There are things I’m sure I never knew about my father; after all he had completed 27.5 laps around the burning ball of helium that resides at the center of our universe before I made my grand entrance in the spring of 1986. The first photo and partial memory I have of my father was of him carrying me in a covered child seat through waist deep snow in the winter of ‘86. He was smiling; something I don’t really remember him doing much throughout my life, however that’s not to say that he wasn’t happy just that I’m not entirely certain that he was happy with the direction his life had taken to that point. Growing up he stressed how important an education was. How much I needed to learn from his mistakes and not follow my heart but rather my head. That I had to go to college after high school and not go into the coal mines and get married like he did. He told me that he turned down a basketball scholarship to West Virginia University to instead become an underground miner operator and get married in the fall of 1976. Given that these events happened a full decade before i was born I knew, and to some point, I believed he knew, that his decisions were not based on needing to provide for me but rather made with his own interests at heart. His father was a miner. His grandfather was a miner. For him, I assume, it was a foregone conclusion that he too would be a miner. I held this against my father, much in the way he held it against me, as he had to make a decision at a crossroad in his life and that decision was his alone. Down one road was a life underground, being 17 years old and married to a 16 year old bride, scraping to make ends meet in the beginning. Ahead in the other road would have been a college education, traveling with the basketball team, escaping the coal camps of Logan County; I feel that this scared him, causing him to not risk everything and bet on himself, and for this he needed someone to blame for this “safer” decision.
Fast forward to 1985. My mom told my dad that he was no longer going to be just her husband but also be a father. I’ve been told by several sources on both sides of my family of the following events, of which I am fairly certain are true. After hearing the news of mom’s pregnancy dad left. He told her he wasn’t ready and tha tshe was ruining his life; that he could have been so much more if it weren’t for her and her (at this point, unborn) child. That he was being shackled with the weight of unwanted responsibility. How he thought that running now was the answer is beyond me as he made the choice to eschew college basketball in lieu of running a continuous miner and pinning top with a roofbolter. No one has fully filled in the gaps between when that occurred and when I was born but I do know that he was assaulted in the delivery room by an older grandmother there to see her newest grandchild whom was born the same day for saying that I looked like the former head of the United Mine Workers of America, Mr. Arnold Miller. Apparently, this elderly woman took offense to this obscure reference and hit my father with her handbag. He told me that story on a near yearly basis throughout my life, although as I write this, I am still unsure why. My father also told me that my mother siad something to him during labor that he would never repeat. He never gave any clue as to what she said, and becuase of the epidural and stress of giving birth to a near 11 pound human, she has no recollection of the conversation in question. Unfortunately, this would be one secret that he took to the grave. Well, to the crematorium. His finaly wishes changed in his later years apparently, as the directions I was given upon his death were not followed but his second wife. He wanted a simple wake followed by the funeral service so that no one would have to take two days off work to attend, and he want the Sarah McLochlan song “In The Arms Of An Angel” to be played during the service. I assume he made this choice before the ASPCA started using that particular song in TV comercials about euthanized puppies, or at least I hope that is the case. Fast forward to 2024 and his passing; I was notified August 10th that he had died, and the cause of death was congestive heart failure. The problem I have is that he actually died August 3rd, but his wife decided not to tell me until after he was cremated and the death certificate had been filed. No funeral, no obituary, no closure. I made a post celebrating my father on my social media of which I felt painted him in a more than deserving good light. I talked about the great things he had done as a federal mine inspector, his time as an LPN, the things he taught me; I called him my hero. Looking back I don’t regret what I said, rather I question if I was being honest with myself.
