The Trumains

The Trumains

By Ed Wingham

Copyright © 2011 by Edwin W. Wingham. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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First Printing, 2011

http://www.edwingham.com

My sincere thanks to all who have critiqued this work and provided inspiration to continue.

Introduction

The Trumains is a story about the indomitable strength of the human will exercised against the backdrop of the strains of everyday life. The story displays the vulnerabilities and yet the strengths of each family member interwoven into a tapestry that is uniquely Trumain. The family balance is maintained by Cory’s spirit as she mothers her children, each with their own challenges, and counterbalances her husband C.C. to provide some semblance of normality.

Inspiration for The Trumains partially originated with trips in and among the mountains and hills populated with loving and gentle people living the only life they knew; people generous to a fault and perhaps knowing happiness in ways that may escape those of us living a faster more urban existence. Personal experiences also gave seed to certain aspects of the story yielding direction with a clearer vision and a more vivid connection.

Though this is a fictional account, there are truths which run through and around that family that finds root within many of us. This story is one of courage and grit; a determination that survives the daily grind in an environment that swallows the weak and discards the innocent and perpetuates itself by cloning its own into replicas of themselves. This story speaks to that cycle that binds lives from the sameness of yesterday into the presence of today. Those patterns which marked and masked the Trumains into whom they would be, also shadows us in ways never realized or foreseen, but nonetheless, will reveal our own truths for a thousand tomorrows.

Chapter 1

Life pours its destinies on Bristol County, a remote corner of this world, just as surely as the current March thaw brings hope for a better tomorrow. With the sign of a new spring comes an emergence of heavy scented magnolias perfuming the air and the omnipresent rain which aids every bud in its quest to burst forth with new life. But more definitively for this isolated part of the world, the rains translate into choking and unavoidable mud, that which renders nearly every road impassable and which flows around and onto the willing and unwilling, disabling all but the most determined and experienced veterans of Bristol. That’s the way of life here; no one knows any different or complains. Just wait it out and go on with life and live to repeat the same again next year. Even with the reddish clay bound to all, it nonetheless serves as a harbinger of better days. The bleak and colorless days of winter have passed at last. Spirits are lifted and even a certain resonance appears in conversation which had been in absentia since autumn. This spring like all others is filled with promises for a better tomorrow, an annual ritual that rejuvenates and refreshes even the most forlorn of Bristol County.

Harold Cummins had seen many a spring come and go. Born and reared here, his fifty-eighth birthday had been but three days prior. A hard worker all his years, he had little in material wealth to reflect his work ethic. He labored with his father and both brothers in Carmichael’s Mine No. 6 for twenty-one years and witnessed his father's death; he was crushed by a freakish avalanche in the north wing. His father had warned the bosses about the deteriorating condition of those old timbers. But true to form, the warning fell on deaf ears. No one expected the ultra-tight Carmichaels to spend a red cent on repairs or modernization. Too many had perished before in similar ways from neglect and oversight and downright disinterest. Just part of the mining business all in Bristol were conditioned to say.

Yes, just part of the business I reckon, Harold murmured to himself as he recounted that time so long ago.

Harold Cummins maneuvered his cruiser, a 1962 Chevy Impala, around the scattered branches and abandoned vehicles that dotted the roadway on Route 9. He knew his duties as sheriff, and well he should since had he had served an uninterrupted string of 17 years as sheriff of Bristol. This was the only passable link from Fletcher County northward to Bristol and beyond. Slides were all too common after the heavy spring rains. Mud, rocks and even small trees were common pawns to the torrential currents. Nothing of any major consequence was strewn about today though he knew if not today then soon, very soon.

Narrow dirt roads darted off into every holler eastward from the roadway. Cummins would slow the cruiser and scan the pathways for signs of trouble. How often he had taxied folks to town for groceries and supplies during these lean times; being neighborly was just part of the unwritten code and responsibilities of sheriff. He didn't mind. Being sheriff was all about being a neighbor for if we had nothing else, we had community, a sense that someone was always there if we really needed them and so often someone did.

As Harold Cummins passed the mileage sign that confirmed that it was still 3 miles to Bristol, he noticed Cory Trumain just ahead standing along the road. Harold had known Cory since her marriage. He'd even harbored a little crush on her in his time. Even though she was rather unkempt, she still managed a certain attractiveness that her age belied. He pulled the cruiser along the extreme edge of the poorly shouldered road a hundred feet in front of Cory's methodical pace. He watched as she approached with a certain gracefulness and unassuming attractiveness that defied the countless years with her husband Charles Carter Trumain.

I sure wish I could take her out of that plight, he thought as she stooped by the open window.

Howdy, Cory, what can I do for you today? Need a ride?

I sure would be obligin' to you sheriff if it won't be any bother? Cory replied.

None atall, Cory, none atall. Hop on in here. Need to go to the grocery I'm a bettin' Sheriff Cummins queried in order to keep some conversation going.

Cory studied the landscape intently as the cruiser wove its way northward. Finally after a prolonged delay and a nervous glance, she responded to the affirmative.

How's Charles Carter doin' Cory? Don't see much of him in the winter months. Don't get out much I reckon?

No, he stays pretty close to home from around December to well, ‘til these infernal rains cease, Cory answered.

Don’t know if Charles Carter qualifies for a human, he mumbled to himself as they neared the outskirts of Bristol: sends his wife to town to fetch groceries and pick up any mail from general delivery. He’s probably laid up drunk as usual. Why she continued to stay with him year after miserable year was incomprehensible to him. Her commitment to the kids, I suppose, he pondered.

How are the boys doin' Cory? And I bet that Emmie is practically marryin' age, ain't she?

That Emmie, I tell you, Sheriff, she's only fiftenn but acts like twenty. Sometimes she's more than I can handle. Marty is nineteen years now, Sheriff. He is supposed to graduate year after next. We's all a hopin' he can graduate. I've always wanted all my children to get a diploma. Bille ain't no problem atall sheriff, none atall. I'm a reckonin' someday he'll be something. Gets along real good in school. He's sixteen now, Sheriff. Can you imagin', sixteen already?

Harold managed to wave at the few standbys always present in the familiar haunts as he listened to Cory's response. He pulled into the practically inundated partially graveled parking lot inspecting the area for the most opportune exit point.

You know that darned war over there in Nam doesn't sound like it's gettin' any better, Cory. I believe I'd talk right strong to Marty if I was you. He could well wind up over there if he doesn't make the grades. Too many good young men are finding out it's not much of a picnic.

Yes, I suppose you're right, Sheriff. I’m always apleadin’ with that boy to work on his school stuff. But he's headstrong, Sheriff. Really like C.C., I guess. At nineteen, there isn't much persuadin' I can do anymore. Oh my, here I am ramblin' on my troubles to you, Sheriff. I do apologize.

Nonsense, Cory, I always look forward to these chance meetings. I'm always happy to do whatever I can for you or the kids. Don't forget, Cory, that if you ever need my assistance in any way at all, I'm always here for ya.

Mighty nice of you sheriff. Mighty nice as usual. I won't forget it.

"Sure was nice talkin' to you, Cory. If you want me