The Great Dynamite Caper & Peach Wine Debacle

Walt & I Were Up Behind the Mines

I blame the whole thing on my friend Walt. Not because he was the one who found the dynamite, though he was. And not because he was the one who picked it up, though again, guilty as charged. No, I blame Walt because in the grand scheme of life, when bold moves were made, Walt was usually the one making them. 

It all started on a June morning in Shaw Mines. We were two boys who spent most of our free time building crude weapons such as bows and arrows. Or we poked around the abandoned coke ovens like two archaeologists with more enthusiasm than sense. The coke ovens were squat igloo-shaped brick structures used to turn coal into coke for steel mills. They had been there since the early 1900’s. Now, they were just part of the local landscape. Just like the Model-T ford in old Steve Menaquale’s garage, or the legendary coal tipple and electric train engine standing at the top the hill.

A Discovery

Anyway, Walt and I had just finished a successful attempt to turn a coke oven into a makeshift fort. Then he, always the explorer, noticed that the door on an adjacent powder magazine was ajar.  A powder magazine was a heavy brick structure where miners stored explosives for use in the old tunnels. Two such structures stood near Shaw Mines, and people long assumed they were empty.  Walt, being also the overachiever that he was, suggested that we investigate the open magazine. The next thing I heard was, “WOOPEE! Look what I found!” I saw him standing there, holding up a shiny eight-inch-long cylinder wrapped in weathered brown paper.

Leaning in for a closer look, I asked, “What is it?”

“Dynamite,” Walt said casually.

There was a long moment of silence as the importance of this revelation settled in.

“Are you sure?” I asked, backing up just a little.

“’Course I’m sure! My Uncle Mel used to work in the mines. He showed it to me once. See how it’s kinda oozing? That’s nitroglycerin; we’ll have to be careful.”

Now, even at the tender age of twelve, I knew two things about nitroglycerin. One, it was something you found in old dynamite. And two, there was no such thing as enough “careful” since it was the exact opposite of something you wanted to be anywhere nearby.

Transporting Dynamite

As my eyes became adjusted to the dark interior of the powder magazine, I observed an old wooden box filled to the brim with at least 20 sticks of wet looking dynamite,

“Walt,” I said carefully, “I don’t think we should move that.”

“Oh, relax,” he said, twirling the stick of dynamite already in his hand like a baton. “It’s not like it’s gonna”

I didn’t hear the rest because I was already diving behind a pile of bricks. When I peeked back up, Walt was grinning as he loaded the entire box of dynamite into the basket of his bicycle.

As we peddled our way down the mile long rutted dirt “Coke Oven Road”, I followed Walt from what, at the time, I deemed to be a safe distance.

Testing the Dynamite

I didn’t see him again until just after the fourth of July holiday, when he swaggered up to me in my backyard, grinning like the cat that swallowed the dynamite.

“That dynamite is still good.  We exploded one!”  My mind raced in multiple directions at this news. I envisioned his family running through their yard holding sticks of lit dynamite as if they were sparklers. I imagined the shock of his neighbors hearing dynamite explode. Then I honed-in on his statement that they had exploded “one.”  That meant there was still more, and I considered the possibility of him detonating it during one of his fishing expeditions. Then Walt muttered something about feathers on arrows and I snapped back to reality.

I never learned how the remainder of the dynamite eventually disappeared. We never spoke of the incident again.

My First Wine

Fast forward a few years and our paths diverged somewhat. I however still being enamored by the ruins of the old coke ovens decided that they would be the perfect cellar in which to practice the art of winemaking.  Thus, my career as a vintner began in the early summer of 1963 when I filled a quart canning jar with sweetened peaches and stashed it in the dark ruins of an old coke oven to let nature do its thing.

Months passed, and I almost forgot about my wine. Then one day I decided it was time to check on its progress.  Surely two months was enough time to make a fine wine!

I hopped on my bicycle and peddled the half mile to the deserted coke oven, pried the jug from its hiding place, and removed the cloth cover.

The smell that emerged was not unlike that of a raccoon that had gotten into a batch of rotten fruit and then died of regret.

“Maybe it just needs to breathe,” I thought.

It did not.

I took a sip anyway, which resulted in a fit of coughing and gagging.

“Not bad,” I wheezed. It was, in fact, very bad.

Regardless, in the grand tapestry of winemaking, this was the day my journey truly began. 

Life Lesson: Everything you attempt in life deserves your best effort…and then consistent monitoring!

---

© 2025 Clyde F. Housel.