FanStory.com - She Looked Like Jabba-The-Hutby CM Kelly

It was a rather warm spring day, much warmer than it should have been just after an early Easter. It was about 11 am as I finished climbing the two-story stairway and walked towards my office in the Engineering Department of Consol’s Eastern Region. Christine, the secretary that we shared in the department, caught a glimpse of me while she was deep in a conversation on the phone. With a sense of worry and urgency in her face, she put the phone down and said “John Toth has been calling here for two hours trying to get a hold of you. You best call him back right now”! John Toth was the Superintendent of the Dilworth Mine, a 2 million ton/year underground mine located along the Monongahela River that had a single longwall and sold its carbon-rich coal to the metallurgical coking market.

The tone of her voice implied I was in trouble, but since I had no active projects at Dilworth, I didn’t think much of it. I stepped over to the phone hanging on the wall in the drafting room. The drafting room was an open wall room in the middle of the department, it was surrounded by the offices of six other engineers who worked at the Region. I picked up the phone and dialed the Dilworth number. By now I could see the heads of my coworkers peeping out of their offices to eavesdrop on the call, I should have taken this and the tone of Christine’s voice as an omen. John picked up the phone and in a very polite manner asked, “How was my day going”? I responded in a smart-ass way, “Well it was going good until I heard you were looking for me”, kind of playing it up for the not-so-obvious audience. His response quickly turned my nonchalant approach into a deadpan serious attention. In a deliberate and strong tone he stated, “Mr. Kelly I have a Pennsylvania State Trooper here in my office wanting to arrest me for trespassing and killing some sheep, would you happen to know anything about this”?

It quickly sunk into my thick skull that there was a serious issue at hand. I was just beginning the work on an airshaft for Dilworth, but at that moment I could not recollect why anyone would be working down near his mine this week. He explained to me that someone working on the Wilson property used a backhoe and knocked down the neighboring farmer’s fence which let some sheep out, and reportedly some wild dogs in, resulting in the “many dead sheep”. With that bit of info, I surmised that the Civil Engineer in the group must have gone to the Wilson Farm to do some preliminary survey work. I told John I would jump in my truck and be down to his office ASAP.

As I grabbed the keys to the company truck hanging on the wall, I poked my head into the Civil Engineers office just around the corner from the drafting tables. Steve was a few years older than me, he was a capable civil engineer, but nothing that made him or his work stand out. I knew he had overheard the conversation, I said “Let’s jump in the truck, you can explain what you did down at the Wilson Farm along the way”. Much to my surprise, he tersely said he was too busy to make the trip. It stopped me in my tracks, and a few thoughts came to my mind as to why he would decline, but I just bluntly said “Why not”? Steve did not report to me directly but since I was the Project Manager for the air shaft he was assigned to me to perform any civil engineering work for the project. A not uncommon management structure that most companies refer to as a “matrix organization”. Steve made up some vague excuse of needing to be back at the office before 5 pm. I retorted that wouldn’t be a problem, it was still before noon and we had plenty of time. He couldn’t look me in the eye when he meekly said he couldn’t go. I was now pretty mad, clearly he had done something wrong and wanted to have no part of it. At that moment his credibility as an engineer and as a professional was gone. Our supervisor Bill was not in the building, if he was I would have walked right into his office and run this issue to the ground. Anyway, I just felt I was wasting my time with this piece of trash, so with a disgusting tone in my voice, that all could hear in the office, I said “Fine, I guess I’m left to clean up your mess’.

On the way down to the mine, (there were no cell phones back then and the company pickup truck did not have a CB radio in it), I knew of a shortcut that would take me past the Wilson Farm. At least I could drive by it and assess any damages or spot any loose sheep. I got off Interstate 79, traversed a few miles on a major paved road, and then ducked down a half-paved/half-gravel shortcut. This so-called shortcut would normally take more time because of the road conditions, the curves, and the hills. But if you drove like I did, 55 mph and over, you could make up time. The downside was that you skidded around corners and would go airborne over some of the hills. But those issues were more of an upside to me, made you feel like you were Burt Reynolds in White Lightning. As long as you stayed alert for stray cows or the occasional farm tractor you were ok.

