Speaker 1:
The front verandah of the house was the gathering spot on hot summer nights.
It is where we would sit on a silent starless evening, watching the reflections of discharging furnaces on the muggy hazy sky.
In the distance you would hear the constant shifting and shunting steel train cars, riding on steel rails, loading and leaving the small brown rusting mountains of pig iron that stared back at us from across the fence, across the field and finally across our narrow street.
My father was an important man, then.
We all knew it because he was the only man on the street that drove to work and wore a tie.
Some days he would wear a suit.
His importance was felt by everyone, too, because as we simmered together on warm, summer nights, friends and relatives sipping fresh lemonade, he would be asked what he thought of those people going into that dingy Hotel on the corner.
Through his “hrumphs” and so-forths, we knew we would never go there, at least not when we were being watched.