When It’s Time

My grandfather Raymond Miner would share stories of things that happened when he worked in the coal mines of Southwestern Pennsylvania. One of the stories he shared was while we were watching television. The news story was about an airliner that had a door pop open during a flight over Hawaii and a stewardess was sucked out and killed. She was the only person that was harmed during the incident.

He said, “When it’s your time, it’s your time. We started to dig a new mine shaft and were still close to the surface. Normally we worked underground, but were always willing to leave the darkness and go outdoors to eat our food in the fresh air when we could.

“This day we gathered outside of the mine entrance picking spots to sit and eat. I‘d just opened my lunch bucket when one of the other miners cocked his head to the side as if someone had called his name. He laid aside his sandwich and walked back into the mine. He barely stepped inside when the ceiling of the mine collapsed. The debris and rubble buried him. It was as though God had called his name, told him to come into the mine, and then drew him home.”

Most of the veins of bituminous coal in Southwestern Pennsylvania are not very thick and even though my granddad was a short statured man, he either had to stoop or crawl through the mine to swing his pick and loosen the coal. Once the coal was freed, he would shovel it out, loading it into the mine carts that would haul to coal to the surface.

He worked the night shift with my uncle Dale. What I didn’t know until after my granddad and my uncle both had died was that my uncle was lazy. He often slept during the night and my grandfather had to do the work of picking, shoveling, and loading the coal for two people.

Granddad’s labors didn’t end at the end of his shift at the mine. He worked on his farm during the daytime hours, catching sleep whenever he could between chores. He worked to provide for his wife Rebecca and his eight children: Rachel, Violet, Cora, Ina, Sybil, Cosey, Dale, and Theodore. He had little time to rest, but loved my grandmother and his children so much, I don’t think he minded. I imagine my uncle didn’t take the time to help Granddad on the farm either.

When the time came for my grandfather to end his time on Earth, he was seventy-six years old, diagnosed with hardening of the arteries, but I think that he died because he was worn out from burning the candle at both ends, working in the mines, and on the farm. Although my grandfather was a man short with a quiet nature, he stood tall in my eyes.