My father was not interested in old things. He did not save any heirlooms. It was hard to get him to talk about the past, and impossible to get him to write anything. Except for one piece. One vivid memory that he was willing to put down on paper.

When he was growing up in Tyrone, in a house built by his grandfather David, the furnace ran on coal.

Here is what he wrote about it. It was such an evocative piece that it makes me sorry I could not persuade him to write more.

“… the coal was delivered to our house one ton at a time.  The coal was hauled by a horse team and wagon, up the steep hill to a point above our house.  Chutes were then placed from the wagon to the cellar, via a window, and the coal was shoveled onto the chute and then rolled down the chute into the cellar.

One memorable instance:  winter day, snow on ground, cold wind, horses straining mightily to haul the wagon up the hill, slipping and sliding backwards sometimes.  Teamsters shouting and whipping, the horses steaming and, finally, the wagon reached to the top of the hill.  What a scene!”