I got to the Wilson Farm in pretty good time; the farm was bought by Consol a few years prior as a site for a future airshaft. It was about a 10-acre parcel located down in a hollow, it had a dirt access road with a pretty steep incline. On the south and west sides, it was bordered by country roads, in parts paved but mostly gravel and stretches built up by years of tar and gravel. The other two sides of the property were bordered by an old farm fence obscured by years of brush growth. I had been to this site twice before to assess it and begin to lay out in my mind how we would construct the air shaft, the fan, and the associated substation. I had not locked in the layout yet, so I was surprised that Steve would have been down to this site.

The original farmhouse was still on the property, it looked like it was built in the 1920s or 30s. It had been abandoned many years ago, with windows broken out and the roof caving in, I doubted if even a hobo would stay in it. There was a single-wide trailer parked nearby that looked like it was last inhabited 10 years prior.

The trailer was tied into the original home’s electricity and water well, a very common setup for these parts. Because of the steep embankments on the West and South sides, there were only 3 or 4 flat acres at the bottom. The most notable feature was a small creek, about 3 feet wide, that ran just on the other side of the Eastern fence. The dirt road leading down into the property was severely eroded by rain, snow, and neglect. Even with a pickup truck, it was a challenge to traverse the deep ruts going down the hill. I knew I was glad the truck had 4-wheel drive because that was the only way I would be able to get back up this goat path.

As I came down the road, I noticed that a section of the farmer’s fence had been disturbed, it was hard to tell exactly what had happened so I drove across the field and parked near the broken fence. I noticed a freshly dug pit and quickly surmised that Steve had been out to the site within the last day or two. It was obvious that he hired a contractor to dig several soil test pits on the property. As I looked closer it was evident from the backhoe tracks that Steve had ripped out a piece of fence, crossed the property line, and dug a pit 30 feet inside the farmer's field! This made no sense at all and was a violation of the adjacent farm owner’s property rights. A down-right, blatant, unprofessional act.

At this point, I was steaming mad, as it became clearer why Steve didn’t want to accompany me on this trip. I walked over to the pit to try and ascertain why Steve would ever contemplate such a thought. The only reason I could think of was that he wanted a soil test pit on the other side of the small creek. Now I was standing in the farmer’s field, so I began to look for some sheep. After a few minutes, I spotted a few about 200 feet away in the Wilson Farm field. I also noticed that grass throughout the entire farmer’s field was cut like a golf course fairway, a clear distinction from the overgrown brush in the Consol lot just across the fence. Thus, making the distinction between the two properties was quite easy, even for a Civil Engineer. No one could mistake this side of the fence as part of the Wilson Farm. As I started to climb into my truck, I heard some rustling of the brush nearby. I got out of the truck and fought my way through the tall grass with its thickets and barbed bushes and there they were, four sheep!

As I tried to assess the situation, I heard more rustling and before I knew it I had spotted over 12 sheep grazing on the Consol side of the fence. Yes, it was obvious to me too, “the grass was greener on the other side of the fence”. My first reaction was great, I found the lost sheep. Now honestly, how many times have you said those words to yourself? My first thought was that I would be the hero of the day. My second thought was how do I keep them from getting off the property or better yet how could I get them back into the farmer's fenced-in area?

After 20 minutes of dashes and jaunts, chasing them like a sheepdog, I realized that the only thing I was accomplishing was getting tired and sweaty. I then climbed in the truck and did some cowboy-like maneuvers through the tall grass and thickets, hoping to not get a flat tire or worse run over one of the sheep. After 10 minutes I got most of them into one section of the lot, somewhat close to the break in the fence. Using the truck to pin them in, I broke off some 6 ft long, one-inch diameter branches from a nearby popular tree and, like “Little Po Beep” I herded 12 sheep back into the farmer’s field.

