The feuding of the Panettas and the Calarcos families is about to come to a close ~ that is, as far as younger sister Isabella Panetta believes. She is certain of marriage to Orlando Calarco and subsequent children being the power to break this torrent of bad blood between them. Her older sister, Chantel, is home from Nonna and Nonno's in Italy. Isabella has waited to tell her sister before revealing her plans and desires to their Mama and Papa.
How could it be? Long ago, had there been a love like this? So endearing that every storm of life could be reconciled; by a smile, by a tear? Isabella is seventeen and eager to forgo her trip until a later time. Especially, since the feud happened in the old country before even coming to America. How could it affect her and Orlando?
This was a strong story of family. How will they choose; from the heart or from tradition? They live in the present with expectations from yesteryear. "We always have done it this way." Families feeling they disrespect and betray their ancestors by changing actions today. How much are "perceived" truths from the past that are leaned upon? I liked the three generations and their input. It wasn't always the oldest that resisted change.
The writing was excellent and so was the pace. Many opportunities for reconciliation. My favorite character was Nonna Barbato. She made the story come alive in that she spoke her mind and shared hidden things that could have made a difference if listened to correctly. She gave up her individual life to come from Italy to the Americas to care for her family when her daughter died. How humbling and resourceful, with a clear heart. She drew them all together by her consistency and love. Respect.
Tracie Peterson is the award-winning author of more than ninety novels, both historical and contemporary. Her avid research resonates in her stories, as seen in her bestselling Land of the Lone Star and Heirs of Montana series. Tracie and her family make their
home in Montana. To learn more, visit Tracie’s website at traciepeterson.com.
***Thank you to Tracie Peterson and Bethany House Publishers for providing me with this review copy of
. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***
Chapter 1
ELY, MINNESOTA
OCTOBER 1890
“A Calarco?” Chantelly Panetta looked at
her sister in disbelief. “You want to marry a
Calarco?”
Seventeen-year-old Isabella shook her head.
“Not just any Calarco. Orlando Calarco.
We’re in love, Chantel. I can’t tell my heart
not to love him. You haven’t been here this
last year, so you don’t know him like I do.”
“I may have been gone, but I do know that
the Calarcos and Panettas have been at odds
for over fifty years.”
Isabella flipped long honey-brown hair over
her shoulder. “The feud means nothing to
Orlando and me.”
Scrutinizing her younger sister’s womanly
figure and full lips, Chantel shook her head.
Isabella looked years beyond her seventeen.
She seemed just a child when Chantel had
left, but now she spoke of marriage and love.
“Have you told Mama or Papa?”
“No, of course not.” Isabella threw herself
across the bed. “I wanted to wait until you
returned from Italy.”
Chantel sat on the edge of her sister’s bed
and carefully considered her words. “You
know they’ll never approve.”
Isabella reared up like a cat about to attack
its prey. “They’ll have to. Orlando and I plan
to marry. This feud is ridiculous, and I don’t
care if I’m disowned. I love him.”
“But how did this happen?” Chantel questioned.
“Surely Marco and Alfredo would
never allow you to be alone with a Calarco.”
“Our brothers can’t be everywhere. They
went with Papa to the iron mine every day to
work, and sometimes I slipped away—alone—
to meet Orlando there.”
“You went to the mine?” Chantel realized
she was nearly shouting, and hurried to lower
her voice. “You can’t be serious. You know
we’re not supposed to go unless we’re with
other women—it’s dangerous there. The men
have no reason to treat you like a lady if you
show up at the mines. Only a loose woman
would do that.”
“You know full well there are exceptions,
even in our family. I seem to remember more
than once when we delivered food to our menfolk.
Anyway, it’s not like I made a public
spectacle,” Isabella said, easing into a sitting
position. “I kept myself hidden and disguised.
Only Orlando saw me. Even his brother and
father have no idea.”
The very thought of her sister risking her
innocence, even her life, to visit a man she
knew her parents would never approve of,
gave Chantel a shiver. If spending the last
year in Italy visiting their grandparents had
taught Chantel anything, it was just how possessive
family could be. In the old country
young ladies didn’t so much as speak to a
man without their father’s permission.
