William Molen Oliver Sr. (1893 - 1979)

1893-1979 by: Charlene Oliver Williams, daughter

From the 1977 Summer Issue of The Mountain Record

I don't remember my father working for I was born late in his life. But from hearing Dad and his friends reminisce, I realize he risked his life for 50 years in a coal mine to support his family. I was 5 years old when my father become disabled due to black lung disease. There wasn't much money in our home, but the love of our parents and their faith and trust in God provided a security that money could not buy.

One of my favorite memories is sitting out on the front porch in the summer or around the stove in the winter listening to tales that happened years before. Dad would tell of incidents that had happened to him--such as close calls in the mines, playing semi-pro baseball in Harlan, etc. He would also talk of his parents and tell great "ghost" tales. Most of the time, I fell asleep listening to these reminiscences. Dad used to tell me about the sad songs he would sing to me. One song he would sing was called "Dark as a Dungeon Way Down in These Mines " and I would just scream every time he sang it.

As I said before, Dad became disabled when I was very young; therefore, every time Dad went somewhere, my brother and I thought we should be allowed to go with him. We had a driveway to our house, and when Dad would go some place that we couldn't, he would let us ride on the running board down to the gate and let us off. I remember riding most of the time in an "old red International truck" that had been Uncle Jay's. That truck was something else. It even had a fan that set on the dash to cool us off. But we really liked to ride in the back of that truck. Dad spent a lot of his days hunting and fishing. In the Fall, we always went out in the woods and looked for hickory nuts to eat and to also see if the squirrels were biting. We loaded that truck many of a winter with saw dust from the lumber mills to pack around the water pipes so they wouldn't freeze.

A lot of Friday nights were spent at Uncle Pete's and Aunt Dora's. Those of you who remember Uncle Pete will know how much these visits were looked forward to. He and Dad would sit and talk of the "old days"; but most of the time, Uncle Pete was busy teasing my brother and I. A lot of time, especially in the summer, Uncle Pete and a friend of his, Dummy, would spend the whole afternoon playing checkers.

Most of our days started the same way. Dad and my Mom, Theresa, were always early risers and big eaters. Therefore, usually around 7 or 8 in the mornings, we were seated around a table loaded with biscuits and gravy, eggs, and some type of meat being served. Until many years later, most of our food was prepared on an old "coal stove" that would burn you up in the summer. Dad would not have gas installed until he and Mom couldn't carry coal into the house. His reasoning was "You don't bite the hand that has fed you all your life". I think I was a teenager before I figured out that John L. Lewis was the president of the coal miners union not the President of the United States. Dad even had a large oval guilt-framed picture of him hanging on the wall.

Our family life centered around the church. Dad has been involved with the Baptist Church in some way for as long as I remember. The last 20 years or so, he has been a Deacon in the church he helped found (The First Independent Baptist Church--LaFollette, Tennessee). I can see him now sitting where we called the "Amen Corner" and listening to the choir sing and to the Minister deliver the sermon. Every Sunday morning, Dad said the Blessing for the offering. This past Father's Day, Dad was honored at Church. I couldn't be there, but my mother and my brother Bill and his family were with him. Mom said it was a touching and emotional service. It was Dad's first attendance at church since he suffered a stroke.

Of course, we all grow older and we all leave home to get married or find work. When I left, it broke Dad's heart. I can see him sitting on the front porch looking so old and heartbroken that I almost didn't leave. Dad was released from the hospital not too long ago after being hospitalized for various reasons. We all know that his time is near. But I just want to tell him now before it's too late what a wonderful Father he is and that I love him very much.

(NOTE: Bill Oliver died 2 years (in 1979) after this was written. He and Theresa died 2 weeks apart.)