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Is it true, is it necessary, is it kind?: Educating for Sanity
Peter 2:1: “So get rid of all evil behavior. Be done with all deceit, hypocrisy, jealousy, and all unkind speech.”

So much rancor in the world. So much unrest. There have always been people who say provocative things for notoriety, money, entertainment, influence, revenge, attention or because they are simply cantankerous. The point is to provoke. It is the provocation that leads to the perceived or real reward.
In a world where social media and infotainment networks crank provocation and response 24/7, the weight can feel especially heavy. An analogy that makes sense to me is that one such encounter is like a mosquito bite. It is irritating and really no big deal. But if the bites keep coming without stopping, it isn’t long until you are miserable. The bites can even become toxic and damage your health.

So what are we to do? It is easy to lash out and spread your discomfort. Psychology tells us that the most frequent response to anger is blame. But misdirected blame only adds to the provocations. A dangerous response is to seek to take away freedoms or harm others through censure, censorship, repression, book banning, doxing, and endless culture wars. Why are these responses dangerous and potentially unconstitutional? Our founding fathers knew that whomever had power or whomever could sway or coerce the masses could control the narrative. This ultimately leads to limited or repressed speech and unequal rights. So to protect the rights of the minority (an ultimately all of us), the first amendment was added.

I often do not like what I read. Sometimes I force myself to read opinions that make my blood boil (there are any number of cruel, racist, sexist, or ignorant rants available in opinion columns everywhere). I disagree. I shake my head. I fact check. And then I turn the page. I close the book. I scroll past. I change the channel. I may even craft a rebuttal or determine how to take responsible civic action.
I do not try to silence people whose opinions I don’t like. I do not deny their right to exist or have thought. I do not try to punish them. I engage in dialogue …..or not. Having said that, I remember the red line that should not be crossed. “You do not have right to yell fire in a crowded theater unless there is an actual fire .” This is a metaphor that tells us we do not have right to endanger the lives of others just for fun or because we can. If there is actual danger shout a warning. If you just want to see people run scared and potentially be trampled, keep your mouth firmly shut.
So what are we to do in this current environment? There is an adage (no one really knows where is comes from) to “let everything that passes through your lips go through three doors…is it true….is it necessary….is it kind?”

If what you are sharing is not true it shouldn’t be shared. Sharing untruths only happens because you, the sharer, are ignorant (don’t have all the information) of facts or because you fully intend to harm/manipulate. If it is the former, then retract your statement and when you know better, do better. If it is the latter, nothing I say will matter. You have already decided that your personal needs and goals are more important than those of all others. Misusing information for personal gain is sometimes called fraud, lying, swindling, conning, and deception or deceit. Consistently and knowingly engaging in this behavior begins to look like criminal intent.
By asking if what you are sharing is necessary, you are considering if it is useful to improve the situation, relationship, or tone of the encounter. Is it important to contribute to the dialogue? Is it a perspective that needs to be said? Or is it simply a jab? This requires that you “read the room”. There are lots of things that can be said. Not all of them need to be said all at once. If you have ever been with preschool age children and you mention any topic, all of them talk at once to share their perspective. “I ate an apple once……My grandma has apples….. I saw an apple on the ground……apples taste yucky……apple is my cousins name….apple is a computer. My daddy says bad words to apple…..” Social media works the same. Because it is not a direct exchange to a specific audience and has few boundaries in time or space, it is very hard to “read the room” for context. It is up to each person to determine what is necessary/helpful both as the writer and as the reader. Lack of context and community often cause a mismatch. This is especially true as communities become more polarized. It is helpful to give some grace and consider how it was helpful to the writer or a specific community (even if it outside your norm).

Finally, if you have determined your words are true and they are necessary/useful, you have to now ask yourself if they are kind. What you say is often less of a problem than how you say it. Nothing we say should ever take away the dignity of our fellow human beings. Disagreeing is not unkind. Civil discourse requires the examination of competing ideas. Unkind words are easy to spot when it is name calling, insults, belittling abilities, demonizing, or personal attacks. Unkind can also be gossip or the spreading malicious rumors (which intersects with truth). Unkind can be making overtly judgmental statements about another person’s choices or actions. You can be unkind by using a harsh or rough tone when speaking, even if the words themselves seem neutral.

