Old Joe didn’t say anything when they opened the mine at the head of Spruce Creek nor when they built the railroad siding out and the tipple down and both loomed over his little shack with coal and cars rolling overhead. He didn’t say anything when they dammed up the stream. But when the spring rains came and the creek burbled up under his floorboards, he took stock of his life.He fashioned an oversized canvas hat into a boat and with a coal shovel oar, he paddled into town where the junkies and prostitutes defiled themselves while poking fun at his beard and toothless grin.
The hat ran aground at the McDonalds. Here he found he could stretch his government check in trade for hot meat and bread products and leave more for whiskey, the mining company having long since torn down his still.
This, he thought, was progress.
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