Those who know, know. This writer is time-traveling again for the umpteenth time!
Well, the time-traveling plot ends here. The identity change happened quickly. After a whirlwind of memories and information flashing through my mind, I was quickly briefed on everything I needed to know.
I am Nai'er Gallagher, male, twenty years old.
Currently residing in the United States of America, in Brook County, West Virginia. Yes, the one in 1202, which proudly stands as the poorest, most backward county in West Virginia, with the lowest education levels.
By the way, it's September 2, 1929, and it's sunny.
Yesterday, on September 1, Treasury Secretary Andrew Mellon assured the public: "There is no reason for concern. This peak of prosperity will continue."
Well, we all know how that turned out, but that has nothing to do with me. Because right now, I'm sitting on a haystack in a cart, heading into town for a short-term job.
To be precise, I'm working as a clerk for the second circuit court of West Virginia, assisting the circuit judge in documenting legal proceedings that happen in this county this week.
Some may wonder, with such a large country like the United States, doesn't even the court have a stenographer? Well, they do, but not in Brook County. And if things go as expected, they won't for the next two or three decades, maybe longer.
The reason is simple: of the county's 20,000 people, about 8,000 to 9,000 are Irish immigrants. Why did the Irish come here? Blame it on Queen Victoria, who thought the Irish would be better off starving to death than living. During the Irish famine, over a million Irish people fled their homeland, with a significant portion coming to America. This county alone saw around 2,000 to 3,000 Irish immigrants back then.
So, even if you're a Yale law graduate, if you're in this county, you must hire someone of Irish descent as your clerk and part-time translator. Otherwise, you'd be sitting there, deaf to everything.
Fortunately, I, Nai'er, am one of the few who speaks Irish while also receiving a high school education in English. This puts me among the elite few in this mostly illiterate Irish immigrant community.
Last year, when the circuit court came to this county, they hired me, offering a weekly salary of ten dollars. Considering the simplicity of the work, the pay was quite good, and totally acceptable.
The court even provides lunch!
Hahaha, as long as it's not oatmeal porridge from home, it's a win!
Brook County is located near Pennsylvania and Ohio, close to the Great Lakes industrial zone. To put it plainly, it's a relatively prosperous county that attracts a large number of immigrants compared to other poor counties.
Why? Because this county has coal—high-quality anthracite coal. It's being mined day and night and shipped via a dense railway network to industrial cities like Cleveland, Detroit, and Chicago, fueling America's booming industrial revolution.
Apart from coal, Brook County has a lot of flat land, so it also grows apples, cherries, tobacco, oats, potatoes, and raises dairy cows and sheep. Being from a half-farming, half-mining family, I can only eat what's available at home.
Breakfast is usually oatmeal porridge, lunch might be a small cup of apple cider with oatmeal porridge, and dinner is a bit better—maybe smoked or pickled fish with oatmeal porridge.
In short, it's oatmeal all day, every day...
Sigh, it's strange, really. I didn't exactly time-travel the best way. My poor old father, Ian, died in a mining accident three years ago. Seventy-five lives were lost in the mine collapse, and the entire town was in mourning.
Of course, the mine owner didn't want such a massive tragedy, but he didn't take any measures to improve safety or establish emergency response protocols. Maybe he thought, "Who cares if others die as long as I'm safe?"
Well, the disaster eventually happened, and with so many deaths, it couldn't be hidden. The coal miners had already formed a union by that time, so inevitably, a large-scale protest erupted.
Where there's struggle, there's peace!
Similarly, where there's struggle, there's compensation. My late father received $1,500 in compensation and a promise from the mine owner to fund my entire high school education.
So, instead of picking up my father's shovel and heading into the pitch-black mine, likely to die at the bottom of a shaft, I at least got an education, with the chance to work as a clerk or even an accountant someday.
As for my mother, well, I hardly remember her. She passed away after a difficult childbirth. Nai'er survived, but she died from excessive bleeding.
Now, I'm staying at Aunt Jinji's house. You're probably wondering, why not Uncle?
Ah, the proud Irish brigade of the Northern Army—fighting to defeat enemy after enemy, from the South to the Prussian Junkers in Europe during the Great War.
Since you want to be a proud Irish soldier, you must be prepared to face the horrors of European trenches. Over ten years ago, Uncle met his end at the hands of Prussian Maxim machine gun fire, or perhaps he was blown to pieces by Krupp artillery. Anyway, he came back with a death notice.
And the laughable sum of $17.50 in soldiers' widow benefits...
There's not much to say. I jumped down from the cart, brushed off the hay from my clothes, and walked towards the county seat, Waynesburg. At this time, the counties in West Virginia didn't have county mayors. Instead, they were governed by a five-person board of administrators.
These five included the coal mine owner, a doctor, a retired U.S. Army major, a farmer, and the county sheriff. It fits the image of America quite well, except for the lack of a lawyer. But in little Brook County, lawyers—such an esteemed profession—are, for now, unnecessary.
If there ever were any, they probably went bankrupt because they had no business. You can't even find a permanent court here—every year, the state circuit court comes to each county for a week.
People with grievances can file them, and those who need help can request it, but everything else is handled by the county sheriff. However, in such a small county, there are rarely any major crimes—no murders or arson. How much money can a poor miner's family have? If they had time, they'd be better off robbing a bank in California, where the money comes fast. Afterward, just run off to Mexico.
Because of the county's good finances, there were now row houses with streetlights in front of the administration building, and the street had been paved with bricks instead of gravel. The autumn weather was pleasant, and Nai'er felt that perhaps this time, he might make something different out of his life.
"Nai'er, Nai'er," someone called from a second-floor window by the side of the road.