“Stop frowning like that,” Isabella declared.
“It’s not the end of the world. You’ll see.
Orlando and I figure this is exactly what’s
needed to put an end to the feud.”
Chantel wished she could be as sure as her
sister. “You know that this problem between
the families won’t go away easily. It’s more
likely that your marriage would only cause
further division.”
“Nonsense.” Isabella twisted a long strand
of hair between her fingers. “If we’re married
and produce children, they will belong
to both the Calarco and the Panetta families.
Think of it, Chantel. It’s really an answer to
Mama’s prayers.”
Their mother had long wished for an end
to the on going feud. As Chantel understood
it, the entire affair had occurred in Italy and
was over some dispute that no one would
speak about. Frankly, Chantel wondered if
anyone even knew for sure what had started
the matter. She did know that it ended in the
killing of a mule, which threatened the livelihood
of the Calarco family. Mama said the
mule’s death was an accident, but that because
there was already bad blood between the two
families, it could not be forgiven or seen as
anything but a purposeful attack. Chantel had
tried to get her Nonna Panetta to speak on the
matter, but her grandmother was even more
closemouthed about it than Mama.
With a sigh, Chantel forced a smile. “Well,
it’s good to see you again, nevertheless. I can’t
say the same for this filthy, depressing town.
The past year in Italy has only made me realize
just how awful this place truly is.”
“It’s a mining town. You know what Mama
says about them.” Isabella scooted to the edge
of the bed.
“It’s the last stop before the gates of hell,”
the girls said in unison and laughed.
Chantel looked around the room she’d
shared with her sister since the family had
moved to Ely three years earlier. Her father’s
years of iron mining work had taken them
from back east to Michigan, and now to Minnesota.
They had lived for a short time in
Duluth near their mother’s sister Marilla.
But even that larger town failed to shine in
light of Chantel’s memories of the Italian
countryside.
“So was your trip as wonderful as your letters
implied?” Isabella questioned. “I’d always
looked forward to going there myself, but now
I suppose I won’t have the opportunity. At
least not for a time.”
Their parents had a tradition of sending
each of their children to stay with their grandparents
in Italy. Upon turning twenty-one, the
siblings, if unmarried, would leave home for a
year to learn about the old country and their
ancestors. Marco and Alfredo had each had
their turn, and now Chantel had experienced
the same.
“It is truly unlike anything I could have
anticipated,” she said. “Nonna and Nonno
have such a beautiful home,” Chantel continued.
“And the scenery is incredible. You
can see the vineyards and orchards for miles
and miles. And Nonna and I had great fun
tatting and making bobbin lace. I brought a
crateful home with me and made more on
the ship.”
“You wrote about the family dinners,” Isabella
interjected with a wistful look on her
face. “They sounded so wonderful. All those
people and the music and dancing.”
“They were,” Chantel admitted. “Every
Sunday relatives would come from all over, and we would feast. Nonna’s tables would
practically bow from the weight of the food.
Oh, and such food! You think Mama is a good
cook; well, let me tell you there’s nothing quite
so wonderful as Nonna’s dishes made with
fresh ingredients.” She put her thumb and
middle finger to her lips and kissed. “With
all that good food, it was hard to wait for the
prayer. Nonno would practically preach a
sermon when he stood to bless the food. It
was amazing. His faith in God is so strong.”
“Yet he allows for this stupid feud between
families. And all because some mule was accidentally
killed,” Isabella muttered. “I don’t
understand how that’s godly.”
Chantel shook her head. “No, I don’t suppose
it is. Forgiveness is something that people
in the old country seem reluctant to give, and
I don’t know why it should follow us here. Old
traditions die hard, I suppose, but America is
a land for new traditions and opportunities.
It seems to me that such grudges should be
set aside.”
Just then their mother burst into the room
carrying a huge stack of clean linens. “
Buon
giorno.”
“Good morning, Mama.” Chantel crossed
the room to help her mother with the laundry.
