We, who grew up in the mountains and valleys of Carbon County, are the descendants of a remarkable generation of humanity. The name "Carbon" bestowed on the inhabitants who call it home a new spirit, an unseen metamorphosis of the dark nature of its treasured ore—coal.

The right of passage for those of us who raised a family and earned a wage here was to harvest the yield of its bounty. Young men whose character and durability were forged by sweat and sacrifice fostered it, and like the nature of the black diamonds they mined, they lived their lives mostly in darkness. As with most mornings, the birth of a new day heralded itself with a dim glow on the eastern horizon, but for the husbands, fathers and sons of Carbon County's humble hamlets there was little time to enjoy the warmth of its radiance.

The "gathering" was a tradition of work etiquette, a designated place where the shift crews would meet before making their journey to the portals of prosperity lying beneath them. If weather permitted, some would walk, blazing through the same trails where they hunted together, picked wild berries or just communed with the sentinels of white birch, ever attending to the faint verdant hues that the subtle dawn light would reveal to them. For others, the comfort and camaraderie of a Detroit sedan offered a few moments of relaxation before descending to the crouching damp confines of the dark seams in the fabric of rock they were about unearth.

The work of the day was eclipsed by the darkness of a world without contrast—black walls of anthracite set against the blackness of their workspace. It is in this place that they enjoyed the repast prepared by the loving hands of a wife, a sister, or a mother. There, amidst air laden with the dust of their labor and the aroma of sweat seething through their pores, they found hope and promise for their children, their families and the future.

They knew that through their labor their family could rise above the ground they worked beneath. It was their selfless sacrifice that would make possible a stronger and determined generation filled with promise and hope.

When the workday was done and the day's light fading, cleansing in the wash shanty was a means for reclaiming the human condition. They emerged from the bowels of the earth and removed the black bile.

The walk or the drive home was an experience of joy and anticipation—joy because they were coming home and anticipation because of where they were. The darkness of their morning, the darkness of their day, and the darkness of their return did not extinguish the light of their hearts.

When I think about today, and how we complain about traffic jams and travel delays; when I think about the discourtesy with which people harangue each other for trivial offenses; when I think how ugly things get in our world, I think about my grandfather and what he did for his children and me. We are the stewards of remarkable selflessness.

We are the children of coal, the Children Of Anthracite Legacy—C.O.A.L. It is in our legacy of love and sacrifice that I consider myself not only fortunate, but also privileged to have had a part. I celebrate a proud heritage of Carbon County legacy, and if someone calls me a coal cracker kid—well, that is an accolade that requires a profound Thank You; as I remember how someone labored to make me who I am today.

Tom McCall