Coal Miner's Daughter

Actually my dad wasn’t a miner. But one grandfather had been, and an uncle, tons of great uncles, cousins. I was raised in the coalfields, not an hour away from where I live now, and life was such that everybody you knew was connected to the mines somehow: a miner, a mechanic, a truck driver, a heavy equipment operator, a worker for Joy or Rish, an engineer, a draftsman. With coal booming now, I’ve even contemplated seeing if I could “get on” and do it myself, underground.

And then there’s my friend who at least was in a rescue team. He had talked about getting out, but I imagine he was there.

Almost heaven, West Virginia. Life is old here, older than the hills.

Coal is magic. It is beautiful, black, shiney, often faceted. And you can light it and it burns, an impressive feat for a rock. Burning it was ubiquitous. Even our all electric house had a fire place, and lumps were always added at night to bank it. My grandparents had a stoker furnace with radiators. A lot of people just had coal stoves.

The sulfur smell of coal burning sends me home: smells like comfort; being warm and safe and protected. As much as this farm is home, when I cross the river to the mountains that cradle the coal, that is when I feel like a child at home. There, when you walk in the yard in the grass in the summer, your toes get black from the coal dust.

It is probably more dangerous to drive to the mines to work than to actually work in them, at least these days. Timbering is more dangerous than mining. But still, they walk into the tomb every day, and they were alive to put up the barrier, and when they die it is often en mass, and there were heros trying to get to them in time, and don’t we all hope. We all hope. Against hope.
Even when we know better. And I am so sorry and every strong thought goes to them all, Mr. McCloy, Mr. Hatfield, all.

A song:

The Fisherman's Song
Andy M. Stewart © Strathmore Music

On a storm-torn shoreline a woman is standing
The spray hung like jewels in her hair
And the sea tore the rocks on the desolate landing
As though it had known she stood there;

For she has gone down to condemn that wild ocean
For the murderous loss of her man
His boat sailed out last Wednesday morning
And it's feared she's gone down with all hands;

Oh and white were the wavecaps and wild was their parting
Such is the glory of love
And she prayed to the gods both of men and of sailors
Not to cast their cruel nets on her man;

For she has gone down to condemn that wild ocean
For the murderous loss of her man
His boat sailed out last Wednesday morning
And it's feared she's gone down with all hands;

There's a school on a hill where the sons of dead sailors
Are led toward tempests and gales
And their god-given wings are clipped close to their bodies
And their eyes abound round with ship's sails

What force leads a man to a life filled with danger
High on seas or a mile underground
It's when need is his master and poverty's no stranger
And there's no other work to be found;

For she has gone down to condemn that wild ocean
For the murderous loss of her man
His boat sailed out last Wednesday morning
And it's feared she's gone down with all hands.