“It’s so good to have you home,” their
mother said, beaming from ear to ear. She rattled away in rapid-fire Italian, proclaiming
how much she’d missed Chantel and how
empty the house seemed without her, before
slowing down to return again to English.
“Your papa is so happy you have returned.”
Chantel placed the linens atop an empty
chair. “I’m glad to see you all again, but I
cannot say I’m happy to be in Ely.”
“E-lee is no so beautiful as Italy,” her mother
declared. Although she was half French, her
accent was decidedly Italian.
“No, it’s not,” Chantel agreed.
The mining town sported twenty-six saloons,
compared to only five churches. There
were a variety of other businesses: general
stores, banks, doctors and lawyers, jewelers
and dressmakers. But it was what happened
in the backrooms and upper floors of the saloons
and brothels that was most distressing.
Prostitution, gambling, and all manner of vice
went on, and there were almost daily reports
of someone having been killed in a fight or of
drinking themselves into such a stupor that
they fell on the railroad tracks to be run over
by the morning freight. The latter was so
common, in fact, that the marshal had taken
to checking the tracks before the train was due
in. Of course, it was rumored that many of
the bodies discovered on the tracks had been
placed there purposefully to disguise murders.
Mother bustled around the room, tidying
things as she went. “And did you find a special
boy?” Mother asked. “An
Italiano boy?”
There had been a bevy of nice-looking
young men who paid court to Chantel, but
none that drew more than momentary interest.
Chantel knew her mother had hoped that
romance would blossom and that perhaps her
daughter would return to America a married
woman bringing yet another Italian to settle
the country.
“No, no one special, Mama.”
“Oh, it’s too bad. You’re such a pretty girl.
You need to find a good husband.” Mama
stopped cleaning and looked at her daughters.
“But God will provide.
Non è forse così?”
“Yes, it is so, Mama.”
Just don’t go trying
to do God’s work for Him. Chantel could tell
by the look on her mother’s face that the idea
had crossed her mind.
Isabella forced herself up off the bed. “I’m
going to take Chantel to the new dressmaker’s
shop, Mama. I want to introduce her to the
Miller sisters.”
“
Sí, and show her the new meat market,”
their mother suggested. “Such good meats to
be had there. They make a wonderful sausage.”
Mama loved her sausage. Chantel smiled
and moved toward the door. “Let me get my
walking shoes on.”
“Better to wear boots,” Mama countered.
“The rains, they make the streets like-a mud
pit.”
The girls nodded in unison and went to the
mud porch to retrieve their boots. Chantel
took up a woolen shawl and wrapped it around
her head and shoulders. The damp October
air chilled her to the bone as they began the
walk. For several blocks Chantel said nothing.
It looked a little better than it did last year.
At least they’d removed a good many tree
stumps. Many of the trees that had been cut
down for mining use had once littered the area
with stumps. But now in their place new buildings
were erected. It was a vast improvement.
“It’s colder than I expected.”
Isabella shrugged, doing up the buttons on
her brown wool coat. “It is nearly November.
In another week or two we’ll be ice skating
on the lake.”
Chantel nodded. “I suppose it’s to be expected,
but even so, I shall miss the summer
warmth of Italy.”
“Winter must come. It can’t stay summer
forever,” her sister replied. “Summer here is
quite lovely, as you must remember.”
She did. Summer picnics at Lake Shagawa
and picking blueberries on some of the small
lake islands.
“You’ve missed a great deal around here.”
Isabella waved her hand toward the town’s
buildings. “The Reverend Freeman left his
position at the Presbyterian Church to resume
his studies in Chicago. Oh, and we have a
brand-new church building for St. Anthony’s.
Soon we’ll be holding services there instead
of the boardinghouse. Father Buh raised the
money and oversaw the building. It’s going
to be quite wonderful.”
Chantel considered many of the new structures.
“It’s almost like the town grew up
overnight.”
Isabella continued. “We have a new drugstore
and a new hotel. The Oliver Hotel is
quite modern and is said to be just the thing
to bring in tourists for fishing and hunting.”
“I’m impressed, I must admit,” Chantel
declared. “I even heard some men talking
on the train about ice fishing this winter. Of
course there were also a fair number of men
who were coming to find work.”
