Cultural
Background
Storyteller's Cabin
Adapted from folklore
by Craig Dominey
Henry Jacobs was a happy man. The year was 1935, and at long last, he had finally found a job - mining coal in one of the hundreds of mines that dotted the rugged hills of eastern Kentucky. It was hard, back-breaking work, but Henry didn't mind. He was a big, burly man from a long line of big, burly men, and now that he had a job to call his own, he felt confident and strong.
The previous years had been rough on Henry and his pretty, loving wife, Laura. It was the Great Depression, and Henry, like many other Americans, had to travel from state to state and beg for work. Henry had worked steadily since he was a child, and didn't know what to do without a hammer, a shovel or a pick ax in his hand. What's worse, he felt that he had failed as a provider to his family. Despite his wife's reassurances that everything would be okay, Henry hit rock bottom.
Henry started drinking to ease his humiliation. He was an angry drunk - and violent, sometimes beating his wife. Many nights he wouldn't come home at all, chasing after other women in a drunken stupor. But in the morning, he would come back to Laura, last night's whiskey still throbbing in his head, and beg for forgiveness. Laura was a kind and quiet woman who tried to see the best in people, especially in Henry. Through her tears and battered cheeks, she would try to smile and believe his promises - only to watch the same thing happen again the very next night.
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So it was a relief to Laura when Henry finally found a job. The drinking stopped, and Henry swore that he would make life better for the both of them.
But whiskey was a demon that Henry continued to struggle against. Henry's co-workers offered him drinks each day after work, which Henry, with great effort, refused. But after two months on the job, Henry finally gave in. What harm would be done by having just a couple of drinks, he reasoned. After all, what kind of man doesn't socialize with his co-workers after a hard day?
But to Henry, there was no such thing as having "just two drinks." As soon as that first shot of whiskey crept down his throat, the dark side of his being was suddenly reawakened. He started getting drunk again, and could barely make it through the day without craving a glass of whiskey. Soon it got to be much more than he could bear.
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