed into the kitchen and wiped off the table. He shoved the chairs against the kitchen wall and stacked the folded towels and washcloths on the nearest chair. He threw a blanket over the table, brushing its wrinkles out.

This’ll be perfect! Mrs. Malcolm declared, assisting Mom into the kitchen. We’re near the water and towels.

Mom didn’t speak at first. She shuffled haltingly, holding her bulging stomach with both arms as Mrs. Malcolm and Dad guided her toward the table. Something about having a child on the kitchen table struck Mom’s funny bone. She jested, The boys aren’t here to set the table!

Yeah! Sure! Mrs. Malcolm chortled. A lotta good they’d be!

Ha-ha—uh! Ha-ha—uh! Mom struggled to laugh, but stopped abruptly, halting her steps and tightly grasping her stomach.

Clara! Best you don’t laugh. Mrs. Malcolm frowned, tenderly advising Mom, Let’s get you on the table ’fore you drop the baby.

Mrs. Malcolm eased Mom backwards onto the left side of the table. As Mom slid onto the table, Mrs. Malcolm reached down and lifted Mom’s legs up on it. Mom lay down and wiggled to the center of the table. The contractions came quicker and stronger.

Mary—he’s coming! Mom excitedly announced.

Push him out, Clara! Mrs. Malcolm coached Mom. Keep a-pushing! I see his head! Keep pushing! I got his head!

Mrs. Malcolm gently grasped the back of my head with her right hand. She raised her left hand toward Dad. Manuel, be ready to hand me a warm washcloth.

Dad poured cold water into the pan of boiling water and then drained some of the tepid water into the wash basin. He soaked a washcloth, wringing it, grabbed some towels, and returned to Mom’s side by the table.

Wow! He’s a big one! Mrs. Malcolm exclaimed, taking me in both hands and raising me high enough for Mom to see. Mrs. Malcolm took the wet washcloth, daubing at my nose, eyes, mouth, and ears.

While Mrs. Malcolm cleared the mucous from my face, Dad shook his head in surprise, He’s a real roly-poly!

Mrs. Malcolm focused on the job at hand. Okay, Manuel, I’ve got an itty-bitty job for you. I’m going to hold the boy by the legs. You give his bottom a quick slap.

No! Dad shook his head emphatically. I’m too strong!

Hurry up! Can’t wait forever!

Dad wavered.

WAP! Mrs. Malcolm slapped me squarely on the bottom, forcing air into my lungs. I yelped.

Mrs. Malcolm stayed cool as a cucumber, still in command. I’ve got one more itty-bitty job for you, Manuel. She paused before completing her instructions. This time, you’ve got to do it. I can’t hold the boy and cut his cord at the same time!

"You want me to cut his cord?"

Now, Manuel! Clara and I need your help!

"Manuel . . . " Mom pleaded with her eyes.

Dad sputtered as he darted to the silverware drawer, found a clean fork, and rushed to the stove, mumbling loud enough for Mrs. Malcolm to hear, This is no small job you’re asking me to do! Dad lowered the fork into the boiling water and lifted the scissors away from the pan to cool them down. He darted back. Mrs. Malcolm held me with one hand under my neck, the other under my rump.

Mrs. Malcolm cautioned Dad, Leave lots of slack, at least six or seven inches, so’s when the cord’s cut, there’ll be plenty left to tie a strong knot.

Dad raised the scissors to the cord, pinched the cord about seven inches from my stomach, and snipped.

You done?

Yep.

Mrs. Malcolm laid me down and tied a knot in the cord, trimming the excess.

Get his clothes and the receiving blanket Clara laid out, Manuel. Put them on the cabinet, next to the wash basin. I’ll wash the boy.

While Mrs. Malcolm was bathing me, Dad assisted Mom. She was hurting. The table was hardly a place to stay after birthing a child. Dad helped Mom down from the table and supported her as she shuffled to the bedroom. Mom crawled beneath the blankets. Dad stayed, holding her hand.

After washing me, Mrs. Malcolm daubed me dry, pinning a two-inch-wide cotton belly-band around my stomach. Next she pinned on a diaper, tied on an undershirt, and slipped a flannel gown over my head. She wrapped me snuggly in the receiving blanket, handing me to Mom.

A, mi hito, qué ojos lindos—claros y morenos.

