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Lightening Lane's Last Day
Lightening Lane's Last Day
By Mike Ely
Lightening Lane was one of the only Black foremen at the mine. And in the 1970s that was rare in that industry. For decades there had been sharp divisions in those few mines -- like U.S Steel, or Eastern Associated or Eckmann -- that even hired Black men.
The Black workers made less money, and in a crudely racist fashion they were considered unfit for the skilled jobs or foremen's positions. Black workers at my mine largely worked as motormen, running the long chains of coal cars out of the mine to the tipple, outside where the coal was dumped onto the railroad. And white workers largely worked at the face of the mine -- deep in the tunnels where the coal was clawed out and loaded onto conveyor belts. And all the most privileged jobs -- like setting up water pumps, or maintaining the air fans, or machining replacement parts for the worn equipment were the reserve of white workers who guarded their skills jealously.
And so it was, undoubtedly, the breaking of a barrier for Lightening Lane to make his foreman's papers and be put in charge of a crew of men. And it was undoubtedly the breaking of a barrier for those white guys to take their orders from a Black man -- who was not given to polite talk and deference. And in those days many such barriers were being broken, and such divisions were breaking down. And today, I guess, in the aftershock of Obama's victory, we are all reminded how much the breaking of such barriers have meant to Black people in their long climb out of slavery.
But for all that, I have to add that Lightening Lane was a royal *******. I mean really.
He was hated by many of the men, and for good reason.
Lightening was a hardcore slave-driver, whose every thought seemed to be about running more coal in every available minute. He didn't give a **** about anything else. Every day he talked about which section had run the most coal, and which were having problems running coal, and how much coal he expected you to run for him. He may have broken a barrier, and it may have had larger meaning. But Lightening Lane was not about breaking barriers -- he was about himself and coal. Always, more coal, ground up, glistening black under our passing lights, moist, heaped under the low mine roof in the small rail cars. Always one car filled, moving on and yanking up the next, clanking, empty car to be filled.
Rising water, bad air, breakdowns, rest, injury, dust, crumbling top… none of that mattered to Lightening--and he told you so to your face.
He was known for never stopping to eat, grabbing a sandwich in a mud caked hand, as he moved around the section checking on the men at work. Like other foremen of that type, he lurched through the mine at a half run, leaning forward on a long-handled mine hammer, looking a lot like Groucho Marx in Duck Soup. And all this was intended, of course, as theatrics for pushing production -- because he wanted you too to move at a run, and cut short your own lunch and run more coal.
To squeeze out all the coal he could, Lightening would keep his men at the coal face -- working to the last second. So leaving late every day, his crew would always be racing for the outside -- ten miles from the working face to the daylight of the portal -- iron wheels skimming and clattering along the rails. It was reckless, but after all, Lightening didn't want to pay any overtime either.
Basic safety rules require that a mantrip stop at forks in the tracks, whenever switches need to be thrown. But Lightening had a different method, he would jump out of his crew's rolling vehicle, and dash ahead to the switch, throw it, and then take a flying jump into the still-rolling car -- not a second to lose. It was a dangerous trick -- if your timing was off, the passing car could catch the switch wrong, and the switch controller could jerk back violently, shattering your arm.
And anyway, one day, Lightening's crew was running late as usual. Their helmet lights flashed wildly against the tunnel walls as their man-car rattled toward the outside. As they came to the fork, Lightening jumped out as usual and ran ahead to the switch. But this time his boot caught on one of the railroad ties and he pitched forward, falling hard, with his head landing on the rail itself -- all just as the mantrip rolled up on him and crushed his skull between metal wheel and metal rail. It was all over in a second.
Outside the second shift was gathering on a beautiful day. I was standing with everyone else, lined up alongside our man-cars, waiting for that long ride into the cool darkness. Most of us were just chewing, and spitting, and catching some last moments of sunlight on our faces.
Start time passed. Something was holding us up -- maybe a derailment or rockfall on the main line. That last man car hadn't arrived. And our shift couldn't go in until it did.
And then it rolled out slowly from the mine's driftmouth, past the machinery barn, through the fragrent stacks of sawed pine timbers, towards us. Slowly. And we all just sensed something was very wrong. They pulled into a parallel track, with a man's body wrapped in a piece of white canvas.
And ambulance screamed up the hill. As we watched Lightening lifted gently into the back, some of the men quietly started pouring out their water -- which is always the symbol of going home. Once your water is poured out, you can't go in to work.
In a wildcat strike, the miners pour out their water as a way of voting. A few pour out their water, and then more, until it is clear that all of us are walking out.
But this day, there was no question where we were going -- after a fatality, we don't work. Each shift stays home for twenty four hours. It is just what miners do. It is part mourning. It is part protest.. It is certainly tradition. It is also that it is very hard on your heart and your nerve to roll into that mine when they just brought out a dead man who you knew.
And as we started to step away from the mantrips and head back to the bathhouse, suddenly the mine superintendent Showwater burst out of his office, slamming the door and running across the timberyard towards us. His tie flapped over his shoulder, his shiny hardhat gleaming white in the sun.
As he arrived near us, he jumped on a pile of railroad ties to speak.
"Where are you going?" he shouted. His thoughts were on lost coal production and his next call to Boston.
"Lightening's dead," someone answered simply. "We're going back to the house."
"But he was one of ours," Showwater shouted, "not one of yours."
Everyone paused, taking in the thought. One of my friends, Stan, turned his face to Showwater and said simply, "That just shows the difference between you and us. For us, a man died here today."
We took our showers in silence, and drove down off the hill and dispersed into the surrounding coal camps.
__________________________________________
Mike Ely is with the Kasama Project (http://kasamaproject.org) where many of his other writings appear.
