The Road to LaReta

I swam from a dream world to the surface through murky half-light. A new title came to me, a splash of thought. The Road to LaReta. The imagined waters calmed and it was clear to me, this may be the final title for the novel about Webb Bateman. 

Lying in the warmth of fluffy covers with an even fluffier cat backed into the crook of my waist, I reflected on the sound and meaning of The Road to LaReta. It rolled off my tongue; sounded right. I felt a bonding with the words.

Including LaReta’s name in the title was inspired by her daughter, Nicolette, as we stood by her dying mother’s bedside. She advised me to include something about a woman in the title. “We need more books about women,” she said. She didn’t specifically suggest her mother’s name, but it made me step back and think more about the important women in the story and the one person who motivated Webb’s journey and the opportunity to redeem himself. It was LaReta, his three-year-old daughter.

The book, a historical fiction novel based on a true story, had two other titles during the writing: Cat Skinner and Nicolette’s first inspired title, LaReta’s Cat Skinner. But the third title seemed best, The Road to LaReta.

The father LaReta and I share, Webb Bateman, was a Cat Skinner – a heavy equipment operator, but the story is not just about the earth he moved. It’s also about a man honed behind a cue stick, at the end of a fist, behind a plow, in a circus giraffe suit, and in the belly of a coal mine.  It’s the story of a man who married because he thought it was the right thing to do, but a man more interested in his construction jobs, drinking and playing cards than he was in raising a family. His wife’s sudden death provided a chance at redemption. Could he do what was right and make up for the pain he caused? Could he raise LaReta?

The journey of 900 miles to Dorothy’s funeral takes just a few days, but gives Webb time to reflect on his twenty-seven years of life; too much time and not enough to grapple with who he is and the man he wants to be.

The novel is in revision, after being read by four wonderful women who offered right-on suggestions. The one woman I wanted to read the story, is gone. My half-sister LaReta passed away at age eighty on June 14, 2016, but she knew her name would be in the title and I’m hopeful her sweet spirit will live on in The Road to LaReta.

Carbide Lantern

In 1928 at the age of seventeen, my dad, Webster Warren Bateman, went to work in a coal mine in New Salem, North Dakota. The historical fiction novel I’m writing, Cat Skinner: A Story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930’s will include this experience and many others during his youth.

I was talking to my husband, Scott, about dad’s experience in the mine. This led to a Google search of Carbide Lantern.  What I found gave me a whole new appreciation for Dad’s own written description about the experience. The lantern, so small it could be held in a man's hand, had two chambers. The bottom was for the solid carbide chips. It screwed into a top chamber that held water. A drip system allowed water droplets to reach the carbide creating acetylene gas. A lever on top of the lantern regulated the length of the flame which came straight out the front, brightened by a round, metal reflector plate behind the flame. Once lit by a spark from a striker wheel on the reflector plate or a match, the lamp gave off a bright, warm light. Still, I can't imagine that as a miner's only source of light 300 feet into the earth. Webb's own words follow: 

One of my next jobs was for a coal mine in New Salem, North Dakota (1928). My earnings were the mainstay for the family that winter.

I worked for a few days for free with another miner to learn how to mine coal. We dug coal rooms working in about 5 inches of water most of the time. We wore the same dirty, crusty long-handled under-wear, overalls and rubber boots every day. Each man had to get out 10 – 1 ton car loads of coal and a car of slack (fine powder) each day or you got no bottom cut by a machine that night.

You had to lay a short length of rail-track and bore the shot holes with a hand auger, make your black powder shots and load the coal. The mule-skinner brought empty cars to the entrance and pulled out the loaded cars. The mules lived in the mines until they had to be changed.

I was only 17 years old, the youngest miner ever there and maybe the poorest because of lack of experience. I would almost always be last to ring for the pump-man to lower the cage 300 ft. to haul me up to the shower room but I’d have my cut out.

We were paid .50 a ton for the coal mined. The car of slack was free. We furnished the black powder, dynamite and fuse. Our only light was a carbide lamp fastened to the cap on your head. It put out about a 2 inch flame. Sometimes it would go out. No one but an old miner knows what darkness is. You had to make your lamp work again in total blackness. From then on you know no fear of anything.