Winter in Old Park City
Art: Bryan Haynes
Watching fancy-dress skiers with their expensive equipment whiz past my house leaves me a little envious, yet triggers memories of winters in my youth. Winter in Park City during the 1940s and ’50s was probably not much different from the rest of the nation. Heating with coal and oil stoves would shade freshly fallen snow with a sooty tint several days after a storm. In fact, in a week or so, it would be damn right grimy. Filling coal buckets each night after school became an unending task that generations of Park City kids don’t fondly remember.
Coal indicated the wealth of one’s family. Gauged, washed, and oiled slack that was mined in Price, Utah or Rock Springs, Wyoming, was premium. On the other end of the scale was Coalville lump coal. We used the blunt end of an axe to break it up so we could fit it into our stove. Lump coal was high in sulfur content, making our eyes water and giving our clothing the odor of a burnt match.
Occasionally, a neighborhood would be plagued by a coal thief. There was a man named Mitchell who lived up the street from us in an apartment house managed by Oscar Clegg. Early one winter, Oscar discovered his coal pile was vanishing faster than usual. (Each apartment had their individual coal shed in a common building.) None of the sheds had locks, and Oscar had discovered that Mitchell’s shed was empty. Oscar placed a padlock on his shed, and other renters soon followed suit. It was not long before Mitchell moved. Unfortunately, he rented the old McDonough house next to ours.
Mitchell must not have been too bright. Even I could figure it out — footsteps in the newly fallen snow leading from a bedroom window in his home, to our coal shed, then back again. The hardware store did a booming business that winter selling padlocks, and Mitchell became a superb specimen of physical conditioning, lugging home buckets of ill-gotten coal, dogs snapping at his heels. Most enjoyed his performance, each wondering with some delight on who would be his next victim. It added some diversion to an otherwise dull winter. And we all wondered what action, if any, the police marshal would take, since he was, coincidentally, Mitchell’s father-in-law.
One year when John L. Louis coal miners (United Mine Workers) went on strike, it caught many families unprepared. Most would order their winter supply of coal in autumn, ensuring the coal shed would be filled to capacity for the coming winter. My family was in financial trouble that year, and we didn’t have enough coal to fill our shed. I was delighted, however, to go with my older brothers, gunnysacks in hand, searching for any lost coal scattered along the town railroad tracks. (This pleased me greatly, because like many younger siblings, often I was shunned.) One cold Sunday evening, we were huddled around the parlor stove kept alight with some old broken-up wood furniture, and listening to the radio. Bob Hope was ending his show, with his theme song ‘Thanks For The Memories.’ At times he would ad-lib the lyric to fit the political situation at hand. That night, he sang something to the effect of, “We give thanks for the furniture that we’re burning tonight.” My family laughed so hard, most had tears in their eyes. I missed the joke and no one would explain it to me. I never did like Bob Hope!
I did love our old cast-iron parlor stove with its ‘isinglass’ windows. (Isinglass is a mineral in the mica class, that when split into thin sheets, is transparent and was used in stoves instead of glass.) Watching dancing flames in a dimly lit room, and listening to crackling-pops of the glowing coal is a memory that today’s youths will never experience. Central heating has relegated the fireplace to a show item. That’s pretty, but it’s nothing to build a childhood around. When you had to buck snowdrifts three feet high, make your way to the coal shed and lug back two buckets of coal, each weighing 25 pounds, a slow alliance between you and the stove developed.
Family activities centered around the stove in winter. Our chairs were arranged to receive its heat. I loved to take off wet shoes, place my feet on the stove, and watch the steam roll off my wet stockings. Occasionally, I would get into trouble, because I could not resist the temptation of melting a crayon on the stove. The stench of paraffin could not be hidden, and I was always caught. Mom had a good nose.
One drawback to the stove was that the fire would burn out at night. Not many people today have had the privilege of being greeted each morning by seeing their own breath. Dad would get up around 6 a.m. and “shake-down” the grates of the kitchen range. He’d make a bed of wadded-up newspaper, followed by kindling wood and on top, some coal. Soon a roaring fire would turn the stovepipe a cherry-red color. But it took time to heat the old house. I hated getting out of bed in the morning. The floors were so cold they burned your feet. I’d make a dash to the space behind the kitchen range to dress. I always wore long johns and two pairs of stockings, so dressing was a difficult chore.
Tied to my stove memories are memories of winter sledding in Park City. (You’ll soon find out why). In my childhood, Park City had designated coasting lanes, for sled riding. Fortunately, Woodside Avenue in front of our house was one of the lanes. You could start at the top of Woodside and if lucky, coast all the way to the High School (now the Park City Library). At times we formed ‘ramming parties,’ and tried to upset one another. Many a boy imagined himself in the cockpit of a Spitfire, the enemy swarming all around. The bond one had with his sled seemed like an extension of oneself. We each believed we had the best sled in town, regardless of what others would say. The older boys thought of sledding as a way to place them next to some girl. They were always giggling and screaming, whispering and hugging, and missing all the real fun.
The noise a sled made was slight, but it was a unique sound that I have not heard for years. At night, you could hear a sled speeding down the street and a ‘clink’ sound when it hit some grit or sand. You could follow its progress from the sparks that flew. There was some risk in coasting. Every year a half dozen or so kids would end up with broken bones. I can only recall two deaths, both when sledding children were hit by cars.
My father owned a toboggan. But after many years of broken bones, the last of which belonged to a dear friend of my mother’s, Dad took an
axe to the toboggan, and fed it to our stove. I am still sulking because I never got a chance to solo on that thing, but we certainly had a very nice fire that night.
Gary Kimball is a fourth-generation Park City native, who studies the town’s history and lore.
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