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It was the place we worked tirelessly to make our own. It was the place where we began our life together. It was the place where I touched Tenleigh often and with love, never taking for granted that she was in my arms. It was the place where I brought my wife small grocery store cakes with perfect pink flowers on the edges, instead of bouquets, because I knew what brought her joy.
This was the home where I’d carried my bride over the threshold after she’d taken my name in a small but beautiful wedding ceremony on the edge of our lavender field, our closest friends and family in attendance. It was where we’d brought our now three-year-old son, Silas, home and where she’d told me she was expecting again. It was the home where Jamie visited, knowing he was welcomed with friendship and love, where Shelly dropped Joey off regularly for Friday night pizza so she and Ian could have a date night, where Marlo and Sam, along with their little boy, Elijah, and Tenleigh’s mama came to dinner every week, where we all sat at the impressive hand-carved table Buster had given us as a wedding gift—the one that needed to be covered with a tablecloth when children were present.
We had talked about me going away to college, maybe even just commuting somewhere while Tenleigh worked, but in the end, I’d decided that my life, my heart, was here. And so I’d completed my civil engineering degree online at the University of Kentucky. I had worked my way up—literally—at the mine, moving to an aboveground management position shortly after Tenleigh’s mama came home, and then being promoted to engineer after I earned my degree.
I hadn’t been able to save my father and my brother then, but now, I was in charge of the safety of all the men who hung up a metal tag and bravely went beneath the ground day after day, risking their lives to bring power to America. No one took it more seriously than I did. And when we were in Evansly and saw those coal-filled trains roll out of town, I would grip my wife’s hand tightly and stand tall.
As for Edward Kearney, he passed away from a heart attack a short time before Tenleigh and I were married. He never reconciled with his son, and his wife had left him a few months before. I couldn’t say I was too sorry to hear the news of Mr. Kearney’s passing—he’d never shown himself to be anything other than a cold, self-serving man, and it helped me make my decision to stay at the mine. Edward Kearney died with every material possession money could buy, and yet, to my mind, he died with nothing at all.
Tenleigh and I had left Dennville a few times—once, to go to New York City for a two-week honeymoon, once to attend my graduation in Lexington, and once for a weekend trip to Louisville. I’d wanted to leave Kentucky once upon a time. I’d planned on never looking back, but now I felt the pull of home when we were away, the pull that told me I’d had a fun vacation, but I was ready to get back to where I belonged. I was a Kentucky boy at heart, and I always would be. Someday, our sons and daughters would know and love the wild beauty of these hills just like we did.
The hill folk, and a few others in town, were still growing lavender and had made quite a business out of it. A year after Tenleigh and I got married, they organized a large lavender festival and a Kentucky paper wrote an article about how a small, impoverished coal town with a tragic past had started growing flowers that brought hope. The national news picked it up and people came from all over to learn about Appalachian culture, purchase wares from local craftsmen, and enjoy the beauty of the area. It brought business to the town and now we looked forward to it every summer. Poverty is never a simple problem, but for a few, those flowers had provided hope, and for that, I was proud.
Tenleigh’s mama lived in Evansly with Marlo and Sam. She worked part-time at Sam’s practice and helped out with Elijah. She was doing great and was better at recognizing the signs when she felt overwhelmed and knew when to reach out to those there to help her. She stayed with us in the summers, when Tenleigh wasn’t teaching at the Dennville school, and they took long walks in the hills, finally getting to know each other as mother and daughter.
“Comfortable?” I asked as Tenleigh lay down on our bed, putting her pillow between her legs. The fan at the end of our bed made a soothing whirring sound as it blew cool air in our direction. Someday we’d save up and wire this old house for AC.