Being in my late 20’s, I regularly lifted and played basketball and softball but at that point, I was exhausted. Despite being early May, the temp must have been near 85F. I climbed back into the pickup truck, wishing it had AC, and then realized that without closing the fence all my effort would be in vain. I reluctantly climbed back out and did my best to wrestle the 10-foot-long section of the ancient, barbed wire fence back into place. The fence was intertwined so thick with laces of rusty barbed wire that a small fox could not get through it. It was also very heavy. I guessed this is what the WWI and II soldiers fighting their way through France and the Netherlands would call a hedge row. It took another 20 minutes before I was able to drag pieces of it, patch together some branches, and crudely rebuild the fenced area that was torn down. Nothing to brag about, but it looked like it would hold for a day or two.

Done, now to get to Mr. Toth’s office and tell him of the good news. I knew I was running late but I now had factual information of what happened and thought I had solved the problem. In my mind that should erase any tardiness and wrath I knew I was in for. Hopefully, this issue would then be closed. Little did I know that there would be a few more acts that had to be played out before this show would see its final curtain.

I walked into Mr. Toth’s office and before I could set my eyes on him I was set back by the loud “Where the hell have you been?”, emphasis on hell. Mr. Toth stood, about 6 feet, maybe 6 feet one, I would guess 270 maybe 280 pounds, a barrel-chested man with no neck and forearms as big as any 4 by 4, built like a typical Pittsburgh Steeler guard. And he was ugly too, I mean really ugly. If he shaved at 6 am he had a 5 pm shadow by 8 am. He managed by intimidation, but like all mine superintendents, there was more than muscle. He had the strong leadership skills, and a testosterone style of charisma required to manage a staff of 200+ coal miners. Clearly, he also had some people skills that made him rise above the competition.

He gathered himself from the outburst and instructed me to sit down on the other side of his desk. At this point, I dumped on him what I knew of the situation and my effort to herd the sheep. I could tell he appreciated the effort, but he explained that the State Trooper had left and had come back at the assigned time expecting to see me, waited an extra hour but had to leave. The officer’s instructions were clear: I was to meet with the farmer/landowner and then provide him with an update at the local State Police barracks by 11 am on Wednesday.

With that as my charge, I headed out to the parking lot, back to my truck, and back to the scene of the crime. I drove up to what I believed was the sheep farm's main house. I parked the truck off to the side of the narrow road, leaving just enough room for another vehicle to squeeze by. The farmhouse was a white clapboard typical two-story, “L” shaped American farmhouse, probably built in the 20s or 30s and in this case probably painted once since then. Directly across from the house was a well-built oversized barn. Together it was clear that this was the homestead for this area, back when the residents probably went into town once or twice a year for supplies.

I approached the front porch with trepidation, looking and listening for a guard dog to pop out and send me dashing back to the pickup truck. Once safely on the porch I announced my presence and knocked on the door. After several tries, it was apparent no one was home. I took a few steps down the side of the porch and peered into the window to see a nondescript living room. The window was dirty, the room had limited furniture, just a chair, a couch with a huge pile of blankets on it, and a table, no lights were on and there didn’t appear to be a TV in the room. With no sign of life in the house I headed over to the barn.

It was a rather big barn for the area, clearly this must have been a milking cow farm before being a sheep farm. Again fearing an encounter with a guard dog, I entered very slowly announcing my name in a loud fashion. Once I crossed through the 12-foot-tall double barn doors, the sudden change to darkest caught me by surprise and essentially blinded me. I announced my presence one more time, through the darkness I saw some movement in the far right corner. I paused for a second to assess the situation; it was not a wise pause. Within a moment I found myself standing almost face to face with a 6 foot 6-inch tall muscular framed man. By now my eyes had adjusted to the darkness. It took a milli-second to realize he was wearing overalls with no shirt or tee shirt. Oh yes, now I swear I could hear banjos playing outside the barn.

I gathered some courage and introduced myself, all the while keeping a safe 5 feet between us and doing my best to position myself for a quick dash to the pickup truck. All I could get from him from my inquiries were some minor facial movements. I went on to explain that I was sorry about the fence/sheep event and that we would make him whole, fix the damaged fence, and replace the lost sheep. After waiting a few awkward seconds and receiving no response, I decided to back my way out of the barn.