Free speech is vital to a free people. As a citizen I will defend free speech with my last breath. Even if I disagree with you. I will also commit to practicing the three gates of truth, necessity/helpfulness, and kindness as an act of citizenship. I can only hope you will do the same. It is our democracy ….if we can keep it.
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You know you are in Ireland when….

Ireland may be one of my favorite places in the world. I feel at home as soon as I step off of the plane. From the moment I hit the concourse I instantly know I am on the Emerald Isle. Certain things are unmistakably Irish.
People are greeting each other on the turd (third) of June with lots of feckin’ profanity. It is a spectacle. And can be somewhat off putting to hear otherwise proper grannies cursing like sailors and then giggling. I must be an eejit, but I can’t help but grin with them.

At the house, I am welcomed with the unmistakable smell of peat and a cleaning product that we don’t use in the USA. The smells are forever associated with Ireland. Other reminders that I am in Ireland are the Bewley’s instant coffee and Irish breakfast tea bags left by an electric kettle. There will be no brewed coffee this trip. I do manage to buy real ground coffee and a French press small enough to fit in my suitcase at the local grocer.
I am most excited about Taytos, the world’s best potato chip (at least in my opinion). I am addicted to the cheese and onion variety, although salt and vinegar will do in a pinch. I dream of Taytos between trips and have been known to seek them out at an international market back in the states.
Foods are part of my Irish ritual. First on my list is a slice of Banoffee pie. It is death by sugar and I can’t finish a slice in one sitting. I also look for Guinness Stew, a nice plate of fresh fish and chips with malt vinegar (which they bring without being asked or looking confused), and authentic shepherds pie. I also have to find a 99 (ice cream cone with a chocolate stick).

Each time I get in a car in Ireland after leaving the airport, I suck in my breath. The steering wheel is on the opposite side of the car. The car travels on the opposite side of the road. You turn the opposite direction onto roundabouts…..and there a lot of roundabouts. Once on the road, there may not be a shoulder. There may or may not be enough room for two cara to pass on the two way road. Speed limits make no sense. Rock walls, hedge rows and other obstacles fly past. Livestock wander onto roadways and everyone walks along blind curves even though there isn’t room for cars let alone pedestrians. I have to breathe deeply and remember I am in Ireland. It is normal here and within a few days it will feel normal to me.

In Ireland sheep cover the hillsides. They are in the backyard and occasionally eat the garden flowers. You know you are in Ireland if you see a random cow on a highway overpass or if you are stuck in a 30 minute traffic jam because the farmer is moving his herd across the roadway. You really know you are in Ireland if you pass more tractors on the highway than cars.
Every field seems to have ancient ruins. There are stones left from houses, churches, walls, and monuments. My brain doesn’t know where to pay attention. Should I look at the mountains, the sea, the road, the cars, the people, the fantastic historic landmarks? Those first few days of driving are overwhelming. But eventually we settle into the rhythms of the island.

I know I am having the full Irish experience when there are on and off switches on every electrical outlet, the heating is on a timer, and the main electrical box looks like a maze of wires. The refrigerator is quarter the size of the one I use at home and will hold only enough groceries for a few meals, ensuring frequent trips to town. The washing machine holds only enough clothes to fit on the folding rack that serves as a dryer. All functional but very different. I am in Ireland and I appreciate sustainable living.

At the end of the day, there is always a pub. People gather to talk, tell a joke, place a bet, or sing along. You are never a stranger. I know I am in Ireland when I am not allowed to touch a Guinness until it is properly poured, settled and topped off. A time honored ritual conducted by people with pride in their work. I can relax. A comfy fire, the smell of smoke, a fiddle, and community. I know I am in Ireland when I am content.
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Nature Heals: Travel Goals Ireland

The world is in turmoil. Why, I can’t say. Much of the anger and hardship seems to be unnecessary and self induced. Manufactured crisis designed to make cold hard cash for someone….certainly not me.
Old wounds ripped open to manipulate strong emotion. Ancient prejudices exploited for power. It is too much to contemplate. The world feels heavy. In these times, the grief of it sits heavy on my shoulders. People aren’t meant to live like this.

And so, we take comfort in the land. In Ireland, the ancient ruins tell us of endless battles and strife. But the hills speak of something older. God has spread beauty across the land. The landscape is majestic. No matter how many times people created destruction here, there is constant rebirth. Nature heals.