The last time I saw my dad was a few weeks after Father’s Day 2024, I usually tried to work around when he was free instead of intruding on his previously made plans with his wife and stepdaughter. This meant not seeing him on birthdays, Christmas was never on Christmas Day, Father’s Day may be celebrated after Independence Day; it didn’t matter to me as long as I got to spend the time with him. This dinner was different. I couldn’t put my finger on it but there was a sense of urgency, of tension, in the air. When he picked me up he seemed rushed, almost as if he had other plans afterward. He opened his gifts, thanked me and we were out the door. He rushed out so quick tha t the gift back was still sitting in front of my couch until we returned. On the 10-minute drive to the restaurant he took a coughing fit the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my grandfather (his father) died of black lung in 1994. He coughed until he was at the point of passing out from lack of oxygen. Luckily, I was in the front passenger seat and could grab the wheel and keep us on the road; a skill that he had taught me many years ago when cellular phones in cars were becoming popular. Back then he would steer with his knees and I would watch his left leg to see when he depressed the clutch so that I could shift the car into the next gear. Or, I would steer the car from the passenger’s seat while he dialed his oversized bag phone with both hands. This is a skill I’m not sure most kids could, or would want to, put on their resume, but it is one I am glad to have to this day. I took control of the car until the coughing spell passed and nothing more was said. After finishing our meal dad excused himself to the restroom, leaving me and my stepmother alone at the table. I asked how long these coughing speels had been going on to which she tried to convince me that she didn’t know what I was talking about, as if we didn’t nealy have a car accident due to him passing out while driving a mere half-hour ago. She dismissed it as allergies but I pushed and told her he needed to see his pulminologist as his black lung was getting progressively worse. After 27 years underground he was awarded 55% disability due to black lung but in the last 24 months of his life I mentioned on numerous occasions tha the needed to see a specialish and then get tested again to increase his disability, of which I am not sure he ever did.
Dad was a healthy guy. He ate clean, exercised every day, wasn’t on any prescription medication, didn’t drink, didn’t smoke; if it weren’t for his lungs he could have been mistaken for a man two decades his junior. He kept his hair dyed jet black, wore fitted clothing to highlight his physique and maintained a level of activity that belied his true age, which has led me to question his cause of death for over a year. A man that has never had a heart issue in his life suddenly succumbs to congestive heart failure just three months after passing a physical mandated by the U.S. Dept. Of Labor? I find that highly suspicious. Had my stepmother told me that he died of black lung there would have been no doubt in my mind, but something about this diagnosis does not set right with me.
That was Dad though. He lived a life of secrecy as if he was working for the CIA as a spy on foreign soil. He would go weeks, or even months, without answering a phone call, text message, voicemail, courier pigeon or even a smoke signal and then just call out of the blue as if nothing had happened. In the fall of 2010 he stopped communicating with the entire family; me, his mother, his brother, no one heard a word from him for over six months. From mid-June to Christmas Day, not a peep, even refusing to answer on his birthday in November, and then just randomly showing up to the family Christmas dinner unannounced, with gifts, as if nothing had happened. It was the first time that I had ever heard my Aunt Susan say the “F” word, which she did quite loudly as soon as she saw him in the doorway. To this day I have no idea why he went radio silent during that time, but I worry what it could have been just the same.
I feel like I have two sets of memories of Dad. One is of the Dad I knew pre-2003, pre-divorce from Mom, pre-affair with the second wife. That man was the person that got up early Sunday morning, despite working evening shift Saturday night, to go to breakfast with me so that we could spend time together. I remember the man who would sit me on his lap and teach me to read from “Jodie’s Box” in the back of Motocross Action Magazine, I remember the man who would sit and try to teach me how to tie my shoes as a toddler, despite the fact that he didn’t know how to tie his own. I can still smell the aroma of burning plastic as he used an acetylene torch to heat up my go kart seat while I was still in it so that it would form tighter to my body. I can still taste the eggs over easy, hash browns, toast with grape jelly and black coffee that we’d both order at Judy’s diner on Sunday mornings, the cool laminate of the red and blue booths that littered the dining room and the digital soundtrack of the Galaga machine softly humming away next to the door. That is how I want to remember him. Those are the memories I wish I could focus on. Alas, that is not the case.
In 2003, my Junior into Senior year of high school everything changed. On Saturday evening of Memorial Day weekend, a car I did not recognize pulled into the driveway. A skinny man in a black tank-top and blue jeans walked up to the door and knocked, not a friendly “hey, it’s me, your neighbor from down the street” knock, but rather a “open up, we have a warrant” type of knock. Mom and Dad were in the back of the house while I was playing my guitar in the den, so I answered the door. The man asked for Dad by name, so assuming Dad knew this guy, I went to get him. When Dad got to the door the man smacked dad in the chest with a manilla envelope of papers and said “here, you’ve been served.” Dad didn’t say anything just slowly closed the door and turned to me as I was standing in the doorway between the den and billiards room, out of sight of the front door, but close enough by to be of assistance if needed. He had this look of defeat, mixed with anger, that I had never seen on his face before. He pushed me out of the way with the envelope in his hand and walked briskly through the house toward Mom. At this point I didn’t know what was going on but knew that I needed to get between them if something were to boil over. Dad yelled at Mom, Mom yelled at Dad while crying, neither would tell me what was going on exactly to I took the packet out of Dad’s hands and started reading it for myself. Mom was divorcing Dad because of his affair with the woman who would become my stepmother years later. Dad didn’t care that the family was being broken up, of which he told me several times during this evening, rather was only worried about money. He told me he’d have to sell my car, my ATV’s, pretty much anything of mine with value, to be able to afford to divorce my Mom. He told me it was my fault that this was happening, that if I had never been born, he could have had a better life. And the piece de resistance, “if you had been a miscarriage like your brother none of this would have happened.” This broke me. This was how I found out that I could have had an older brother, that my parents had suffered a miscarriage six years before I was born. He took no personal responsibility for his affair, no accountability for his actions. I started to lose respect for him that day and his behavior from then on only served to reinforce this growing resentment I had toward him.