“Papa says that with the new iron mines
being established, we’ll soon have hundreds
more people. Maybe thousands.”
“As if the Chandler Mine wasn’t enough of
a destruction to this land.”
Isabella didn’t seem to hear. “Oh, remember
Sara Norman? Well, she married Mr. Ellefesen.
You know he’s a member of the Ely
Fire Department, so the other firemen went
together and gave them a sofa and armchair.
Mama said it came all the way from Chicago.”
“No doubt that cost a pretty penny,” Chantel
replied. She looked around the town, trying
to imagine spending the rest of her life here.
She doubted that she could be happy even
with a new sofa and armchair from Chicago.
The dirt and noise, damp cold and unpainted
buildings made her long for Italy. As homesick
as she’d been at times while abroad, Chantel
suddenly felt completely displaced.
“You should have been here for the Firemen’s
Ball,” Isabella continued, not noticing
her sister’s mood. “The entire department
ordered special suits and looked quite grand.
They wore black pants, red flannel shirts with
blue collar, cuffs, and breastplate. Whiteside
Hall has never held such a spectacular affair.
We all dressed in our finest and went to
celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?” Chantel asked.
Isabella threw her a look of amusement.
“Something different. We were just happy
to have a diversion. We danced and ate and
made merry.”
Chantel could well understand that. As they
crossed Chapman Street, Chantel felt her
boots sink in the muddy ruts of the road. She
hurried to regain solid footing on the boardwalk,
carrying what felt like five pounds of
muck on each foot. Wiping her boots against
the edge of the walk, she shook her head.
Isabella was unfazed. “See over there? We’ve
been told that a fruit and candy store will open
there in January. I, for one, am quite excited.”
Chantel smiled, knowing her sister’s penchant
for sweets. “Nonna taught me to make
some wonderful family recipes, including
some candy that Mama used to make when
she was a little girl.” To her surprise Isabella
gave her an impromptu hug.
“It’s so good to have you home. I missed
you so much.”
Chantel returned the embrace. “I’m glad to
be home.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but neither
was it the truth.
Chapter 2
“It’s got to stop,” Dante Calarco told his
younger brother Orlando. “You can’t go
on sneaking around to meet that Panetta
tramp.”
“She’s no tramp!” Orlando shot up to stand
nose to nose with his brother. “I love her and
intend for her to be my wife.”
Dante rolled his eyes heavenward. “You’re
nineteen and have no business even thinking
about marriage. You’ve only been working
the mine for the last year. You have nothing
to your name and certainly cannot afford a
wife. Not only that, but you know our father
will never allow you to marry a Panetta. And
for good reason.”
“Reason, good or otherwise, never has
figured into this ridiculous feud.” Orlando
pushed back thick black hair and reclaimed
his seat at the dining room table. “Am I the
only one bothered by the fact that our families
are at odds over a stupid mule? I mean,
think about it. Two families hate each other
because a mule accidentally got killed.”
“Our grandfather apparently didn’t believe
it to be an accident. Besides, you know as well
as I do there were already problems between
the two families.”
“But I don’t have any problem with the
Panettas, and I don’t see why I should.”
Dante wanted very much to get his brother
to acknowledge the truth. “It matters little
whether or not you agree with the two families
being at odds. The fact is, Father believes in
loyalty to our family.”
“What about loyalty to his sons? What about
learning to live in peace like the Good Book
says? What about that?”
Dante had never been much for religious
nonsense. He believed in God. He even believed
that He had a Son named Jesus who
died on the cross in some sort of sacrifice for
all of mankind. What he didn’t believe in was
the nonsense that took place in the church.
As far as he’d ever been able to tell, church
was useful for one thing and one thing only:
heaping guilt upon the weak-minded.
“I’m not going to argue with you about religion.
I’m not even going to challenge you
on the whole concept of trying to be at peace
in a world filled with warring people.” Dante
took the seat opposite his brother while their
grandmother scurried around to put supper
on the table. “But you know how our father
feels regarding family. Family is everything.