And so, I sit by the sea and watch waves crash against the shore. The sun warms my face and a cool breeze tickles my skin. I watch the hawks circle the endless blue skies. I listen to the birds sing in the fields amidst rustling grain. And I breathe deeply. I am part of the beauty of the earth. My soul is timeless and unaffected by man’s greedy endless scheming for more. This moment is enough.

I walk hillsides in solitude or in happy companionship with family. The endless greens of grass and trees lift my mood. I see a mansion in the distance, but I focus on a fruit tree in a long forgotten garden. It is untended, but still producing beautiful fruit. No longer necessary for modern life, the family will not be drying or canning apples to survive the winter. The tree doesn’t care if its fruit is unwanted in this season. The fruit is beautiful in its own self. It may drop discarded into the weeds to feed only the birds. It is no less beautiful.
So too the fruit of human goodness. The world may not currently value honesty or empathy. Truth and civility may not be in fashion. Moral reasoning, introspection, and education may be out of style. They are no less beautiful.
So I seek the trees. I touch their cool bark and tender leaves. Nature reminds me that simply being true to yourself is enough. Nature heals.

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Revolutionary Countess: Travel Goals Ireland

We visit Lissadell house on a warm summer afternoon. The family home of the Gore-Booths, Lissadell sits outside of Sligo, Ireland. It is now owned and lived in by Irish attorneys who allow tours to offset the upkeep. The estate had a great location with both Ben Bulben and Knocknarea mountains in view as well as the beautiful sea.
As we enter the old stables, now a cafe/gift shop/ museum we encounter two older Irish men having tea. One was chatty. He followed me and clearly wanted to talk. I indulged him as we had plenty of time. In a very Irish way, we find out that they know the family we are renting from. This leads to family stories of business ventures and ancestors. They could have talked all day, but we had a house to visit.

In the small museum, we learn about the Booth-Gore sisters, Constance and Eva. Their father was an Anglo-Protestant landlord who reportedly provided free food to tenants during the famine and was an arctic explorer. His daughters were forces of nature. They were friends of Yeats who memorialized them in verse. Eve went on to be involved in the women’s suffrage movement. Constance helped change a nation.

As I walk through the house and grounds, I see her artistic talent on display. She met her husband, Count Markievicz at a Paris art school. As an Irish socialite she turned heads. But her life changed as she began to meet Irish people who dreamed of freedom for their country. I look at paintings, drawings, and writing. There is no shortage of revolutionary material in the collection.
She went to meetings advocating Irish independence and actively campaigned against a young Winston Churchill. She was arrested for throwing stones at a painting of the king and queen and for speaking at rallies. She sold off possessions to feed the poor and ran operations to shield protestors from the police. I am learning that this woman was courageous and passionate about the Irish people.
She participated in the Easter Rising including the fighting at St. Stephen’s Green. She was tried and sentenced to death, but was given a reprieve because she was a woman. When told she said, “I do wish you lot had the decency to shoot me.”
Inside the house, I see the carvings she and her sister made on the woodwork. I imagine little girls full of dreams. Constance could not have dreamed she would one day be the first woman elected to British Parliament or that she would serve in the Irish government as a cabinet officer. And yet she made history. Not in a loud or self serving way, she served others.
She grew up in luxury, yet she lived for the people. At her death she had given her money away. She died in a ward among the poor where is “where she wanted to be.” A revolutionary countess indeed.
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Home Away From Home: Travel Goals Ireland

When we travel, we try to rent locally. Ideally, we find a property that has been in the family for awhile. I look for local hosts who have great reputations. We avoid corporate rentals.
I love spaces that feel lived in. I want local connections. But it is hard to make a selection from photographs and emails when we will be staying on the other side of the world in a place where we haven’t been. We factor cost, location, house layout, and hosts. But eventually we have to just make a choice.
Part of the fun is traveling to the house and stepping across the threshold for the first time. On that first day I question whether we picked the right neighborhood and whether the house will meet our needs. By the last day, it almost always feels like home. We have been lucky in our selection.

