Speak to me, please, dear miners.

I’m starting to spend days at the coal mine. Really, it’s a ghost mine. In Carbonia. The Sardinian city in which I’m living.  Thank gawd, the mine’s closed. For decades. The last thing I’d wanna be is a coal miner. Maybe I’d rather be a Republican than a coal miner. That’s how much I’d detest breathing  coal dust. Claustrophobia. Wouldn’t bother me. But no black lung disease for me, please. On a kiosk outside the mine, there’s a big photo of two miners coming up after a hard day’s work. Probably around 1950. Dirty, blackened faces. They look tough and healthy and handsome. At that moment. But I suspect their lungs became as black as their faces. And that they met premature deaths. Mining was a job. In which workers were exploited and knowingly put at health risks. But it was a way to make a living. Carbonia  was a city created from scratch. In the 1930s. By Mussolini. Just for the sake of mining coal. A model modern city. Lacking some of the very old Italian character, unfortunately. But still quaint.  Anyway, I’m enamored by the sprawling mining property. All is quiet. Antiquated  rusted machinery spaced all about. Including the mammoth drills used in the mine. The grounds now resemble a park. Trees. Bushes. Flowers. Metal park benches. Spaced neatly along the paved and stone roads. A museum, too.  And a restorante, bar and pizzeria. Where one can dine outdoors. A little cool now. About 50 degrees Fahrenheit. But the air is clean. Not a trace of coal dust. I wonder if the spirits of  dead miners occasionally come to visit. If so, wish they’d speak to me. About the life of a miner. I’m listening. –Jim Broede