For you to sneak around with her is like putting
a knife in his back.”
“That has never been my intention.” Orlando
met Dante’s gaze. “You know that. I
love my family, but I love Isabella, too.”
“
Ora ragazzi,” said their Nonna Barbato
in her native Italian.
Il papá sarà qui presto.”
Dante squared his shoulders. She was right.
Their father would be here any moment, and
it wouldn’t serve either of them well to have
him question their discussion.
“I’m sorry, Orlando. I’m sorry that you love
her, and I’m sorry that nothing can ever come
of it.”
Just then they could hear their father scraping
his boots outside the back door. Both
young men straightened in their chairs as if
they were boys awaiting parental inspection.
Nonna put the last of the food on the table
and took her seat.
Vittorio Calarco rubbed his hands together
and entered the kitchen. “The wind has a
bite to it. Hopefully we’ll get a hard freeze
and that muck they call a road will harden
up.”
Dante couldn’t help but smile. His father
stood bootless in his dirty socks. He took
orders from the mining captain and no one
else . . . except his mother-in-law. Nonna
Barbato insisted the men take their boots
off before entering the house, and even
Vittorio Calarco was obedient. Of course,
Dante knew his father had been dependent
upon the older woman since losing his wife
in childbirth. Nonna had been newly widowed,
and the trip to America to care for
her daughter’s newborn and eight-year-old
sons gave her a new lease on life. Dante’s
father had struggled to find the money for
such a trip, but with the help of family he
had managed to bring Nonna to America
only weeks after he’d buried Dante and Orlando’s
mother.
Their father took a seat at the table and
reached for his bowl of
zuppa de zucca, his
favorite pumpkin soup. Nonna waggled a
finger and admonished him. “First we pray,”
she said as she always did.
His father gave a nod. When Nonna said
they would pray first, they prayed.
Nonna offered grace for the food, then
poured her heart out in prayers for the family.
She asked forgiveness for each of her men,
pleading with God for their protection. Dante
knew this never boded well with his father,
but he found it somewhat comforting. Even
if he wasn’t given to praying himself, it was
nice to know that someone else was offering
up prayers on his behalf.
“Amen,” said Nonna.
Dante and Orlando murmured the word
in return, but their father only grunted and
reached again for the soup.
Supper was always a time for Nonna to
share the latest information from family or
the ongoing affairs of neighbors. Dante’s
father would chime in on politics and matters
of the town, while Dante and Orlando
picked up the conversation when they had
something to add. And always, it was in Italian.
Nonna could speak English, though not
well. She considered it a vulgar language. It
was a rare occasion when Anna Teresa Barbato
spoke what she called “that American
garble.”
Ely was a town of many nationalities, but
the far east side was predominantly settled by
Slavic-Austrians and Italians. Nonna knew
every man, woman, and child in their neighborhood
and thought it her duty to keep up
on the details of their lives. Often the women
washed clothes or sewed together, and while
they did they told news from the old country
or spoke of problems with their families.
Nonna had become something of a matriarch
among the women, and she held the position
with the authority of a queen.
“The Dicellos have a new baby,” Nonna
announced. “A fat, healthy boy.” She extended
a rose-colored glass serving bowl to
Dante. “You should marry and have children,
Dante. Goodness, but you are twenty-seven
years old. Well past the time a man should
settle down. You need children of your own
to carry on the family name.”
Orlando opened his mouth as if to comment
on that, but Dante quickly silenced him.
“Nonna, you always said that marriage was
the hardest work a man and woman would
ever do. Frankly, the mine exhausts me. I
don’t have the energy to marry.”
She laughed and motioned to the bowl he’d
just taken. “Eat up and you’ll have energy
aplenty. This is your favorite
agnolotti.”
Dante smiled and began to spoon himself
a healthy portion of the ravioli. Each little
pasta pocket was filled with tender roast beef
and seasoned vegetables. His grandmother
had such a way with the dish that he had to
admit he’d rather eat extra helpings of this
than have dessert.
The table talk continued with Nonna telling
of her visit to the meat market with several
other women. She spoke of new families moving
to the area to accommodate the growing
mine industry. At this Dante’s father joined
in.
