My mother’s father was a coal miner—a hard-drinking man with rough hands who laughed easily and loved children. Mining was hard work, and sometimes dangerous, but it paid a fair wage. That was something a man with little education and a growing family in rural West Virginia could appreciate. His daddy farmed to feed his family; now that same land would give provision in a different way.
For my grandfather, this land where I now live was about more than making a living. It was a way of life. A way of life that has been slowly seeping away.
I'm writing over at The High Calling today. Will you join me over there?