Coal Mine Tour

Precisely at 2, we settled into a coal car and began the descent into the Lackawanna Mine. This was not the mine in which my grandfather, John "Sharkey" Lydon, worked, but it was close enough in both layout and geography to give me and Siss a shocking picture of how grandpa spent his childhood.It was so very cold, and dark enough so that the many lights could not see into corners and around bends. Water dripped from ceilings and oozed down walls. Always, there was the knowledge that we were under the earth, and somewhere above, the sun was shining and the air was warm.

There were many children in our car, most of them thrilled rather than frightened by the exciting ride through the dark tunnel. At every stop, they would run around looking for a chunk of anthracite to take home as a souvenir. This is forbidden, but every kid does it. My own child, whom I call N.P., had taken this selfsame trip in the fourth grade while visiting his Gramma Cella, and he had brought out a piece of coal so large that it barely fit into his backpack. He wasn't frisked by guards. No one questioned the staggering fourth-grader. So it was with these kids. The guards simply didn't notice, or didn't care if they did notice.

What really got me was the fact that my Grandpa Sharkey, at this same age, was working in a mine just like this, not just picking up bits of coal for fun. He went down innto the ground before light and came up after dark. He rarely saw the daylight. They had few or no child labor laws in the 1890s.

These are the times when I start thinking deep, philosophical thoughts about my life; halfway down into an old anthracite mine, freezing my ass off and realizing that alligator soup doesn't stick to your ribs. When I looked at my sister, I could only think about that ugly top with the iridescent sequins that I had worn for her sake. Why do I have to be so nice? I could have been honest and said that I hated it, that I wouldn't wear it, that it was butt-ugly. I could have told her exactly what I thought about grown women dressing alike. I didn't tell her that, just as I didn't tell her what I think of The Wet Rag and what I think of her malingering in therapy for forty years. Instead, I told all of those little white lies of which even Emily Post must have approved. I was cold and starving and irritated by all the screaming kids, but I was still channeling Aristotle.