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deaths are not our deaths.
But for me and for my family, they are our deaths. As they are for every family who's ever watched a loved one descend to the dark heart of the Earth.
I found a picture on the Web of the coffins being unloaded in Castle Gate in the days following March 8, 1924. I know that my grandfather and my great-grandfather were placed in two of those coffins and that 170 other men and boys were placed in 170 others - Irish, Scots, Italian, English, Greek, Armenian, U.S. citizens - a diverse army of the dead.
Despite technological advances since 1924, many of the mines are not much safer now than then. In Utah, the mine owner deprecates the miners who'd like to organize his mines to demand better conditions.
It doesn't matter. The lawyers will battle over this later. Today, while we wait, is not the day. In Utah, my grandmother and her three young daughters waited for news on a cold, late winter afternoon. The company store may be gone, but miners still die. In 1914, poet Louis Untermeyer wrote a tribute to miners in his poem, "Caliban in the Coal Mines," the closing stanza of which reads:
"Nothing but blackness above,
And nothing that moves but the cars -
God, if you wish for our love,
Fling us a handful of stars!"
Today, I wait for news. I wish I had known my grandfather. I hope for them all a handful of stars.
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