It was Saturday morning in Emmanuel Holler, and my grandfather, Steve Blankenship, was preparing to go to his shift picking and digging coal at the mine. He drank a cup of coffee, ate his breakfast and did his constitution in the one-holer. He washed his hands and face, put on his coveralls, and placed his silver-colored hard hat on his head. This hat had a carbide light mounted on the front top that looked like a third eye, to illuminate the tight space of the dark mine.    

Teresa Church came into our apartment on W. Euclid in Detroit one day, with a man who told us his name was Frank. He was short, about 5’8, and 280 lbs., most of it fat. He had dark hair that was thick and combed straight back, and he wore Buddy Holly glasses. Teresa, in stark contrast, was a true beauty. She had jet-black hair that was wavy and parted on the side, falling to her shoulders. She was the whole package with sparkling blue eyes and full lips that opened at the sig