________________________________
Communist revolution changes everything.
By Mike Ely
Lightening Lane was one of the only Black foremen at the mine. And in the 1970s that was rare in that industry. For decades there had been sharp divisions in those few mines -- like U.S Steel, or Eastern Associated or Eckmann -- that even hired Black men.
The Black workers made less money, and in a crudely racist fashion they were considered unfit for the skilled jobs or foremen's positions. Black workers at my mine largely worked as motormen, running the long chains of coal cars out of the mine to the tipple, outside where the coal was dumped onto the railroad. And white workers largely worked at the face of the mine -- deep in the tunnels where the coal was clawed out and loaded onto conveyor belts. And all the most privileged jobs -- like setting up water pumps, or maintaining the air fans, or machining replacement parts for the worn equipment were the reserve of white workers who guarded their skills jealously.
And so it was, undoubtedly, the breaking of a barrier for Lightening Lane to make his foreman's papers and be put in charge of a crew of men. And it was undoubtedly the breaking of a barrier for those white guys to take their orders from a Black man -- who was not given to polite talk and deference. And in those days many such barriers were being broken, and such divisions were breaking down. And today, I guess, in the aftershock of Obama's victory, we are all reminded how much the breaking of such barriers have meant to Black people in their long climb out of slavery.
But for all that, I have to add that Lightening Lane was a royal *******. I mean really.
He was hated by many of the men, and for good reason.
Lightening was a hardcore slave-driver, whose every thought seemed to be about running more coal in every available minute. He didn't give a **** about anything else. Every day he talked about which section had run the most coal, and which were having problems running coal, and how much coal he expected you to run for him. He may have broken a barrier, and it may have had larger meaning. But Lightening Lane was not about breaking barriers -- he was about himself and coal. Always, more coal, ground up, glistening black under our passing lights, moist, heaped under the low mine roof in the small rail cars. Always one car filled, moving on and yanking up the next, clanking, empty car to be filled.
Rising water, bad air, breakdowns, rest, injury, dust, crumbling top… none of that mattered to Lightening--and he told you so to your face.
He was known for never stopping to eat, grabbing a sandwich in a mud caked hand, as he moved around the section checking on the men at work. Like other foremen of that type, he lurched through the mine at a half run, leaning forward on a long-handled mine hammer, looking a lot like Groucho Marx in Duck Soup. And all this was intended, of course, as theatrics for pushing production -- because he wanted you too to move at a run, and cut short your own lunch and run more coal.
To squeeze out all the coal he could, Lightening would keep his men at the coal face -- working to the last second. So leaving late every day, his crew would always be racing for the outside -- ten miles from the working face to the daylight of the portal -- iron wheels skimming and clattering along the rails. It was reckless, but after all, Lightening didn't want to pay any overtime either.
Basic safety rules require that a mantrip stop at forks in the tracks, whenever switches need to be thrown. But Lightening had a different method, he would jump out of his crew's rolling vehicle, and dash ahead to the switch, throw it, and then take a flying jump into the still-rolling car -- not a second to lose. It was a dangerous trick -- if your timing was off, the passing car could catch the switch wrong, and the switch controller could jerk back violently, shattering your arm.
And anyway, one day, Lightening's crew was running late as usual. Their helmet lights flashed wildly against the tunnel walls as their man-car rattled toward the outside. As they came to the fork, Lightening jumped out as usual and ran ahead to the switch. But this time his boot caught on one of the railroad ties and he pitched forward, falling hard, with his head landing on the rail itself -- all just as the mantrip rolled up on him and crushed his skull between metal wheel and metal rail. It was all over in a second.
Outside the second shift was gathering on a beautiful day. I was standing with everyone else, lined up alongside our man-cars, waiting for that long ride into the cool darkness. Most of us were just chewing, and spitting, and catching some last moments of sunlight on our faces.
Start time passed. Something was holding us up -- maybe a derailment or rockfall on the main line. That last man car hadn't arrived. And our shift couldn't go in until it did.
And then it rolled out slowly from the mine's driftmouth, past the machinery barn, through the fragrent stacks of sawed pine timbers, towards us. Slowly. And we all just sensed something was very wrong. They pulled into a parallel track, with a man's body wrapped in a piece of white canvas.
And ambulance screamed up the hill. As we watched Lightening lifted gently into the back, some of the men quietly started pouring out their water -- which is always the symbol of going home. Once your water is poured out, you can't go in to work.
In a wildcat strike, the miners pour out their water as a way of voting. A few pour out their water, and then more, until it is clear that all of us are walking out.
But this day, there was no question where we were going -- after a fatality, we don't work. Each shift stays home for twenty four hours. It is just what miners do. It is part mourning. It is part protest.. It is certainly tradition. It is also that it is very hard on your heart and your nerve to roll into that mine when they just brought out a dead man who you knew.
And as we started to step away from the mantrips and head back to the bathhouse, suddenly the mine superintendent Showwater burst out of his office, slamming the door and running across the timberyard towards us. His tie flapped over his shoulder, his shiny hardhat gleaming white in the sun.
As he arrived near us, he jumped on a pile of railroad ties to speak.
"Where are you going?" he shouted. His thoughts were on lost coal production and his next call to Boston.
"Lightening's dead," someone answered simply. "We're going back to the house."
"But he was one of ours," Showwater shouted, "not one of yours."
Everyone paused, taking in the thought. One of my friends, Stan, turned his face to Showwater and said simply, "That just shows the difference between you and us. For us, a man died here today."
We took our showers in silence, and drove down off the hill and dispersed into the surrounding coal camps.
__________________________________________
Mike Ely is with the Kasama Project (http://kasamaproject.org) where many of his other writings appear.
________________________________
Communist revolution changes everything.
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