Mesmerized, Mrs. Malcolm and Dad gazed at us as Mom lightly brushed her hand across my face and hair. Then Mrs. Malcolm broke the spell, cleaning her hands with a towel. Manuel, take the boy. I’ll help Clara here.

Dad took me into the living room, holding me close to his chest. He lulled me to sleep, singing When It’s Springtime in the Rockies. When I awoke, it was three o’clock in the morning. Dad was still holding me. By then, Mrs. Malcolm had bathed Mom, returned her to bed, and cleared the kitchen, putting the dirty washcloths and towels into the bushel basket. Already she had gathered the dirty clothes from our powder-box hamper to wash at her house. Now, at 3 a.m., she slept on the couch. Dad returned me to Mom. He sat at the kitchen table for a while, slumping on his forehead and arms, sleeping.

I slept my first morning in Chicorico. About 5 a.m., Dad awoke from his slumber at the kitchen table. His arms tingled, the circulation cut off by the weight of his head. He moved to the living room floor, using the cushion from his easy chair as a pillow. Mrs. Malcolm slept soundly on the sofa. About 8 a.m., Dad awoke again, brewed some coffee, and sat in the shade of the front porch steps. Mrs. Malcolm still slept.

Around noon of my first day, Mrs. Malcolm prepared lunch for Mom and Dad and joined them to eat. Then she left to go home. Later that afternoon, as Dad washed the dishes, Angela came home from school. She had stopped at the Malcolms to pick up José.

Where’s Juan? Dad asked.

Playing. He stayed to play with Freddie and Petee.

My brother Arturo was still on the bus. He attended St. Patrick’s Academy, a Catholic high school in Raton.

I let out a cry from the crib.

Daddy, what’s that squealing in your bedroom?

"A little cabrito."

Oooo, she cooed, wrinkling her nose. A cabrito, Daddy? Angela realized I was a boy.

Four-year-old José stopped galloping his toy horse—the one Abuelo Ribera had carved for him—across the edge of the kitchen table. His eyes got as big as platos. He didn’t connect Dad’s reference to a cabrito with the new baby. A cabrito? Re-e-e-ally? Can I play with him? I wanna play with him.

Angela and Dad started laughing. Poor little José couldn’t understand. He looked hurt.

Ah-h-h! José, we’re not laughing at you. Your mama hasn’t named your new brother yet. You’ll have to wait a while to play with him.

Later in the week, Dr. Matthew Montgomery came to the house to check on Mom and me. People affectionately called him Dr. Monty, a name he also preferred. He lived in a regular Company house, using the front room and a bedroom for an office. His wife, Etta, helped as a nurse. They had no children. Dr. Monty served all the Company camps: Chicorico, Brilliant, Dawson, Gardiner, Koehler, Sugarite, Swastika, Van Houten, and Yankee.

All was well with Mom. As he examined me, he made small talk with Mom:

Say, who helped you with the boy?

"La vecina, Mary."

Hmm. Good job, even the cord’s tied well.

"Oh! También, Manuel."

Manuel! He helped?

"O, sí. I asked him to help."

Why, I never—

Dr. Monty started to comment on Dad’s unconventional behavior, but he caught himself, shifting to praise. Why . . . like I was sayin’ . . . Mary and Manuel did a good job. I’d better watch out! They’ll have my job!

Oh, no! You’re very good.

Why, thank you, Clara. Say— Dr. Monty reached into his black bag, pulled out a birth certificate and a pen. On the matter of a name for the boy?

He started writing the details of my birth. He was so engrossed in filling out the certificate that he hadn’t noticed Mom’s mood shift, her eyes cast down in a blank stare. Only moments ago, she was radiant, animated with talk of her newborn son.

When Dr. Monty noticed Mom’s silence, he politely nudged her out of the daze by asking again, Clara? . . . The boy? . . . What’s his name?

Embarrassed, Mom turned toward Dr. Monty: "No sé. I . . . Manuel and I . . . we can’t think of a name—a Christian name."

Ho! Dr. Monty laughed wholeheartedly, exclaiming A Christian name! Why, I like my name—‘Matthew’! Dr. Monty waxed on, It’s from the Bible.

"¡A, qué lindo—tu nombre! I like it! Write it down right away! Espérate. . . . En español se dice—Matías. Escríbale—en español."