In Ireland, I am deep in farm country. The smell of peat hits me as I open the front door. I notice that there is firewood and peat stacked by wood-burning stoves in both the dining room and the living room. Wood smoke always makes me feel content as there is something calming about a fire.
The farmhouse is quirky and lovely in its imperfections. It has clearly seen a lot of life and love in its walls. Decorations are tasteful yet authentic. Generations of objects on mantels and walls. Each has its own unique story.
The floors slope from decades of use. The electrical boxes are jumbled above the front door where they were added over time, based on each technological advancement. The couches have lumps in just the right places. A large dining room table with chips and dings from frequent family gatherings offers a place to work and regroup.

The house is clean and functional. It sings of family. Maybe it reminds me of my grandparents house. The rooms are small but plentiful. Upstairs bedrooms under the eaves, remind me of the many times I snuggled into a feather bed in an upstairs attic. I can almost imagine grandma puttering downstairs as I drift off to sleep.

I will have to remember to flip the switches to turn on and off the electrical outlets. The stove and microwave won’t work until the electricity is turned on. Even the heating system runs from a timer that must be activated. So much to remember that is different than our usual existence.
On this trip, I already know how to operate the washer. I am not surprised that the dryer is simply a clothes rack. I am intrigued, however, with the choice to put the dishwasher in the laundry room. I will do the dishes in the kitchen sink because carrying them back and forth across the house is nonsensical to me. But people make choices for reasons that are logical for their situation and I am just a guest in someone’s home. They are allowing me the privilege of living in their space for a short while.

After unpacking on move in day, I sit and take in the views from the patio. The mountain is spectacular in the afternoon sun. I wonder what the month will bring?
On our last day in the farmhouse, I sit in the same place and breathe in the smell of sweet grass and sheep. This place has become part of me. It feels like home and is rooted in my being. I am attached. This time we picked the right home away from home.
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The Shearing: Travel Goals

When we travel, we prefer to stay local. We found a family farm that was willing to rent us the old homestead for a month. Our host and his father Desi, were wonderful “neighbors” and kept us connected to the community.
So when Desi invited us to the annual sheep shearing, I assumed that it would be an opportunity to take some photos and experience a slice of life far outside my usual routine.


I heard Desi giving commands to his dog Twee before I crossed the road to the field. I called to my husband and headed over to take photos. But Dese waved to me from on top of the hillside and indicated that he needed help. They were trying to move the herd to the shearing pens, but both he and the dog were exhausted.
A small group of acrobatic sheep would not comply. Instead they scattered and balked. The dog was clearly exhausted. Desi didn’t look much better. We were reinforcements.

We walked slowly down the hillside, driving the sheep ahead. Tightening our circle as we walked, we were able to get them into the pens without difficulty. Desi expressed his thanks and Twee jumped into the water to cool off.
We stood talking and waiting for the shearers. I noticed Desi sigh. He pointed back up the steep hill. We missed one. I walked back up, careful to swing wide and behind the sheep hiding in the dense undergrowth. When I got close, I could see there was a newborn lamb.
It was such a pleasure walking the mother and babe down the hill. The reeds looked greener and the sky bluer than humanly possible. The ewe’s bleating was soft and reassuring like a lullaby. Time seemed to stand still.

At the pens, chaos ensued. Sheep jumped on and over each other looking for an exit. The shearers wasted no time setting up shop. They put on their special shoes and grabbed the clippers. Sheep were hauled out and thrown on their back. They were shaved head to toe.
Some sheep fought back. Their twisting and turning caused bloody nicks and cuts. Other older sheep wisely laid completely still and trotted away in their naked indignity.
Thanks for the craic, Desi (and Twee). It was an experience I will not soon forget.

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Origins: Travel Goals

I like to dabble in family history. I have heard and sought out the stories where I could. Scots Irish traders settle in Appalachia and meet Cherokee women. English settlers meet somewhere along the way and mingle in one twisted tree. Some branches dry up as written record and oral traditions meet. I have traced roots to Tennessee and North Georgia Cherokee communities. I have visited graves in the Cotswolds and read records in Antrim, Wexford and Cork.
I have stood on docks and wondered if this is where someone took their last look of home. I walked sections of the trail of tears and wondered what it must be like to be forced from the forests and farms. I have read famine stories and heard of desperate ancestors stowing away on ships bound for America.

Today I stand in the parking lot of the Ulster American Folk Park in Omagh, Northern Ireland. The first thing I see is a bronze sculpture linking the Scots Irish community that immigrated from here to the Cherokee. I am intrigued. I thought I was visiting a living history farm and now I am confronted with my heritage.

