Page 14 of Clear Path

As he passed by the counter, Dot called out to him from behind the grill, raising her voice to be heard over the sizzle of bacon in a cast-iron skillet. “Morning, Doc!”

“Good morning, Dot.” His efforts to get her to call him Bodhi instead of Dr. King had been futile. ‘Doc’ was progress.

“There’s a baked oatmeal finishing up in the oven for you. I’ll be out with your tea in a flash. Grab the paper from the counter while you wait.”

A copy ofThe Allegheny Heraldlay folded on the counter next to the cash register. Bodhi took it to the same corner table he’d occupied the night before. He skimmed the front page—local politics, a debate over school funding, an upcoming strawberry festival. Flipping the page, his gaze snagged on a black-and-white photograph that took up the top half. He studied it.

An old man sat on the porch of a modest house. Light filtered through the porch’s weathered railings, casting striped shadows across his lined face. His strong, gnarled hands gripped the knees of his khaki work pants. Behind him, a window reflected the shape of a hulking excavator across the street. The photograph highlighted decades of grueling work and hinted at a harbinger of change—or was it doom?

The caption read: “Edward Kovalic, 86, the last resident of Company Row, reflects on a lifetime in coal country as demolition begins on neighboring homes. Photo by Aurora Westin.”

An article below the photograph focused on a new exhibit at the Western Trail History Center outside Union Hill, titledVanishing Coal Country: A Visual Record.It quoted both the photographer and the center’s director:

“’These company homes aren’t just buildings. Think of them as a living record of the coal industry, the miners who settled here and built these towns, or a living archive of our region’s industrial heritage,’ explains photographer Aurora Westin. ‘Each home holds generations of stories to be preserved, even as the region moves forward in a new direction.’”

“Professor Evan Jeffries, director of the Western Trail History Center, praises Westin’s work for its ‘unflinching honesty and deep empathy.’ ‘These photographs force us to confront difficult questions about progress and preservation in communities like ours,’ Jeffries notes. ‘They remind us that history isn’t just in the past—we’re making it with every decision about what we keep and what we discard.’”

Bodhi studied the photograph again. There was a quiet dignity in the man’s face. The composition was somehow at once haunting and hopeful.

A ceramic mug of steaming tea appeared at his elbow, followed by a bowl of golden-brown baked oatmeal topped with diced apples dusted with cinnamon.

“Rory’s got an eye, doesn’t she?” Dot said, nodding toward the newspaper as she lifted a small pitcher of what appeared to be milk over his oatmeal.

Bodhi looked up. “She certainly does.”

“She had a whole series in the paper a few months back. Took pictures of all the old miners and mill workers she could find. Asked them their stories, too.” Dot caught him looking at the pitcher. “Don’t worry. Joey’s mum—Wendy Alton—works at the natural food store on the square. She brought over a carton of soy milk for you.”

“She didn’t need to do that,” he protested.

She raised an eyebrow. “You saved her numbskull of a son’s life. I think a carton of milk is the least she can do.” She poured it over the oatmeal and then placed it on the table beside his tea.

He jerked his chin toward the photograph and article. “Is this series on display at the history center now?”

She nodded. “Yep. When Professor Evans saw the series, he approached Rory about expanding it into a permanent exhibit. The whole thing caused a bit of a stir in the string of towns between here and Union Hill. Some folks thought she made the region seem backward or downtrodden, but some of us were glad someone was paying attention.”

“It must be a difficult balancing act to acknowledge the past without getting trapped in it.”

“Don’t know that there’s much balancing happening.” Dot glanced at the photograph again. “They’re tearing down the whole Company Row to put in a tech incubator. The promise is it’ll bring jobs, but they sure won’t be for the families from Company Row.”

No, he imagined they wouldn’t be.

She gestured toward the bowl. “Go on, try it.”

He dug his spoon into the oatmeal and took a mouthful. The hot grains were sweetened with maple syrup and studded with walnuts, apples and dried cherries, and several spices. He could make out cinnamon, ginger, and cardamom. “It’s delicious.”

Dot beamed. “I thought so, too. I had a bowl myself to try it. Even used the soy milk.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Don’t tell my regulars, but I think I’m gonna add it to the menu. No need to announce that it’s vegan.”

He chuckled and Dot bustled off to refill several coffee mugs and deliver a plate of home fries and eggs to Camden, who turned to wave to Bodhi at her direction. By the time she returned to check on him, his bowl was half empty.

“You must like it,” she said in a satisfied tone.

“I never lie,” he told her. Then gestured toward the paper. “There’s a line at the end of the article that mentions anupcoming exhibition in Pittsburgh. I know the gallery. That’s a big deal.”

“Her first time for a major gallery show, from what I hear. Rory’s been published in magazines and such, but this is different. Folks around here are pretty excited for her, even the ones who don’t much like her subject matter.” Dot replaced his mug of tea with a fresh one. “She lives just up the trail in Union Hill. Can’t miss her if you’re heading that way. Tall, striking woman. White-blonde hair. Looks like she stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. I suppose because she did.”

“Pardon?”

“She used to be a model.” Dot’s eyes narrowed and she tilted her head. “You single?”

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