It's early spring 1985 and pretty shades of green cover the hills and mountains. Soon the dogwood will be in full bloom. From a distant hill a mocking bird sings as its mate builds a nest. A coal truck rumbles by shaking the ground around me.
Old George "Washington" Reynolds comes up the street carrying a brown grocery bag. He stops for just a minute and then goes on his way, but not before giving me a long look. I wonder if he knows.
I ain't been feeling well for sometime now. I think it started back about three years ago when George L. Kirk passed away. I missed him so much tearing up through here in that little car. Guess it kinda took the sap out of me.
As I told you before, knives have carved on my body, nails driven into me and bullets have been buried near my heart for years and I still lived on. But last fall I was burnt pretty bad and I have been on the downgrade ever since. Guess I was lucky I made it throught the winter.
So by the time you read this, I'll be gone.
But I just want you to know how nice its been living here. All these years amongst some of the finest, hardest working people on earth and, I might add, some of the toughest on a Saturday night. This town holds so many memories for me. I can still see the old, belching steam engines pushing the empty coal cars into Bonny Blue and Benedict.
The men gathering under me. Old "Main Line' shining shoes and calling out, "Going back to Alabama to more pretty girls than one."
I can see Bill Fritts and his brother Irvin, and young Clint Hughes, elbowing their way through the Saturday night crowds trying to keep some of the tough ol' boys in line. And that was no easy task through the 1940's.
I can see Mutt Williams off yonder across the bridge and Little Clyde Copeland performing the service for our community that he did so well.
I can hear "King Tut" talking with the players about Saturday's game with Pennington. "Lefty" Scott's pitching, there's Roy Rutherford, Cowboy Barker and some others I only knew by their last names: Davis, Young, Stallard, Pope, Martin, Holman and the list goes on. I can't remember all the names.
Before the game starts Black Gilley works the stands taking bets. I've seen him win a hat full and lose it all, and more, on the next game.
I can see the hundreds of miners that passed me on their way to the mines every day and the ones that Little Clyde Copeland brought back, still and cold.
I seen some of you from birth when you were on wobbly legs and watched you grow old on feeble legs.
I have seen so many die and so many leave, never to return. The town is just a ghost of itself with a few hangers on. God bless them for staying.
Will it ever be like it once was? I truthfully don't think so with all our best coal gone. But as long as people are willing to take a chance, there's hope.
Its been about six years since the most of you found out that I could talk, so I just had to tell you a few things before I pass on.
A lot of you I don't know by name but I know your faces. Lots of times I've seen you unload off that crowded bus right here near me.
I can see all the taxi drivers: Virgil, Roy, Wright, Ross, Moss, Perry, Carl, Ralph, Royce, Shuler, Eldridge, Sherm, Stanley, Chester, Jay D., Ed and Bud Speck. I think I seen Jay D. the other day. Maybe he's come back to stay.
Charlie Wheeler, John Carter, Gurnie Tester, Harve Kirk, Henderson Kirk, Mr. Hagey, Mr. Wallen, Wright Jessee, Charlie Redmond---These are some of the ones that I knew personally. I miss them so.
Minnie Kirk just turned a hundred--looks like she will outlive me.
Virgil Q. Wacks is still living. he moved away years ago, like most everybody else.
"Cripe"s off yonder in a nursing home. We shore do miss him around here.
Like I told you the first time I talked to you, I'm the heart and soul of St. Charles, Virginia and I stand tall. I can remember when I was a young sprout back in 1908 when Dr. Rucker tied his black horse to me. Mary Stapleton met Dr. Rucher there as he was ready to ride out of town on a call. She had brought her son "Harden" to him with a big risen on his chest. Dr. Rucker lanced the risen right under my branches.
Harden was only five years old. Thirty-five years later he would use my shade to play the Chuck Wagon Gang over the big speakers mounted on his car, loud enough to drown out the town's juke boxes. Then he'd take his Bible, turn to his text and preach a sermon.
Yes, I've seen the bad as well as the good in this town. Matt Herren was gunned down and died under me.
I take comfort in the churches. Although most of the town's people left long ago, the churches kept their doors open. Rev.Roy Corbin carries on at the Methodist Church and there's the Baptist Church on the hill where the ghost of Preacher Green still lingers on my mind.
Well, I'd better shut up now, before I get all misty eyed. I just wanted to tell you some of my feelings about this town and its people, and how proud I've been that you let stay among you all these years. And that old, faded flag that you flew under there for a while--I was so proud to be honored that way.
So to all of you that are still here, and to those off in other states, after I'm gone I would like to think that some kind of marker would be placed in my little corner that I occupied for so long here.
Charlie Province came by and took a picture of me the other day. I guess that's his way of keeping my memory alive.
Oh, yes, there's one other thing I want to mention--I'll never forget the time in World War Two, when that Parsons boy, I can't remember his first name, flew that fighter plane over here. He dived down so low that it shook my branches. Near about scared me to death.
Well, old George Washington is standing under me again and I see a tear on his cheek. I'm mighty tired and getting the sniffles myself so I'll close this out now.
And about that marker--shucks, I know they will never put one there so just make a little room for me in your heart and, who knows, maybe some day, somewhere you will be able to sit down in my shade again.
I'm gonna send this to the address listed below with instructions to that feller to get it in the paper after I'm gone.
In closing let me say again how nice its been living here among you all these years. God bless you all and goodbye.

*Note: The Sycamore Tree died in the early spring of 1985 and was cut down.