The park is well kept and documents the immigration of countless Irish to the U.S.. The park centers around the boyhood home of Andrew Mellon. He grew up in modest means and immigrated with his family to America. There the family became ridiculously wealthy in the banking industry. He is atypical.
Most settler’s stories mirror my own family. Leave Ireland. Find similar land in Appalachia and try to farm. Move west. Try to farm. Find jobs as domestic help and day laborers. Work in mines and on the railroad. Find factory jobs and shop keeping positions. Work hard. Protect the family and educate yourself.

The park does a great job of grounding the immigrant’s experience. I first visit period Irish farms, cabins, churches and town. There is even soda bread fresh from the coals. (Pro tip: Never turn down freshly baked soda bread.) Donkeys beg for attention. Flax fields wave in the breeze. I think I would be content in this older way of life. Possibly hungry, but industrious, grounded and content.

I exit the Irish town through a tunnel that leads me into an infamous coffin ship (there is also a replica of a steamer for comparison). When I leave the ship, I exit directly into a recreation of an American town. I am now in America and the remainder of the park has cabins and farms from the American countryside.
I have visited many country cabins and farm sites in Missouri, Arkansas, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Georgia. This history teacher loves a good living history site. Today I feel just like I am standing in Appalachia, even though I knew I am in Ulster. I could be somewhere in the Smokies by the look and feel of the place.
I am unexpectedly moved by this experience. As far as I know, no one related to me is connected to County Omagh. Yet the story told here could easily be my own family story. Old world meets new. New places, old traditions. Echoes and glimpses of things that stir family memories. Songs, words, smells, and artifacts. Origins. I am humbled. I am connected. I feel lost and found. Ireland is like for me sometimes. Some say memory is past down through generations. Today I feel a resounding echo of places I have never been yet have always known.

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Some Days Are Just Beautiful: Travel Goals

Some days are just beautiful. The sky is unbearably blue. The air is cool but the warmth of the sun kisses your cheeks. A slight breeze teases your skin and all seems well with the world.

It is an impulse stop. I am on my way to a work related training. We are headed north after leaving my daughter’s house in Chicago. I see the sign for the Botanical garden and have to stop. My husband is less enthusiastic, but we try to be gracious to one another. It is clearly something I am excited about.

The parking lot is full. That’s strange as it is a Tuesday morning in May. As we enter, we learn it is a free admission day and the tulips are in bloom. That combination explains the crowds.

Nature never disappoints. Each green leaf and colorful bud generates a burst of endorphins. I breathe deep and wrinkle my nose at the slightly sour smell of mulch. The garden smells of earth and lake water. . . cut grass and sweet nectar.

The people disperse as we walk farther into the garden. A carillon sounds at the hour. Dozens of bells play a happy tune. Under the tower it is quite loud and jarring. From afar, it sounds light and airy. A perfect metaphor for the power of distance and perspective.

We take our time among the tulips. So many colors and variations to take in. The diversity is beautiful. Each plant enhancing the other. My brain struggles to process the beautiful blooms and the riot of color.

Children run and play. Couples take photographs of each other in a sea of plants. Elders stroll arm in arm. A sea of people amidst a sea of flowers. The beauty of the Earth laid out like a blanket.

The flowers are breathtaking and fleeting. But I am drawn to the trees. I touch their sturdy trunks and ground myself. The flashy petals will fall. Summer heat will wilt the fragile plants. But these giant, rooted sentinels will shade and protect. I breathe deep and give thanks for my roots. I am ready to leave the garden, refreshed. Some days are just beautiful.
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Feast or famine

Inequities. The rich get richer and the poor get the scraps. Until the chasm gets so wide the system collapses. It is a tale as old as time. People get richer and over time they lose sight of the labor and infrastructure that supports them. They want more for themselves and take more from those that have little. Scarcities occur, in turn making everyone less willing to share. But it is cooperation that communicates thrive. Conditions for economic success are well documented. But many humans are a suspicious and greedy lot. Many are also exceedingly generous and self-sacrificing.
Strokestown Park and the National Famine Center in Strokestown, Ireland tells the story of starvation and plenty. A grand mansion. Starving tenants. Murder. And mass deportation.