Well? Okay, then! ‘Matías’ it is! If you say so, Clara. Dr. Monty was taken aback, a little embarrassed, but pleased. In a flash Mom had decided to name me after a doctor whose name was from the New Testament.

Dr. Monty paused. He’d never had a namesake. He carefully wrote down Matías Montaño. Check it for spelling, Clara.

Mom examined the certificate, nodding yes.

Dr. Monty continued with the certificate. I estimate he weighs about eight pounds. What do you think, Clara?

"He is big."

Yes, he is at that! Dr. Monty finished the birth certificate, explaining, In a few months, you’ll get an official copy of the certificate from the State office. Keep it in a safe place. Dr. Monty’s work complete, he tucked the certificate into his bag and prepared to leave, warning Mom, Be sure to baptize him as soon as possible.

That afternoon when Dad came home from the mine, Mom told of Dr. Monty’s visit. "All’s well with me—y con Matías!"

Eh?

"Manuel, I chose to use Dr. Monty’s Christian name, ‘Matías.’"

A, qué bueno!

Y, también, Mom excitedly continued, Dr. Monty said we should baptize Matías as soon as possible.

"Válgame Dios! He doesn’t have to tell us! Soon, we’ll take Matías down-home to Ribera. Baltazar and Feliz will be his padrinos."

I remember very little about the first six months of life. Mom said that, when hungry, I wailed wildly and kicked my feet a lot. The only thing I remember about my baptism was the calming presence of Abuelo Ribera, who spoke to me in Spanish as he held me. In November of that year, an arctic norther blasted through Chicorico Canyon, blowing snow with a 40-below-zero wind chill. Our coal camp house was drafty and cold. I picked up a bad case of influenza, a deadly killer of coal camp children and adults.

Dad called on Dr. Monty for treatment. When my two sisters and brother died—Esmelita, Carmelita, and Abrán—Dr. Monty had been just a young, greenhorn doctor. Yet Mom and Dad didn’t blame him for the deaths of their babies; even a veteran doctor could not have saved them.

Dr. Monty came to the house as soon as he could. He found me in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. They stood by the crib, watching as Dr. Monty examined me. I was listless, burning with fever. In those days, influenza symptoms were treated with rest in bed, allowing the body’s immune system to fight. Often, infants and the elderly died before their immune systems could combat the disease.

Dr. Monty walked out of the bedroom into the kitchen. Dad followed, leaving Mom with me in the bedroom.

Matías is in the hands of God, Dr. Monty sighed wearily. I can’t do anything for him, Manuel. Dr. Monty gazed at the kitchen floor, overcome by futility. He put the stethoscope in his crumpled, black leather bag, removed his glasses, rubbed his furrowed brow, and wiped the tears from his deep blue eyes. He blustered softly:

If I was any kind of man, I’d dry my tears and cure Matías. I can’t! . . . Looka’ here, in my bag. It has mosta’ my tools. Etta gave it to me when we moved to Chicorico so’s I could visit homes and care for families.

Dr. Monty opened the bag, Looka’ here—a fancy stethoscope with a pearl cover on it, a blood pressure gauge, and cystoscope—all these fancy doodads in my bag—for what?

Dad looked on, frustrated, gazing at the instruments. His own tools were self-defining: a pick, a shovel.

Dr. Monty belittled the medicines in his bag: An’ looka’ here, at these glass vials, full of pills an’ powders. They’re supposed to cure everything from asthma to weariness. Shoot! They’re worthless for helpin’ Matías! Dr. Monty closed the bag in disgust. I just can’t get used to it. There are so many camps, so many families needing a doctor. Right now, in some other home, a baby is whooping! Or burning with a blasted fever, like Matías!

Here, rest a bit, sit down. Dad offered a chair to Dr. Monty.

Aww, Manuel, it’s late. You and Clara must be tired. You have to work tomorrow.

I won’t work. Dick Malcolm will tell the Super. Would you like some coffee?

Sure, just a bit! Put a shot of whiskey in it to calm my nerves.

I have no whiskey.

How about some of Onorio’s wine, then?

Are you sure?

Dr. Monty rubbed his trim, tiny moustache. Yes, he nodded absentmindedly, I’m sure. . . . Manuel, I, too, get sick. Dr. Monty shook his head, despairing as he slumped into a chair, arms leaning on the kitchen table. Sickness of the heart. . . . I’ve seen too many babies die. I became a doctor to make folks well, not to let them die! To make matters worse, I couldn’t help Clara with her first two girls, or the boy, Abrán—

"Abrán died of a spider bite, Dr. Monty. We found the spider in his baptismal gown. He cried at the bautismo. Many babies cry when they feel the water on their heads. Pero, Abrán was not crying from the water. It was the spider bite."

