Iron Mountain, Part Two---The Mine puts my experience in perspective

       Today we rode an underground train through the mine here at Iron Mountain. I had riled my kids up about how much fun we were going to have. Indeed, they did have fun. They got to dress up like miners, complete with hard hats, ride a train, and even see bats hibernating. Kimberly said it was the best day she had ever had. I am glad that they thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I am equally glad that they were too young and excited to learn very much.
      
      Here’s what they took away from the experience:
* it’s cold and wet down underground
* riding trains is fun
* the whistle at the mine’s entrance is really loud
* bats are really tiny and cute, furry and cuddly looking, not at all the scary fang-bearing Halloween-like creatures they had envisioned
* it got really dark in the mine when the guide turned the lights off
       
       Here’s what I learned:
       It took the miners four years to drill the first quarter mile of tunnel into the mine. Men worked for ten cents an hour, in three eight hour shifts each day. They had no tools except a rod and big hammers. One guy had to hold the rod parallel to the ground while two other guys took turns pounding it with a hammer. With each blow, the guy holding the rod had to turn it one eighth of a revolution. It reminded me of my husband’s DeWalt hammer-drill.
       There were no mechanical means to remove the rock from the mine, so they used mules to pull cart loads of it out. Iron rocks are very very heavy. A rock the tour-guide pointed out to us, not much bigger than your shoe, weighs over three hundred pounds. I would not want to have one of those drop on my toe. Little boys would go to work in the mine, at the tender age of eleven, guiding the mules in and out. They were paid 7 cents an hour.
        After the first four years of grueling manual drilling, some guy invented a drill that could do in one hour what it took the three man team to do in ten hours. The way they would drill horizontally was that they had to drill that rod four feet deep into the rock, thirteen times, in a circle. Then they stuck dynamite into those holes, and lit it. The drilling with the new drill, plus the blast from the dynamite, caused a lot of smoke. In a mine, there is no air circulation, so it all got breathed in by the miners. They would get sick with this thing called “black lung”, and they would die. Those little boys who led the mules usually died before reaching age fifteen. For seven cents an hour, they gave their lives. By this point in the tour, I was getting physically ill just from hearing this.
The guy who invented this drill realized something had to be done about all the dust it put into the air, so he devised a way to connect a water hose to the drill. Now, instead of dust blowing everywhere, it was ice-cold water. The mine stays between 38 and 43 degrees year round. The cold water from this drill now caused the miners to die from pneumonia instead of black lung. By now, reality starts setting in. This is no joy-ride that I have brought my children on. This is more akin to the sight-seeing buses through the ninth ward after Katrina. I was beginning to feel horrified and ashamed that I had brought my kids to this place as if on some sort of field day.
From this point, we had to continue our tour on foot. I forgot to mention, on the train ride, we all sat sideways, and you couldn’t move, and you had to watch your head. The tunnel is very narrow. It is not for the claustrophobic. Once we reached the quarter mile mark, the tunnel turned 90 degrees and became even more narrow, forcing us to continue on foot. We walked very carefully. The ground is slippery, you have to duck your head in places, and if you are clumsy like me, you quickly become grateful you are wearing one of their tattered yellow raincoats to protect you from scraping against the walls. There is a milky white substance on the walls of the tunnel. I learned that this is calcium.
        After a while, we reached the next “show and tell” part of the tour. It was another type of drill, called the “widow-maker.” It worked in much the same way as the first one, but this one was vertical rather than horizontal. The miner got paid a whopping 13 cents an hour to mine upwards, then blast the ceiling with dynamite. Sometimes a chunk would just land on a toe, and the miner would hobble out. Sometimes a chunk might land on his head, giving him a concussion, and he’d be dragged out by his friends on this metal basket. But quite often, the blast would cause big chunks to crush him to death, thus earning the drill’s nickname. Still, men lined up to sign up for this job. The extra three cents an hour was strong temptation.
       I began to connect some dots at this point in the tour. You see, all around the town of Iron Mountain, there is a jogging trail, with historic landmarks and informative signposts. Earlier, we had visited the location of the mining company’s general store. Iron Mountain was not formed as a town, but as a mining camp. There was very little traffic in and out of town. Everything the miners’ families needed, they had to buy from the general store, which was owned by the mining company. This mining company set both the salaries and the food prices. Sound fair? Well, they were so benevolent that they would sell to the miners’ families on credit. Of course, their tab was paid directly from their salary before their checks were given to them. The result was that these families were imprisoned in this mining life. They could never get out. They could never save enough money to make a headways in life. They had to work in the mines to live, but the mines ultimately killed them anyway. This corrupt system of the mining company controlling both their income and their expenses is what forced mothers to send their little boys to their deaths working in the mines to earn a “living.”
