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 |  My thoughts on everything from albacore tuna to zebras |
| Up and down the valley, in the quiet of the very early morning, screen doors could be heard closing, pulled closed by the tension springs that preceded our modern hydraulic door closers. An occasional dog would bark, but even this was half-hearted, as they had long since grown accustomed to this morning ritual. It is the early morning of the farmer, the milkman and in this case the coal miner. Three AM at the latest, when dawn is just a glimmer of a thought, and a sight they shall not see. Like some mass pilgrimage of Druids to Stonehenge, the men make their way across the valley to the base of a Spur on Short Mountain known locally as Bear Mountain. Their passage is done mostly in silence, marked only by the flicker of their lamps and the occasional clank of their copper canteens against their lunch pails. At the base of the mountain, they begin their upward climb along the old Indian trail, heading toward the ridge top and the entry of the mine. This long line of flickering lights can be seen from far across the valley by others now rising to begin their day. It’s ghostly appearance lends credence to thoughts of religious pilgrimage. Somewhere in that line, one of those flickering lights belongs to my grandfather. Worn and water damaged boots climbing higher with each step, following the footsteps of the miner in front of him as the miner behind follows his. I can see him, lunch pail and canteen in hand, wearing worn bib overalls and a flannel shirt. A brown canvas coat goes over the top of that, and on his head is a canvas miner’s hat with his lamp. It’s tiny yellow flame providing the only guidance, warmth and comfort he will know for the next twelve hours. Occasionally, as they plod upwards someone might shout out a phrase in “PA. Dutch”, and a ripple of laughter will travel down the line. But, for the most part they travel in silence, each meditating on the day ahead. In the valley below, mothers and wives, watch the line of flickering lights, with worry in their hearts. Will the mine whistle blow today signaling a cave in…or worse, a fire? Will they see their sons and husbands return that night, covered in coal dust, ready to tackle the mountain again the next day? It is a daily worry that does not grow less with time. It is a daily worry that weighs heavy on the heart and soul. It is just before the sun breaks over the ridges to the east that the miners descend back into the mountain they had just climbed. It is an irony that is not lost on them, for more than one will turn his head at the last moment, hoping to catch a glimpse of a ray of sunlight before they disappear into the mountain. In the valley below, the sun breaks over the ridges to the east and the aroma of fresh baked bread wafts on the warm breeze it brings. Children laugh and scurry and get ready for school as mothers scold and scurry after them. Occasionally throughout the day, if you watch carefully, you’ll catch an eye or two looking off toward Bear Mountain. Epilogue: As I write this, a fire in a mine in West Virginia traps two more miners underground. Please, offer up your prayers and good thoughts for these miners, their families, those trying to rescue them, and for all those miners that down through the years climbed their own Bear Mountain.   |
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