As I turned to leave, he slowly stuttered out, “You need to speak to my momma”. He spoke with the tone and vocabulary of a 5-year-old, I was awash with several feelings. My first thought was that this man had mental or developmental issues. That realization brought on a sense of pity and at the same time fear. He then said, “Follow me” and we walked over to the farmhouse porch. I was very reluctant to step on the porch let alone enter the house, especially having just been beating on the door and seeing no evidence of life. But through his motions, I gathered I was a lot quicker than him and could definitely outrun him, no matter, I made sure that he entered the house first and he was NOT going to get between me and the door.

Once inside I noticed that the pile of laundry or rags on the couch began to move! It made me pause and step back towards the door thinking it was a dog. But through the rags, I saw a tired, old, dirty-faced woman peer out and try to sit up. It reminded me of the slug-like creature called Jabba-the-Hut in the Star Wars movie. The farmer then stated, “Momma, this man wants to talk to you about the fence”.

I vaguely recalled having a short conversation with her, repeating what I said in the barn but I was more interested in getting the h-ll out of that room. I do recall that her responses were like that of a drunk, slow, and slurred. I tried to close out the meeting with some lame excuse of needing to get back to the mine. While in the back of my mind, I was thinking of who back at the regional office I could get to help me handle this situation. Maybe Steve would get this assignment, it would be so deserving. I certainly wasn’t coming back to this house alone. Just as I was almost out the door, I asked if it would be ok to come back tomorrow to assess the damages and if so what would be a good time.

The mother grunted out “Yes tomorrow is fine, but only if I came back after 6 pm” when her other son George would be off work and back home by then. Of course, I agreed to it. Taking the last step out the door I turned to say goodbye to the Shrek-like figure in the overalls, he smiled and stuttered out, “Yes, George will be good to talk to, he graduated from the 8th grade”. I swear you not, those were his actual words. A part of me wanted to laugh, another part said this is not real, I must be in the Twilight Zone. I said ok and walked back to the pickup truck with a slow, deliberate style. Like walking away from a barking dog, I did not want to show any sign of fear (or laughing).

I drove away but after a few miles I had to pull off to the side, the adrenalin rush was evaporating and I felt drained. I just couldn’t help but laugh at what had transpired over the last few hours, from playing Little Boo Peep to being threatened with jail time to talking to Jabba the Hut and meeting Shrek! What a day!

The next day I briefed my boss on the situation. Steve was nowhere to be found. I then secured the services of Donna, one of the two people who worked in the Land Department at the Regional office. She didn’t have a lot of real estate experience, but she was raised on a farm and I thought she could relate better with the farmer and his mother. We drove down to the airshaft site and we surveyed the repairs I made of the fence, which surprisingly were still in good shape.

We did a brief inspection for any dead sheep or lambs but could not find any. I could only thank God I didn’t run over any. We arrived at the farmhouse right on time, as I did not want to be on that property for an extra minute. We knocked on the door and Shrek let us in. Standing next to Mamma, who was still buried on the couch, was another tall man, maybe 6 foot 4, presumably her son, George. I scanned his face in the dimly lit room and the reaction was instantaneous from me. I bellowed out a strong “Hello George!”, we both recognized each other and he stretched out his hand for a handshake. The tension, the fear, the apprehension all melted away with that handshake.

Those in the room were taken aback by this introduction; I quickly explained that George and I knew each other from Bailey Mine. George was the security guard at the mine. To get access to the mine every contractor or visitor had to sign in with him. I realized that now I could deal with a rational, educated person, who essentially worked for the same company. Although he did work for a third-party security firm, I knew that in some way this had to make the whole process go easier.

Standing there, as there was no way I was going to sit down, we discussed the event. I pledged full cooperation and to make them whole. George stated that his brother Harry (aka Shrek) said that 12 sheep and 24 lambs were killed by wild dogs getting through the fence. I pushed back saying I found 12 sheep and herded them back in, but I could tell that Harry did not like the concept of me challenging his word. In my engineer mind I quickly rationalized, so how much would a replacement sheep or lamb cost? I was not going to make this a monetary issue, I had plenty of contingency in my shaft budget.

