Harlan Dale Scroggins

Harlan Dale Scroggins died in Terre Haute on September 10, 2026. He was seventy-nine. Born there on June 15, 1947, he grew up hearing a foundry before he understood a map. His father poured iron. Harlan learned that a heat is a promise: it holds, or the whole story comes apart in the dark. For thirty-three years he was a pourer, crawling under machines that other men only blamed. He arrived early. He did not advertise. Foremen called him because he would write up a cracked ladle even when the shift was already called. He charged a fair hour and a smaller one when a church van needed a lift more than a sermon. He kept a notebook of machines, not clients. The notebook had grease on the edges. He married Imogene Scroggins in 1969. They raised three children in a frame house that needed a new porch every twenty years. Imogene kept the garden and the choir. Harlan grilled on Sundays and considered a plate of smoked chicken a seasonal obligation. After his knees quit the worst pits he still came out for a favorite pour, moving slower, doing the same honest work. Friends remember a man who wiped his hands before he shook yours, who could stand in a noise without making it a personality, and who left a floor cleaner than he found it. He loved the river at evening, a glass of tea he did not finish, and the sound of a machine that had decided to live. He died in Terre Haute, in the city whose foundry had written his calendar. The line still starts.