I went down into the dark before most people had their coffee. For 42 years I climbed into a cage, felt the rumble of the shaft, and stepped into a world of dust and lamps and the steady hum of machines. I learned to read the mine the way others read a clock—the way the air moved, the sound of a distant drill, the small changes that meant safety or danger. It was hard work, honest work, and it paid for the things that mattered at home.
I missed birthdays and school plays. I missed a hundred small moments that add up to a life: a first tooth, a scraped knee, a late-night talk. My wife covered the nights I couldn’t be there, and she never complained when I came home smelling of coal and oil. I sent the checks, fixed the leaky roof, and tried to make up for absence with steady hands and steady pay. When my son needed tuition and my daughter needed a place to practice, the mine’s paycheck was the quiet answer.
There were days that scared me. I remember the time the roof shifted and we all held our breath until the rescue team cleared the dust. I remember coughing in the dark and thinking about whether I’d see another sunrise. My body kept score: the cough that wouldn’t quit, the arthritis that crept into my fingers, the nights my back reminded me of every year I bent over a conveyor belt. Still, I kept going because the choice felt simple—work now so they could have choices later.
When my children finally stood on their own, I felt something like relief and something like loss. Relief because they had degrees and jobs and a life that didn’t require them to go underground. Loss because the rhythm that had defined me for decades was ending. Retirement was quieter than I expected. I missed the camaraderie, the jokes in the break room, the shared coffee in the lamp light. I also loved the mornings I could now spend with my wife, the slow breakfasts, the chance to watch my grandchildren grow without a clock pulling me away.
Would I do it again? Yes—without hesitation. I would go down another morning, take another shift, because every hour I spent under the earth bought my family a little more breathing room. But I also hope my grandchildren never have to choose between their health and their children’s future. I hope they inherit the safety and the choices we fought for, not the dust on our lungs.