The estate was given to the Mahon family in 1666 and grew over time to 26,000 acres in county Roscommon. A great house was built on the foundations of a ruined castle at the end of the 17th century. Over time, the operation of the estate was turned over to land agents who subdivided plots into smaller and smaller sections making it impossible for tenants to farmers to make a living. It did however increase rents for the land agents and the family in the great house. .. at least in the short term.

The rich got richer and the poor got poorer. Entire families were subsisting on water and potatoes. And then even the potatoes failed. The workers petitioned for reform. Over 3,000 were evicted. The Mahons, realizing that the estate could not support the number of tenants now on the land, offered to pay for the poor to immigrate. Documents reveal this was an economic decision as it was cheaper to deport than provide assistance to people who could not pay rent.

So while life in the big house moved on, 1,600 people prepared to immigrate. While their ticket was paid, the overseer determined that it would be best if the sick and starving tenants walked the 100 miles from Strokestown to Dublin. No need to waste any more money. Once in Dublin, the poor were shuttled to Liverpool to await transport to the America’s. Unaccustomed to city life, the tenants turned immigrants were easy prey. Many lost what little possessions and supplies they had before they ever set foot on the boats secured for crossing the Atlantic.
The ships procured were bare bones and designed for profit. More people meant more money for the captain. Conditions were so bad, they earned the nickname of “coffin ships”. One vessel carrying Strokestown tenants, the Virginius, left the quay with 486 people. Upon arrival in Canada, 158 had died on the crossing. Another 106 were gravely ill with many dying in the months that followed.
With stories of the horrors making its way back home and conditions slow to improve, Strokestown tenants became increasingly agitated. Mahon was murdered as he was returning to the estate sending shockwaves throughout Ireland.
Tragedy abounds in this story. Where should we go for answers? Did the tenants mismanage the land? Were the land agents too greedy and sub-divide the land into plots too small to farm? Did the landowners ignore the estate and fail to turn profits into improvements to benefit the estate and its workers? Did the owners deport inconvenience? Did the ships captains exploit the helpless? Did the government turn a blind eye on a national problem? Did God ignore the cry of the hopeless?
There are no definitive answers at Strokestown….only questions. There are thousands of preserved documents that allow a brief glimpse into a time of despair and turmoil. It is a cautionary tale of what happens when greed and self interest over takes empathy and compassion. The truth is that when everyone has enough, economies are self sustaining. We thrive together. Rampant self interest always leads to societal decline. Perhaps we will never learn.

“The [consistently] righteous man knows and cares for the rights of the poor, but the wicked man has no interest in such knowledge.”
Proverbs 29:7 “For the poor will never cease out of the land; therefore I command you, You shall open wide your hands to your brother, to your needy, and to your poor in your land.”
Deuteronomy 15:11“He who oppresses the poor to get gain for himself and he who gives to the rich–both will surely come to want.”
Proverbs 22:16 -
Arigna: Travel Goals

We arrive at the Arigna mine without preconceived ideas. It is something to do while staying in County Leitrim, Ireland. The woman at check in shows us to an area where we see a brief film that explains the history of the mine which was shut down in the 1990’s. We look at photos and I browse the small gift counter.
Eventually we are taken into a room at the mine opening and asked to put on hard hats. We are the only people on the first tour of the day. Our guide’s name is Michael and he was a former coal miner at the site.

Michael has a shy smile, a miner’s cough, and a thick local accent. He is soft spoken and therefore (to us) often hard to understand. He pauses at the photo of Jesus at the mine entry and blesses himself, telling us it was the first and last thing every miner did upon entering and leaving the mine.
He tells us he left school at fifteen to go underground and that his father had begged him not to. But he hadn’t liked school and the miners seemed larger than life. He wanted to make money and the larger amounts of money went to those who worked the most dangerous and difficult areas of the mine. He volunteered for jobs with increasing risks.

We walk into the shafts. I share that my grandfather had been a lead miner as he shows us the coal car system. He shows us the thin seams of coal and describes how you had to lay on your shoulder in cold water to work the seam and extract the coal. He grows a little pensive as he remembered the dark and the endless dust.
I ask lots of questions as I want to understand his experience. Though he always answers, at times he seems lost in the past and reluctant to talk about the hardships. When I ask if he was in any of the photos of the working mine in the small interpretative center, I finally got a full smile. After we leave the mine, he takes me to his photos and shares the names of his mates between the constant coughs. A light returns to his eyes, ever so briefly. The mine has closed but the memory of friends lives on.