Well, yes. But the girls? Dr. Monty appeared haggard and tired. He folded his glasses into a case, putting them in the black bag. He wiped his eyes, clouded with tears.

Dad feigned placidity, but he was anxious. We can’t lose faith. The girls were baptized. They’re with the Lord.

It just makes me sick . . . just sick . . . to think Esmelita and Carmelita aren’t with us now.

Clara was the same way. Every Sunday she would go to the cemetery, to visit the dead children. In the summers, she would take fresh flowers from the yard. She would stay there all day, crying. When she came home, she would go to bed. I ordered her to stay home from the cemetery. She spent too much time with the dead. We must care for those we have now.

This is so doggone sad, an’ . . . Dr. Monty was caught in the clutch of a deep depression, entangled by melancholy bred by the high infant mortality rates in the coal camps.

Dad was disheartened. Dr. Monty’s despondency was common among Company doctors. In the past, other Company doctors left the camps as soon as they were able, going to cities and towns where there was higher hope for the survival of infants. Dad liked Dr. Monty and wanted to keep him in the coal camps. He offered Dr. Monty solace, the best he knew how.

"¡A, qué mal! ¡Su tristeza es del corazón y alma! ‘This is bad! Your sickness is of the heart and soul.’ You must not let it dampen your spirit." Dad poured the wine into a shot glass and then into a coffee cup. He did the same for himself, taking the coffee pot from the stove and pouring coffee.

Manuel, how do you fight this sickness?

"I’m not an educated doctor, pero los viejos del país say sickness of the heart is despair in the soul. They say we must never lose faith."

How do you keep faith? I’ve told you, once again, I can’t help you with one of your children. Three gone, and I haven’t done you a darn bit of good. With Matías? I’m certain he’ll die.

"Dios da, pero no acarrea: ‘God provides, but he does not carry anyone,’" Dad recited a down-home dicho. He stood and walked to the icebox, took out a fresh cucumber, and cut it into thick slices. He placed them in a bowl, pouring vinegar over them. Dr. Monty, come with me to the crib. Bring your bag with the bandages.

Dad and Dr. Monty entered the bedroom, Dad carrying the bowl with the vinegar and sliced cucumbers. Mom was sitting on the bed, holding my limp, frail body wrapped loosely in a blanket. Dad’s tone of voice was confident, feigning assurance:

"Clara, Dr. Monty and I have been talkin’. We’re going to use a remedio, como los viejos en el país."

Mom was not fooled. The down-home remedy was a last resort—a grasp at faith. She laid me in the crib and went to the dresser, where the statues of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Virgen de Guadalupe stood, searching the top drawer for her rosary. Kneeling before the statues, she lisped,

Dios te salve, María, Madre de Dios, el Señor es contigo. . . .

Dad laid two vinegar-saturated cucumber slices on my forehead, turning to Dr. Monty. Give me a bandage, to use as a bandana.

Keenly watching, Dr. Monty reached in his medicine bag and took out the scissors and a roll of gauze, cutting off a piece and handing it to Dad. Dad soaked the bandage in the vinegar, wringing out the excess. He wrapped the bandage around my forehead, gently lifting my feverish head to wrap the gauze around the back. I lay limp, hardly moving except when Dad lifted me to remove my diapers. Now I was naked, except for the cucumber headband. Dad fanned me with the blanket, hanging it at the foot of the crib.

Now, Dr. Monty, we must leave Clara with her prayers.

Dad and Dr. Monty briskly left the bedroom. In the kitchen, Dr. Monty rubbed his chin, shaking his head.

Never saw the likes of it, Manuel. Dr. Monty was skeptical, doubting the viability of home remedies.

"¿Sabes qué? En el país, los viejos have many remedies."

As Dr. Monty opened the door to leave, he bowed his head and cupped his mouth with his hand, whispering woefully to Dad, I’ll come around tomorrow morning with a death certificate.

Dad sighed, Yes . . . come. . . . Leave the bandage?

Dr. Monty handed Dad the roll of gauze, quietly closing the kitchen door. In