And now Cecil

My first job was in a small town in the Appalachian coalfields, on the Cumberland Plateau where Kentucky, Tennessee and Virgina jealously elbow each other.

The newspaper didn't pay much and went through journalism school graduates quickly. I expected to be one of them. I was a native Kentuckian, but here I was a stranger in a strange land.

My home was a two-room furnished apartment on a busy street where heavily laden coal trucks rumbled by. The furniture was mostly vinyl and duct tape and every day, no matter how much I wiped, a fresh layer of coal dust would sift under the windows.

My first few months there were like a bad pregnancy. At night, my restless mind would race, and I'd get back out of bed, get dressed and drive until I was tired enough to sleep. Many mornings, I'd wake up with a sour stomach and sometimes get dry heaves before I could get out of the shower.

But slowly, I adjusted.

The hills and the people that once seem to shrug in indifference began to gather protectively around their adopted daughter.

I never had it easy there, but even on a salary barely more than minimum wage, I had it better than many. One of those I had it easier than was Cecil.

I got to know this quiet, rusty-haired man through the cause he'd taken up -- saving Yellow Creek. For Cecil, it was a dual cause. His son had leukemia, as did an unusual number of other children up and down the banks of the creek. Teams of doctors, medical students and environmentalists had linked the cancer to a tannery that for decades released toxic metals into the creek.

When I met Cecil, the tannery was still spewing forth black effluent that was linked to fish kills on a regular basis. He was one of a group of hickory-tough mountain people who decided to take on the world

Their group was called the Yellow Creek Concerned Citizens, only they pronounced it "yallah."

Cecil wasn't a leader; he didn't talk much period. But he always showed up for meetings, late night strategy sessions and the moonshine-fueled Bluegrass jam sessions that helped keep everyone together when frustration threatened to unravel the group.

His boy, a paler, mop-headed version of Cecil, often accompanied him to the tamer functions.

I remember once Cecil's family invited me into their home. Even after several years of getting to know the people around there, I was shocked at the poverty of the place. Holes gaped in the walls and floor, but I dared not let my eyes stray. Cecil was as proud as he was poor, and I would not shame him.

I learned a lot from the people of Yellow Creek: how to pick and prepare poke and where to find morels and wild grapes. Later, I learned from them that underdogs really can win.

I like to think of those as simpler times, but I'm not good at lying -- even to myself.

One thing that was simpler, though -- the way we communicated. Only some of us had phones and e-mail and cell phones were unheard of then. We shared the important news of our lives face-to face. often as we were passing in our vehicles.

On paved country roads, we'd just stop in our lanes and talk until another vehicle wanted to pass.

Dirt roads, especially one in particular, were different. Old Cross was scraped out of a ledge and followed one of the prettiest stretches of Yellow Creek. For the adventurous, and I was among them, it was a favorite shortcut between communities. On summer Saturdays, wonderful impromptu parties would spring up in wide spots on the road, usually involving someone who had just picked up a case or two of beer at nearby Cumberland Gap or had recently been to see Kaintnor, the community's preferred moonshiner.

I'd often pass Cecil on the road, although I don't remember him at any of these parties. He had more serious things on his mind.

I stayed at that newspaper for nearly five years in a place I once saw as godforsaken, but grew to love.

The battle for Yellow Creek still raged after I left. The odds were seriously stacked against those who fought it, but lawyers for the Sierra Club joined them in a lawsuit and won. A huge sum was awarded but never seen, but the tannery was shut down.

The creek runs clearer these days, although residents are well aware of the chromium, lead and other toxins that lie in the sediments.

Cecil's boy grew up to be a man, I'm proud to say, and times got better for the family.

But I got an e-mail this week, and now it is Cecil who has cancer.

This is a battle friends say Cecil is not likely to beat, and if he falls, I will go back there to stand in respect with the hardy people who knew and loved him.

And then, I expect, we'll drive down to Old Cross and stop in a wide spot. Someone may have a bottle, but most of us are older and wiser. It won't be a party.

We'll probably just stand around and talk. Me, I imagine I would do a lot of listening, and not just to the people I have long been separated from.

I'll listen to the creek as it murmurs its tales of triumph and tragedy, knowing that Cecil will weigh in on both.