The Coles. The Coles were a large family who lived close to Sycamore Street. The senior Mr. Cole, whose first name I never knew, had come — from Canada, I think — to work at the “Carbide” chemical plant. He was half-Canadian Indian, half Caucasian, perhaps French. His wife was either full Indian or half French; her speech was heavily accented. They lived in a large, farm-like house on Kanawha Terrace. The children were “Hummy,” the eldest, then Bob, then a sister Patsy, then Bill, Don and Dick. Hummy was killed in WWII action, I think. Bob was 6’8”, a giant at the time and obviously a legend. The younger three were in my age bracket, more or less. Back then, most all boys had an ‘ie’ or ‘y’ at the end of their names. Thus, Hummy, Bobby, Billy, Donnie, and Dickie. The Cole Boys.
As a family, they lived in virtual isolation from other families. However, the boys, Billy, Donnie and Dickie, were involved in all the neighborhood and school stuff. Billy — whom I later knew as just Bill — was quiet, studious, and went on to become a well-known commercial artist with Ringling Brothers. Donnie — Don — went on to become a valued Carbide expert in facilities management. Dickie — Dick — was the youngest, and that’s who this tale is all about.
Dickie was a year or so older than I. We kinda linked up. He was tall, angular, dark-skinned, dark-haired and had an infectious grin. He was kind of a loner, would hang around the neighborhood without ever being anyone’s “best bud.” He had this quiet, stealthy way about him, and my Grandmother Farley, who lived with us, called him — derisively — “that Indian.” He would have grinned at that.
I remember with laughter one summer night when I was upstairs in bed, reading — Zane Grey, probably — when I looked up at the dormer window, and there he was. Dickie, with that grin. I grinned back, and he disappeared, down the roof into a tree and to the ground. I thought “Dickie, why and how did you do that. ” But it was funny. Afterward, it never came up. Done and gone. That was Dickie. We always just grinned at each other; no “best buddy” stuff: sharing innermost thoughts, etc. Dickie and I were an unspoken pair; there was never a need for us to do all that talking stuff.
Here’s the story.
One day, when we were about 11 and 10, we decided, without parental knowledge, to go down to the railroad yard and climb around some cars that were idle on “the side.” The side was about four rails where railroad cars of various us were sent to await future destinies. Mostly, they were coal cars — hoppers — and tank cars, which in our area were mostly used to transport chemical products.
Dickie and I were having fun. Climbing around the wooden walkways on tank cars, climbing up to look down in coal hoppers, etc. As we rounded the front of a tank car it happened. Dickie fell, and his leg caught on a metal abutment. He went to the ground and grunted. Then he said, “I’m hurt.”
Dickie was larger than I. But I went to him and saw blood pouring from his upper leg, which had been torn open, with raw flesh hanging by the skin. He was in great pain, but, being Dickie, was not in panic.
My distinct, never-to-end memory is that at first, I was terrified. I stood there, stunned. The sight of the wound, with all the blood, had me in a state of fear: not knowing what to do or how to do it. His face, now pale with shock, the blood. Then it hit me. He was badly hurt and there was no one but me to help. Somehow, I got him up and, with him leaning on my shoulder, we walked — stumbled — about a hundred yards to the nearest house and onto the porch. He laid down on the porch floor and I pounded on the door, yelling and crying. A woman came to the door and I screamed at her to call an ambulance. She did, and the ambulance arrived. They laid him back and applied what I later learned was a compress and took him to the hospital. The guy who was in charge looked at me and said, “Son, you may have saved this boy’s life.”
I never saw it that way. What I did was get Dickie to help; they did the rest. It didn’t even click with me immediately when he said that. I was just happy that it turned out OK. I went home, told Mom the short version: “It wasn’t a bad thing, mom,” and that was that. Mom, of course, never told Dad.
The event was on my mind constantly the next few days. I was worried about Dickie, and I went to the Cole’s house and knocked on the door. No one came. No surprise; they weren’t very responsive. A couple of days later I went back, knocked on the back door. Mrs. Cole came, small, direct, said “Come.” She led me upstairs to a bedroom where Dickie lay. He grinned, said he had to stay in bed another two or more weeks. We talked for a minute or so, and I left. Mama showed me out. It was only later that I learned that I was perhaps the only person outside the family to ever be allowed in that house. When I learned that, I felt honored. The Coles — the parent Coles — were not an inviting neighbor, but they were extraordinarily good people.
It took about three weeks for the wound to heal enough that Dickie could get around. I saw him as always before: now and then, we’d play mumbly peg with the gang, and all the rest.
Dickie didn’t need to say “Thanks, Farley.” I didn’t need to hear it. We were just two kids, doing what we did, but we had a bond that was different from all the other bonds I’ve known. Dickie Cole. He went on to serve in the Air Force, got a job at Carbide, raised a large family, bought and ran a nice farm. I didn’t see him after high school.
His older brother Don passed away about ten years ago. I heard about the service, and drove to Richmond to attend, with the hope that Dick might be there. He was, and after all that time he hadn’t really changed. We spotted each other at the same time, and there was that infectious smile. And in both our eyes was the fleeting shared memory of that day. We talked for a few moments and then the service began. Driving home I reflected on all of it, and how really good it was to see Dick. About four years ago Dick passed away. Dickie, I’ll never forget that day, and I’ll never forget the night you looked at me through my upstairs window with your silly grin. Funny how hilarious times and serious times are paired in one’s mind.