When the Whistle Blew

“When the ghouls came out to play.” The rhyme use to make my grandmother cry when she was little. It wasn’t until she learned about her father’s, my great grandfather’s job did she understand what the kids in the neighborhood were singing about. It would be a few years before she understood that the rhyme was just another way for children to be allayed of their bedtime fears. Her family and the job they did were a part of that fear. Whether she wanted to be or not she was one of the ghouls.

She would tell the story of how her grandfather's family including her father as an infant had come over from Ireland to work for the coal barons. The mine owners needed expert woodworkers and master craftsmen of which the family came from a long line of boat builders and cabinet makers. Once here, they had steady work, a workshop, food and a home. They were master craftsmen, proud of their work, but humble enough to attend church thanking god for their skills.

My grandmother remembered that at very young age she was given the task of sweeper and would come through at the end of the day sweeping up the shavings and the sawdust. She was taught how to recognize a discarded piece of wood that might be used for a spindle or a baluster or the trim on a finely carved wooden box. The boys would lug the lumber, plane it down, shape it, cut it, and carve it in to tables and chairs. Once they made a box for a dowry, lined in cedar to keep the moths away from the handmade blankets quilts and wedding trimmings.

The women of the family, her grandmother, her mom, her aunts, and her older sister were seamstresses. They were experts in taking yards of plain cloth and making dresses, shirts, pants, and fine bedding.

On Sunday's cleaned and dressed proper they would lead the singing at the church in pews sitting next to an altar that they had carved. The hands of the men were stained the color of deep red cherry, walnut and the yellow oak. “Colors,” her grandfather would say, “at least our hands are stained in colors. Not that dark gray that stains the fingers of the miners.”

Every morning she would spend time with her mother and her aunts learning a little about sewing and cooking. The afternoons she would spend out back at the shop with her brothers and cousins all of whom had jobs. Some swept, some cleaned tools, while others were learning how to cut in to wood with finely sharpened chisels. Life was good.

One day the ground kind of quivered and shook. She watched as the birds in a nearby field all took off at once. As she ran toward the house, her mother and grandmother came running out to collect the children pulling them all away from their home. The shop and house swayed and shook. Down the street two houses fell in on one another. Screams could be heard from women and children.

And then the whistle blew. Long and hard. The sound pierced her eardrums. She watched as women and children all started running toward the colliery and wanting to be part of the excitement she followed. At the mine, they were using large machines to try and move the earth that had slid in to the shaft. Men were screaming orders, women were crying and the whistle kept blowing.

The man in charge asked for silence. Finally the whistle stopped. You could hear the rush of air coming up from down below followed by another shudder of the ground and then billowing black smoke. The man in charge sat down on a pile of earth and sobbed.

Back at home the shutters were up on the shop windows. She could hear her grandfather giving instructions, barking orders and asking about wood supplies. Inside the house her mother and grandmother were pulling out large bolts of the fine cloth reserved for special occasions. Her older sister was told to start making pillows. Grandfather came in and read the list, seven men and three boys.

“We'll need for seven men and three boys.” Her grandmother hugged her grandfather the both with tears in their eyes. Out in the shop they were putting together the long boxes, the boxes stored out in the back that she and her cousins had often played hide and seek in.

By nightfall the boxes were stained, lined with the silk, her sister's pillows and decorated with brass handles. Someone pushed her aside as the priest came in trailing two altar boys, their faces black with coal dust swinging incense that made her sneeze. From a golden pail he blessed the family and the boxes with sprinkles of cool water saying something in Latin. With tears in his eyes he moved on after thanking everyone for what they do.

The bodies came one by one, except for a father and son. Some families came and wept, others came angry. It was late in to the night when the last body had come. His family walked the newly filled box slowly down the street on the shoulders of men with candles lighting the way back home.

“The last walk home” is what her sister said wiping away tears with a starched apron. Inside her grandfather had sent for some buckets of beer and the men all sat around drinking and smoking. The room was quiet except for the scratching of a match to light another cigarette.

A couple of days later the mine was back in operation, the woodworkers and seamstresses were back to their everyday jobs. Somewhere children were playing in a field singing:

Say your prayers, no more tears;
Their work is done today.
Say your prayers, drink a beer
When the ghouls come out to play.