John L. Lewis, Jesus, and President Bush

Abstract

TWO PICTURES always hung side by side in my parents' house. One was rather unsettling blue-eyed, blond-haired Jesus. Thorns pierced his forehead, and his outstretched arms revealed holes in his palms. Still, even with oozing blood, he looked like a kind and peaceful man. My father told me Jesus watched us all time. I thought that was Santa's job, but I was young and unschooled in ways of world. In sharp contrast to this serene figure was rough-looking, cigar- chomping, wild-eyed man in picture hanging next to him. My father had carefully cut photograph out of a Look magazine, placed it in a dime-store frame, and hung it in this place of reverence. The man's name was John L. Lewis, and he saved my father's life. My father was a lucky man. I knew his lucky story by heart long before I could read. Years before I was even a glint in his eye -- as he liked to say -- my father had been in a terrible accident. He was digging coal deep in Number 5 mine when somewhere down line a spark ignited methane gas. The resulting explosion brought mountain down. When my father came to, he found himself wedged between a derailed coal car and shaft's hard rock wall. It took rescue crew more than 30 hours to dig through tons of dirt, broken timbers, and loose rocks and pull car off his chest. He had several broken bones and his ribs were crushed, but he was alive. The crew put him on a stretcher and made their way out of mine. At entrance, they handed him off to waiting miners, who rushed him to the butcher shop, where coal company's doctor patched him up. Once I told my father that he didn't seem lucky to me. Well, Little Girl, he said, some of boys never came out. For a long time I thought John L. Lewis himself had carried my father out of that mine and to safety. Later, my father explained that John L. Lewis saved thousands of miners, but not by digging them out of collapsing tunnels. He saved them by using muscle of United Mine Workers of America. My father was a spellbinding storyteller. I loved his war stories about union and begged him to tell them over and over. With each telling, his words added texture to already rich images. In time I could feel coal companies' abuses, gun thugs' brutality, and miners' raw fear. Being a union man was dangerous business in those days. I knew danger so well that I could close my eyes and see scenes my father painted. I could see him and boys in a mule-drawn wagon moving slowly down twisting, narrow roads on their way to another clandestine meeting. they were found out, there would be consequences. Each boy held a rifle or shotgun; several rested their hands uneasily on pistols tucked in their overalls. My father's long legs dangled over back of wagon. His rifle butt was balanced upright against his thigh; his index finger rested on trigger. He was prepared for worst. As they rode, boys watched for signs of movement in cornfields, overhanging branches, and thickets along road. Often a sharp turn created a blind spot in road where company's gun thugs liked to wait for union men. Less cautious men than my father had paid price for their lack of due diligence. Before entering curve, wagon slowed almost to a stop. The lookout jumped off wagon and ran ahead. The rest of boys waited anxiously for all-clear whistle -- or signal to get their guns ready. Which Side Are You On? was more than an organizing song; it was a description of my father's adolescent and young adult life. He told me, If you was on wrong side, you might not come out of mine in mornin'. I was in college when I realized full weight of those words. My father and boys had reasons to wage war against mine owners and private detectives they hired to keep union down. …