Mining Our Business

Granddad down in a mine,

me down in a cave —

both of us going deeper into Kentucky

until we’re part of the limestone.

Late last month, I watched Harlan County U.S.A. — an excellent documentary that covers a hard-fought strike at an eastern Kentucky coal mine.

Kentucky isn’t the only state with a basement, but between the vast network of caves in the central region and the coal mines in the east and west, it’s a state with a large basement. Our basement is almost too spacious . It’s a basement that’s easy to lose yourself in.

I’ve been down in the caves, but I’ve been lucky enough to have never been down in a mine. My grandfather did quite a bit of above-ground strip mining, which is the more common type of mining in the Western Coal Fields. Lots of scraping and scratching — so much so that they uprooted entire forests to get to the coal underneath.

I feel lucky that my family took a clockwise route from Virginia and North Carolina into eastern and middle Tennessee, and then up to western Kentucky. We couldn’t escape the mining, but at least we didn’t have to go down into the painfully claustrophobic crevices, the dangerous tunnels. Watching Harlan County U.S.A. gave me a headache and a tightness in my chest, thinking of all the sacrifices working people have made.

I used to avoid thinking about hardship. I used to fly up the road — going nearly 80 on the interstate — trying to make it from far western Kentucky to Evansville in two hours flat. I would fly past Madisonville every time, fly past the exits to Horse Cave and Providence and all the other mining towns. I wouldn’t stop to gas up, buy a drink, or go to the bathroom. I just kept going, driving farther away from familiar things and familiar people.

But I’ve always been acutely aware of the tough lives working class people have led — now, in the seventies, in the thirties. People have been called to stand up for themselves, to stand against exploitation, to stand together.

My grandfathers were both in unions — though the way I understand it, my maternal grandfather was more active in his union. My mother was raised with the same rule that every union member of the era taught their children: never cross a picket line.

When I was growing up, my dad told me the story of how he was tempted to cross a picket line at a grocery because he needed to buy a cake. One of the striking employees begged him to go elsewhere . He backed away, drove to the other side of town, bought something from a different bakery, and showed up late — but with a cake and without having crossed a picket line.

I’m often willing to make small sacrifices, because other people have made much larger sacrifices for me. I don’t want to lose sight of that. I’m aware of the work that goes on underground — and the workers that treated as if they are beneath us because they work beneath the Earth’s surface. They toiled for us — the folks who won’t ever have to pick at the earth until our hands ache, our eyes sting, or our lungs bleed.