Lost

I watched a video on CNN.com today about a man who died underground in the mine explosion, and his family talked about how he loved mining, how it was his life, his passion. And in the wake of a disaster like this, everyone wants to talk about how dangerous coal is, how it pollutes the environment and kills brave men. They want to talk about those poor Appalachians who have to dig holes in the earth so we can have electricity. It was the same after Sago, four years ago, and it will be the same after the next explosion and the next. And I know. I know, it’s dangerous, it’s dirty, but it’s also part of my family, it’s part of my history. It was the job my own father loved, the job he never would have left had he been given the choice. So whenever something like this happens, it’s my own father there in that framed picture the woman holds for the camera, in a way, and then again it’s not. He lost mining, and mining didn’t claim him, though who knows what his lungs look like. And I’m relieved. I’m glad he lost his job. I’m glad he left the mines. But I also know he was happier underground than anywhere else, that he never had a job he loved so much, that he never had closer friends than the men he mined coal with. This is the truth; this is the fiction. The story we tell ourselves, nostalgia mixed with truth. The way we remember the things we lost.