I again mentioned that we wanted to be good neighbors and gave them a good description of what the airshaft construction process would be like. Realizing that a disgruntled neighbor can make a construction project hell, with regards to obtaining permits, and complaints to elected officials and newspapers. I wanted to do my best to be open with this family. Of course, I agreed to fix the fence to their satisfaction, and for good measure, I said I noticed that you could use a few loads of gravel around the barn and a new cattle gate further down the road.

I could sense the deal was about to be closed with George and Harry giving each other timely nods of their heads, then Mamma spoke up. She drawled, or mumbled more like a drunken stupor, “Now George you remember what your Daddy said on his death bed. Don’t let those coal companies screw you like they did me”. With that George’s face and body expressions pulled back and instead of closing the deal, he said he’d have to think about it over the upcoming weekend. Damn, I thought, so close but yet so far away! As we drove away, Donna assured me that she thought she could get this closed out by herself by the end of the next week. They just needed some time to digest it all. Considering the IQ level in the room I rationalized to myself that it was the best thing for now.

The next day I met the State Trooper at the designated time and filled him in, he was stern and professional and said I needed to follow up with him in a few weeks. I called Mr. Toth, explained the progress, and then headed into my boss’s office with Donna. As we explained this to our supervisor, he went off the deep end saying neither of us had the authority to approve this sheep/gate/gravel deal and the related expenditures.

Normally I would back off, apologize, and pledge to get it fixed, but in this case, the expenditures were minimal, and the downside was huge. Considering we would have to deal with them for the next 12 months as we built this airshaft, we all knew a disgruntled landowner could wreak havoc on the project. In this case, I politely pushed back. Explaining that maybe I should have sought his permission first, but due to the small $ involved, it was more important for the company, not just me, to re-establish credibility. Plus we had to put the State Trooper issue to rest. There would be plenty of construction noise, blasting, lights at night, and traffic that typically upset the local landowners, I advocated to my boss, that as a good corporate neighbor, we needed to be more than fair with this farmer.

With the State Police involved, the mental capacity of the landowners, and the “don’t let the coal company screw you”, attitude this incident would not look good in the local press. I also mentioned that I would like Steve to help clean up this mess, who was conveniently absent from this meeting. My supervisor knew what I was saying and his attitude became less aggressive. He reluctantly backed off but to save face he demanded that we verify that 24 lambs were killed. Looking back I would recall that this was one of the first times I had to evoke professional diplomacy and “manage my boss”.

I spent the rest of the day calling various entities, like 4H Clubs or anything that sounded like it in the Yellow Pages, (yes the Yellow Pages) to try and figure out how I could buy replacement lambs. Remember there was no internet back in the 80s. Eventually, through the state’s Agriculture Department, I found out that in the spring there were weekly auctions around the state to buy & sell lambs, sheep, goats, and cattle. Lucky me!

Donna said she would take care of buying and transporting the sheep and also help identify the dead sheep, but she wanted me to accompany her when she went back to the farm. Any help was appreciated; her effort was a stark comparison to the Professional Engineer Steve.

The next day we went back to the farm to walk the fields looking for carcasses. Arriving at the farm and trying to discuss the reason we wanted to verify the dead sheep with Harry and Mamma was not a pleasant adventure. Harry accompanied us on the field walk and after identifying 3 of the carcasses, I decided I had enough and said, as far I was concerned this man’s word was good. If my supervisor wanted to challenge this issue with me I’d be glad to bring him out to these fields.

In the end, Harry and Momma got their new lambs, gravel, and new gates. I actually replaced two gates. I made sure that new culvert pipes were installed where the gates intersected the road and had the existing fence sections reinforced at least 20 feet back from the gates. As expected the loads of gravel and new gates made the biggest impression with Harry, it built up a lot of goodwill. Small, but meaningful gestures of goodwill. All this work required a full week of a backhoe, with its operator and helper. After they spread the gravel around the barn entrance, their last official task, they still had a few hours of daylight, so I let the contractor spend the remainder of the day with Harry doing some other grading & digging around the barn.

At the end of the week, I met up with Harry to make sure he was happy with all the work we did. Of course, he was. In the end, it was nice to see Harry smile.