        Another visitor asked the tour guide how many men died in that mine. The answer was that it is unknown, because the house that kept the records was struck by lightning and burned down. Two weeks later, they built a gift shop in its place and started giving tours. All those lives, forgotten. What even their record house failed to record, though, is that the mine didn’t only take the lives of the miners who died in the accidents inside the mine. It also took the lives of the men and boys who died of black lung and pneumonia. It also took the lives of the wives and mothers who had nothing left but to grieve for their loved ones.
       The tour guide blew the whistle. He said that the nearby towns in the surrounding area used to set their clocks by that whistle. It signaled shift change, three times a day. Additionally, if there was an accident, they would blow the whistle, and all the wives would come running from the nearby towns to see who had lost a loved one this time, and to help in any way they could.
       One way the women helped was by making their men lunches that could easily be carried into the mine. They baked meat pies in ovens. These meat pies are called pasties, pronounced pass tees. They can have beef or pork in them, and usually rutabaga and potato. The miners would heat them up on the same coals that they used to keep their dynamite dry. We went to the most notable pasty shop in the area, called “The Pasty Oven.” We bought one of each flavor pasty. We were eager to experience local cuisine, especially something with so much history. Each one we tasted was incredibly nasty. Each one was nastier than the last. You just cannot fathom the sacrifices made by these poor miners. Not only did they give their lives trying to earn a “living”, but the little life they were able to live was ruined by this horrible cuisine! The locals still eat them. I’m not sure why. I can only imagine they eat them as a sacrifice out of reverence for their ancestors. And when I say “ancestors”, we are not speaking of something that far removed. This mine was functional until 1945. Then the price of iron ore dropped by about half, so they shut it down.
        Even with the mine shut down, I believe it’s legacy lives on. Let’s face it, something this horrific cannot go away without leaving its mark. I see clearly the mark it left on the residents of Iron Mountain. In preparation of visiting the mine, we made a quick trip to the local Goodwill store, which proved to be by far the busiest place in town. Each week they have a sale. They tell you the color of the week, and you have to search through the racks to find clothes with that color tag. Then you pay only 99 cents for each item, if it’s the right color tag. I was amazed that I could buy sweaters for the whole family for six bucks. But the lady in line behind me said “Well, we usually shop at such and such place, down the street, because they are cheaper than here.” Cheaper than Goodwill? A little internet investigation explains the need. According to city data.com, ten percent live in poverty, the median family income is about 35K, with the median per capita being 21K.  
                                         http://www.city-data.com/city/Iron-Mountain-Michigan.html#top
        Iron Mountain is even poorer than most of the rest of Michigan. I found a house for sale in town for just 12,000 dollars. There are a lot for sale in the 20’s, and the nicest ones sell in the 50’s. And we’re talking incredible picturesque views, nearly anywhere in town! Why is the town poor? How many of those mining families are still here? A picture begins to form.
The other day, we were visiting a neighborhood park, and an old lady commented on my accent. I confessed I was from out of town, and she inquired as to my business here. I answered that my husband was working with the company remodeling their local Wal-Mart. Her face soured, and she retorted something about how construction jobs are not rocket science, and she doesn’t see why they have to ship in outsiders to do a job like that when so many locals are unemployed.
         Take the history of this poor mining town, and add to it the present recession, and I am beginning to understand why the housekeepers turned on me. I’m beginning to understand that it might indeed have something to do with my husband’s extravagant purchase after all. Their family slaved away for generations in a mine that invariably killed them off and left them penniless, and here come outsiders to make money on a job they feel should have been given to locals, and the outsiders go spending money like it’s water, and it is understandable how it might seem like a slap in the face. Maybe I’m just digging for an excuse for their behavior towards me. Or maybe there really is something to it. I prefer to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I cannot find it within me to feel any harshness towards the people of this town, regardless of their treatment of me, after I have learned all that their families have been through. After all, history is not just something written in a book. It is the true stories of men and women that have lived here, and have left family behind. This is why we should study history. It puts our own experiences in an entirely different perspective.