Price » Joe Piccolo's hands are like his town -- bruised and cut, but strong and resilient.

Piccolo, an auto mechanic by trade, is the mayor of Price. It's a worker's town. Always has been.

When he was 6, the sirens rang out, signalling trouble at the coal mines that drive the town's economy. Piccolo's father had died in a tunnel collapse.

His mother, Rose, moved Joe and his younger brother, Ron, from their Huntington home to Price. She provided for them the best she could, but the boys had to help out, too. Joe started working part-time jobs about the time he was 12, and he's never stopped.

Now, the Price mayor is 58 and owns and operates three automotive-repair businesses.

Another tragedy helped define the mayor.

During the hot Labor Day weekend of 2007, Piccolo sat in a sandwich shop along this mining town's quaint Main Street. A day or two earlier, the operators of the Crandall Canyon coal mine had called off a weeks-long search for six miners caught in a massive cave-in. The search had claimed three rescuers.

Speaking to a reporter, Piccolo pressed his palms together and gazed toward the bluff-colored mesas that surround his town. His words carried insight and a calm, steady philosophy. Everyone would have to pull together to help raise the children of the fallen miners, he said.

"The healing process in this community will take a generation. But we have great hope that we can rekindle the lives of these families."

Melting pot kids

The Piccolo boys are the sons of Italian immigrant families who were drawn to Utah early last century for mining.

Joe recalled a childhood of few material possessions, but a wealth of friendships from the ethnically rich town. His buddies were Greek, Slovenian, black and Japanese.

"We had a melting pot. We'd go to Japanese New Year and Greek Easter," he recalled. "We were each a different color of thread, but we were in the soup together, and that bound us together."

In the 1950s and '60s, the coal boom made Price one of Utah's wealthiest towns. Some 7,700 coal miners burned up big paychecks every week. It was known as a hell-raising place with brothels, gambling and wide-open bars that snickered at Utah's puritanical liquor laws.

Among other things, coal country's heyday produced the gritty J. Bracken Lee, who after a stint as mayor of Price became one of Utah's most colorful governors and, later, mayor of Salt Lake City.

Piccolo was too young to frequent the storied saloons or to have known Lee well. But he can quote him: "Brack had a saying: 'Before you make a decision, find out all the facts you can. Study up on it and make up your mind. Then let everybody howl.'"

This 21st century mayor is nearing the end of his second term. He also served on Price's City Council. He sits on a host of boards, too, from the Olene Walker Housing Fund to the Utah Water Quality Board, among others.

Piccolo is known to speak his mind, but unlike Lee, it's hard to find his enemies, according to resident Pam Juliano.

"He's the stalwart of this community. I've known him since I was this high," she said, holding her hand out from her waist.

"People look to him as a leader. And he's compassionate. I've known him to help people who can't afford to get their vehicle fixed or put food on the table."

Strolling along Main Street, Piccolo can't help but show a little pride. When he was elected mayor in 2002, there were 27 empty storefronts along the historic boulevard. Now there are just five that need tenants.

He points to the old Newhouse Hotel at the intersection of Carbon Avenue and Main and explains that it is about to be remodeled into 32 apartments with ground-floor retail and a restaurant.

Piccolo said he ran for mayor because he wanted to make a difference. He gives four or five or six hours a day to the part-time post that pays $700 a month.

"I had a guy tell me I was a better politician than a mechanic," Piccolo joked. "That worried me. I know what kind of politician I am."

Despite the crashing national economy, he sees slow, steady growth for Price. This town of 9,500 didn't share in the economic boom of the past 20 years and probably won't suffer a steep downside either, he said.

"Price is the best-kept secret in Utah," Piccolo said. "It's clean, friendly and progressive."

Further along the street, kids lined up for the vampire movie, "Twilight." As he passed they called out, "Hi, Joe. Hi, mayor."

When asked if she knows the mayor, Addy Loaiza, 17, remarks, "Are you kidding, he's like my second dad."

Hard-working town

For Joe and Ron Piccolo, there never was a second dad. Rose earned about $2,500 a year as a cook for the school district. They were so strapped, she couldn't afford new clothes.

"I saved and saved. I was 14 and I bought her a coat from J.C. Penny," Joe recalled. "When I gave it to her, she cried."

Joe had his first business at 18, right out of high school, selling and installing car stereos and performance parts. And at one point, he employed his younger brother.

"He was a big influence on me," said Ron, himself a successful businessman. "I owe a lot to my brother."

Today, Joe employs 21 people. He and his high school sweetheart, Barbara, have three kids, ages 26 to 16. He likes to refer to his wife of 36 years, who is a cancer survivor, as the first lady of Price.

"He's got so much energy, he even talks in his sleep," Barbara said. "We've had the coal-mine disaster and so many things that needed a strong mayor. He's been very good for this town."

The Piccolos have done well.

"If you do everything you can, the good Lord will come through for you," the mayor said.

Nonetheless, Price remains a town of struggling workers. These days, there are only about 1,200 miners in Utah's coal country. Now the town and its neighbors are on the other end of economic ranking of Utah towns.

It's hard to draw boundaries in these parts. From the hamlet of Ferron in south Emery County to the burg of Sunnyside in eastern Carbon County, it's all one community. And that, the mayor said, is where he gets his strength.

Life comes full cycle

Some things don't change in these towns, except perhaps the vantage from which they are viewed. Even then, one mine disaster can seem like all mine disasters.

The Crandall Canyon Mine disaster was no different. On Aug. 16 more than a year ago, Piccolo was in Huntington with the families of the missing miners when word came that the rescue team was trapped in a tunnel collapse.

The sirens have been gone for a long time, but Piccolo heard them scream again that day. The horror of his father's death 51 years ago streamed back in Technicolor. All the things he set aside at age 6 smacked up against him as though his dad had just died all over again.

"I realized all these years later, we were waiting, listening for the names [of the trapped men], just like April 25, 1957."

But like it did half a century ago, life goes on in coal country.

The children of the dead miners will grow up in a town where Piccolo says they will be cared for and shown the attributes of hard work and citizenship.

He knows, because he and his mother and brother were the recipients of that generosity when they were struggling to get by way back when.

"Our biggest single asset is the people of this community," he said. "They will give and give, even when their pockets are empty."

csmart@sltrib.com