Months before graduation I had to send out invitations and order tickets for the family. I told him then that I did not want his girlfriend there as this was a family function. He was welcome to sit with the rest of the family that was in attendance as we were coming together to celebrate a major milestone in my life. I bought him a ticket and gave it to him as soon as they come in from the school. I told him again at this point, which was around late April 2004. When graduation night rolled around, Dad was nowhere to be found. I assumed that he had blown off the event because of his girlfriend’s hatred for me and my mother, but I spotted the rest of my family sitting in the stands. Both sides of the family, sitting together despite Mom and Dad being in the midst of divorce. That sight meant the world to me. I remember bits and pieces of the ceremony; walking across stage, shaking the principal’s hand with my right hand after thoroughly wiping it on my gown, the feeling of the parchment in my sweat drenched left had that I forgot to wipe off, cheering for my friends as they walked across that stage before and after me, throwing my hat amongst my classmate, the shower of confetti from the smuggled fire extinguisher that my friend Mark brought; it truly was a night I hope to never forget. My closest friend and I walked arm in arm out into the breezeway to take pictures with our rudimentary 1MP digital cameras and to soak up the experience when we see a group of people rushing toward the front of the building. Being the curious lot that we were we followed to see what the drama was all about. When I crested the top of the knoll that the armory is built on I saw Dad’s girlfriend trying to punch my mother while my Dad held Mom’s arms behind her. Mom took a few good shots before breaking free of Dad’s grasp and retaliated with a single punch, directly to the girlfriend’s nose, cheekbone and left eye. As my uncle was pulling the girlfriend away to break up the fight, my Mom’s mom was nearly struck by wild punch thrown by the girlfriend to which she defended herself by hitting the girlfriend over the head with her umbrella, bending it into an “L” shape. At this point the fight was broken up and police were quickly on the scene. Officers asked Mom if she wanted to press charges, but fearing it would make things worse on me, she declined; a decision she regrets to this day. A platoon of National Guard Servicemen and Women came from the barracks that are next door to the arna where graduation was held to assist with the commotion and told both Mom and the officers on scene that they can testify as to what happened and corroborated Mom’s statement of events. Those two minutes haunt me to this day. I cannot forgive my father for going against my wishes and bringing her to my graduation, knowing that she would cause issues amongst the family and knowing that it would embarrass me publicly. That night marked the beginning of a series of events that would permanently put a strain on my relationship with Dad. From that point on I felt like an outsider in my own home, as if I didn’t belong anymore. Deadbolts were installed on interior doors at my house. Security cameras were placed in Dad’s bedroom. I was allowed to be in only certain rooms of the house, even when I was the only one home. It began to feel less like home and more like prison. And all of this was a direct result of her doing all she could to separate Dad from the rest of his family.
She would call and harass my grandmother (Dad’s mom), starting fights over nothing and causing grandma undue stress, just to create tension among the family. She forbade Dad from spending time with his own brother. She manipulated Dad into distancing himself from his friends, many of whom I had to track down to notify of his death because they hadn’t heard from him in decades. I reached out to those people because they meant something to Dad at some point in his life, and I hope he meant something to them just the same.
