I remember growing up here, the ever-present smells of sulphur and fuel oil and coke. I remember the thick black smoke drifting through the streets, soot gathering in your outstretched hand or swirling in little whirlwinds along the sidewalk. I remember the constant rumble of machinery, the sounds of metal dropped on metal ringing like bells across the back yards, the heavy trucks straining with their loads through the narrow, tree-lined streets. I remember terms such as lunch pail and swing shift and blast furnace. I remember having to be quiet during the day if I went to Eddie’s house because his father was asleep; I remember the weariness like shellshock in Bill’s father’s eyes when he walked home from the mill, dirt etched into his face.

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