What does a lump of coal mean to you?
When we were planning our travels, I came across information about a coal mine in West Virginia that conducted tours. If I put aside my initial unease about traveling underground, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to see a significant part of our nation's history. Remembering all the lore about company stores and caged canaries and coal darkened lungs, I was eager to see first hand bits of this necessary evil on our way to true modern progress.
Oh, how naive.
At first, my tour seemed to reinforce my ideas. On the grounds surrounding the mine entrance they have placed a number of original buildings from various mining towns and the tiny shanty of the mine worker contrasts sharply with the luxurious home of the supervisor. The description of the company store even seems to fit.
But then my little bubble of ignorance shook. We all took our seats on the rail car to travel into the mine and as we waited the tour guide handed out bumper-stickers that read "Friends of Coal".
I scrambled to make sense of this. Were they serious? What did they mean by it? Could I even imagine putting the sticker on my car and yet not be ostracized in California?
The rail car rumbled into the little mine and the tour guide, himself a retired miner, shared the history of the mine and explained some of the ancient pieces of equipment and the daily life of a miner. A few people on our tour volunteered stories of their family's mining past and it kept bumping into stories of mining present.
How is it that I only ever hear of miners when they are buried alive by an avalanche? How have I come to believe that everyone the world over will sigh with huge relief when men no longer need to travel deep into the earth to extract rocks to satisfy mankind's untempered thirst for more?
The rail car rumbled back to its starting position and SOS and I made our way outside to regroup before moving on.
That's where our tour guide found us. He huddled a little close and glanced around before slipping me something wrapped in paper towel.
"I want to give you this lump of coal."
I thought of a wise crack about me still having several months to prove I was good before Santa made his final decision, but mercifully I was saved from that rudeness.
"Don't let on to any of the others that I'm giving this to you. In these parts this is like gold, but I want you to keep it for your little one. You tell him about this, ok?"
He hurried back to his duties and I tucked the black brick deep in my purse before continuing on.
Up until now, this black rock would have been a bad joke at best and a sad part of history at worst, for me. For our tour guide, though, it was what he spent 24 years of his life looking for. It is what has provided for him and his family. It is the central object of his life work.
As we continued our drive through West Virginia, I received additional education thanks to billboards and road signs and I better understand this miner's request that we tell our baby about the mines and the people who have lived and died by them. Friends of Coal are fewer and fewer and the push for cleaner energy has put many of these Friends out of work.
Remember, Little One. Remember the ones who lived by the mining of coal and not just the ones who died by it.
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