“Papers have already been drawn up to
make Ely an incorporated town,” he told
them. “Once this officially happens, we will
see many more changes. There are plans to
put in sewer and water lines, as well as better
streets.”
“That is good,” Nonna said, nodding. She
tore off a piece of bread from a large round
loaf. “The streets here are terrible.”
Dante paid only a token interest to the conversation.
His mind was focused on Orlando’s
interest in Isabella Panetta. Dante had had
suspicions for some time that his brother was
sneaking off to meet with a young lady, but
never could he have imagined it would be a
Panetta.
The boy was insane. He had to know the
relationship would never be allowed, and if
Orlando insisted, their father would simply
disown him. And then what? Would the two
marry and move in with her family? The
shame of it would cause their father no end
of grief, and that in turn would trickle down
to affect Dante and Nonna.
As he ate, Dante tried to reason how he
might best deal with the situation. There was
always the chance that Isabella’s family didn’t
realize what was going on. Perhaps if Dante
cornered one of her brothers at the mine, he
could explain what was happening and get
their help on the matter. Of course, it wasn’t
likely that a Panetta would give him the time
of day, much less listen to him.
“They say the Pioneer Mine will deliver the
same quality Bessemer ore that the Chandler
has,” Dante heard his father declare. “And
there are other mines opening, as well. If
they’re all Bessemer quality, we’ll be making
the owners quite wealthy.”
Bessemer ore held the richest iron content.
The problem with some iron ore was a high
percentage of phosphorus. Henry Bessemer,
an English iron master, had created a way to
burn away the impurities from iron to make
steel. Because of this wondrous contribution,
the finest ore had been named after him.
One benefit of the Chandler Mine and the
rich Bessemer ore was that it didn’t require
a great deal of processing in order to make it
useful. Not only that, but the vein of ore had
endured a massive folding during its creation.
This resulted in the ore breaking naturally into
pieces very nearly the right size for the mills,
which eliminated the need to run it through
a crusher first. This, along with the fact that
the ore was readily available and not at all
laborious to mine—at least not in the early
pit mining years—proved very valuable to the
stockholders. It was said that the mine paid
out $100,000 a month net profit. Of course,
Dante found that hard to believe, but if the
growth of the city and digging of new mines
was any indication, it must be true.
“Dr. Shipman intends to see those terrible
houses of ill repute closed,” Nonna declared.
“He makes a good village president, even if
he isn’t Italiano.”
“He is a good man,” Father replied, “but if
they close down the brothels, how will they
fund the town?” He gave a laugh. “It’s only
the fines brought in by the marshal that pay
Ely’s bills.” It was a well-known fact that the
marshal visited the brothels on a monthly
basis to “arrest” the madams. They simply
paid a large fine and returned to business. It
served to give the pretense of law and order,
make money for the town, and keep the miners
happy.
“Bah!” Nonna said, waving him away with
her hand. “We will be a better city without
them.”
“Well, if they have their way and incorporate
the mines into the city limits,” Father
said, reaching for the bread, “they will
have money enough. The state may receive
a penny a ton on what is shipped out of the
mines, but the city gets nothing. That will
change soon enough if the incorporation goes
through.”
Dante tired of the politics and again found
himself thinking about Orlando’s situation.
His brother had crossed a line that would not
easily be forgotten if their father learned the truth. So the trick would be to find a way to
get Orlando back on the right side before he
could be found out.
I could just threaten him, Dante thought, then
very nearly smiled. His brother was not easily
intimidated. They had endured many a brawl
in their younger days, and Orlando could put
up quite a fight. He was strong and muscular
like Dante, although he was shorter by two or
three inches. If anything, that only served to
give his brother an advantage in maneuvering
around Dante’s attacks.
I could bribe him to let her go. But Dante
knew that wouldn’t work, either. He knew his
brother couldn’t be bought off. Not when he
fancied himself truly in love.
He was still lost in thought well after Nonna
had served dessert. When his brother and father
got up from the table, Dante continued
to pick at the pear tart his grandmother had
put in front of him.
