was elected and personally handed out the nation's first food stamps here
on McDowell Street, to prove his point that—though ordinary Americans
might find it hard to believe—starvation-level poverty existed right in
their own country.
The road through Welch, Dad told us, led only farther up into the wet,
forbidding mountains and on to other dying coal towns. Few strangers
passed through Welch these days, and almost all who did came to inflict
one form of misery or another—to lay off workers, to shut down a mine,
to foreclose on someone's house, to compete for the rare job opening.
The townspeople didn't care much for outsiders.
The streets were mostly silent and deserted that morning, but every now
and then we'd pass a woman wearing curlers or a group of men in T-
shirts with motor-oil decals, loitering in a doorway. I tried to catch their
eyes, to give them a nod and a smile to let them know we had only good
intentions, but they never nodded or spoke a word or even glanced our
way. As soon as we passed, however, I could feel eyes following us up
the street.
Dad had brought Mom to Welch for a brief visit fifteen years earlier,
right after they were married. "Gosh, things have gone downhill a little
bit since we were here last," she said.
Dad gave a short snort of a laugh. He looked at her like he was about to
say What the hell did I tell you? Instead he just shook his head.
Suddenly, Mom grinned broadly. "I'll bet there aren't any other artists
living in Welch," she said. "I won't have any competition. My career
could really take off here."
THE NEXT DAY MOM took Brian and me to Welch Elementary, near