I want people to remember my Dad for the man he was at the good points in his life. The book-smart man who graduated high school with a G.P.A. high enough to earn him a full ride to a good school. The man who knew more about coal mining than any person I’ve ever met. The man who switched gears after 27 years underground and became an LPN. The man who worked for three weeks as a nurse before transitioning to becoming a mine inspector for the federal government. The man who taught lifesaving techniques to rescuers that would be implemented nationwide, keeping underground miners safe. The man who worked for 92 days straight on site at a mine disaster to determine the cause so that the same thing would not happen anywhere else. The man who helped carry victims of a mine explosion out of the debris underground, not merely placing their bodies on the mantrip and carting them out like bags of refuse, rather carrying them out to waiting gurneys ensuring their families would see them receiving care with dignity and treating them as the precious lives that they were. The man who spent the last two years of his career at MSHA developing new silica dust protocols that could be implemented across many industries, helping to save innumerable lives once it is implemented. That is the man I want the world to remember. The man who taught me to ride motorcycles by putting me on his 1994 Honda CR250 and giving me a push, knowing I was too short to reach the ground if I needed to stop and going in make a cup of coffee and read the newspaper while I learned how to shift smoothly, to transfer my weight while cornering and how to jump without getting bucked off the seat. He came back out around a half-hour later to catch me as I rolled to a stop. I was frustrated with him; I asked what would have happened if I needed to stop? Or if I wrecked? He gave a little chuckle and said “but you didn’t. You figured it out, didn’t you?” And then it hit me like a disoriented crow on a two-day bender: he taught me by forcing me to figure it out myself. I want him to be remembered for the good Dad he was in those moments. The Dad who trusted me enough to teach me to ride a 154mph sport bike when I was 13, taking me on rides in the surrounding communities, showing me what to do by having me follow him and match his skills derived from 40 years of experience. I think jumping directly into the deep end taught me more than any class or other instructor ever could.
I got the chance to race go-karts against my Dad exactly once. I raced in a class for adults when I was 13 called Stock Light. This was the fastest class at the track we raced at and also one of its most competitive. Dad raced a class called US820, a 2-stroke, 82cc, reed-valve air-cooled engine that made good power and was very light compared to the Briggs and Stratton engines used in my class. We went to the track on an off weekend between races, just to get some practice and work on making some setup changes. The track was undergoing some changes in turns 3 and 4; the banking was being increased by about five feet, making the track wider and the banking steeper, yet the outer wall hadn’t been raised to match the level of the track, meaning there was a five foot drop from the top of the banking down to the outer wall. While turning laps with Dad I was following him to study the line that his class ran most consistently. I wanted to pass him and show him that I was faster, being the cocky teenager that I was, and decided to drive into 3 about four kart lengths farther than I had to pass him on the middle groove while he ran the bottom. I overdrove the entry and started to lose the rear of my kart. By the time I reacted and turned full lock right to catch the slide I was already in the marbles at the top of the track, heading backward at a very high rate of speed (we averaged over 60mph on this 660 dirt oval, so speeds on the straights are in the 80-85mph range). I can still remember the wreck heartbeat but heartbeat; each beat brought a new event to the front of my mind. Ba-dump. The rear tires start to lost traction, Ba-dump. The kart is now facing backward with the front tires pointing slightly to the right. Ba-dump. I’m falling backward at a 90-degree angle to the ground. Ba-dump. The rear bumper slams the ground hard, and I stop immediately. Ba-dump. Angular momentum carries the kart over backward and onto my head; thankfully I was wearing a Simpson Super Bandit full-face helmet, a fireproof jacket and a neck collar or this would have broken my neck. Ba-dump. There’s a cold sensation on my lap and right left but my right shoulder, neck and chest are very warm. Ba-dump. I no longer hear either kart running as my spark plug boot was pulled loose during the rollover, killing the engine, but I assume that Dad is in turn 1 or 2 coming back around to where I went off. Nope. He has shut his kart off, jumped out and over the banking and superhero landed right next to me in the soft dirt. I see
those familiar size 13 Simpson driving shoes out of my peripheral vision and know that help is here. He flips the kart over, with me still wedged in the seat, and starts smacking my shoulder and neck with his sleeve. Turns out that warm feeling in my upper chest? Fire. Methanol had leaked out of the fuel tank while the kart was upside down and ignited my jacket and neck collar and was quickly spreading to my lap which was covered in clear, cold methanol. Luckily the fire was extinguished very quickly, and I was able to regain my bearings while still seated in the kart. The track owner was on scene within a minute wanting us to sign waivers alleviating him of responsibility but wisely we did not. Dad jumped into action faster than I had ever seen him move before. He actually showed he genuinely cared. There was fear on his face when he saw my eyes through the face shield on my helmet. I hate that I scared him that much, but it was so refreshing to see him behave like a concerned parent instead of merely trying to be my friend; his modus operandi. What he never understood was that I had plenty of friends growing up. What I needed was two consistent parents. I will personally never forget his actions that day and I wish everyone could know that man. That man is worth celebrating. That man was my father.