“You no like?” she asked in English.
Dante, surprised by her change of language,
glanced around the room. Seeing his father
and brother gone, he shook his head. “I’m
just worried about Orlando.”
Nonna waggled a finger at him. “You worry
too much.” She switched back into Italian
and began clearing the table. “Your brother
will be fine.”
Lowering his voice to a whisper, Dante replied,
“Not if he keeps thinking with his heart
instead of his head.”
His grandmother straightened for a moment
and shook her head. “Ah, Dante, the
heart it cannot be controlled by anyone save
God. It will choose whom it will choose. It’s
amore.”
“It’s dangerous,” Dante said, getting to his
feet. “And it’s foolish.”
At seven the next morning, Dante, Orlando,
and their father were back to work at the mine.
The shifts ran in ten-hour segments, two shifts
a day, every day but Sunday. Vittorio Calarco
and his sons were contract miners. They
handled dynamite and nitroglycerin—blasting
holes in the iron ore to sink shafts or create
the horizontal drifts. This dangerous job allowed
them additional pay, for it required
steady hands and even stronger nerves. Vittorio
Calarco preferred it this way. He answered
only to the mine’s captain, as they
called the big boss, but paid nominal heed to
the instructions of the shift foreman. Luckily
Dante’s father liked the man whom he called
“Mr. Foreman” in a sort of mock salute to
the position.
What Dante’s father did not like was the
fact that Panettas worked in the same mine.
Dante fervently hoped that their enemies
might transfer to another mine. At best they
were often working in one of the other four
shafts. But even with five separate areas to
work, their paths would cross and words
would be exchanged. The latter was usually
only between the two patriarchs, while their
sons silently observed, watching and waiting
lest one man or the other decide to do more
than talk.
As Father stood instructing Orlando, Dante
couldn’t help but study his brother. He seemed
so carefree, so unconcerned with his deception.
Would he truly risk being ostracized from
the family for the love of a woman?
“Are you going to help us or just stand
there?”
Dante met his father’s stern expression.
“Tell me what you want done.”
“We will drill blasting points here and
here,” his father said, pointing. The iron
deposits were removed in a stoping system
that was well suited to the area’s formations.
Segments of ore were taken out parallel to
the drift or horizontal shaft, creating a sort of
stepped appearance at the top of the stope—
the ever-expanding hollow created by the
mining work. Underground iron miners
always tried to let gravity work for them,
using the overhand or upward method. This
allowed the ore to fall to the bottom of the
stope, and from there it would be scraped
into chutes and loaded into the ore cars located
below the floor of the work area. It was
tedious work, often referred to as caving.
Eventually all of the ore would be mined in
that area, and the Calarcos would blast the
surrounding rock to fill in the stope. The
process went on and on in order to recover
as much ore as possible.
Dante tried not to give much thought to the
dangers they faced, though they were many.
Walls of the stopes often collapsed without
warning. Blasts could go off prematurely,
although the Calarcos had not been victim
of that due to their father’s vigilant care in
everything he did. Of course, just because
they were careful didn’t mean everyone else
was. There were plenty of new muckers who
had no idea of the risk.
Fires were always feared in the mines, but
it was often accidents with the machinery or
tram cars that caused injury and death. Dante
had seen men lose fingers and feet because of
being less than aware of their surroundings.
“This is no place to daydream,” his father
admonished.
A knot of fear and embarrassment sat in
his gut at his father’s words. He knew better.
“Sorry,” Dante said.
Father handed him a twisted roll of fuse.
“Sorry will get you blown up, son.”
Dante met his brother’s curious gaze. With a
quick grin Orlando went back to work, mindless
of what was truly bothering his older
brother. They would simply have to settle
this later, Dante determined, and pushed the
problem to the back of his mind.
Tracie Peterson, The Miner's Lady;
Bethany House, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2013. Used by permission.
Christine Kornacki works as a Freelance Illustrator in Stamford, CT. Inspired by painters such as Normal Rockwell and Maxfield Parrish, Christine is classically trained as a realistic oil painter. She uses this strong foundational background to bring her Illustrations to life.
