April Fools

Growing up, April 1 was, for us at least, less about "April Fools" and more about Mitchell Day. You see, my Dad, my uncles and my Grandpap all were coal miners, and April 1, for them, celebrated the beginning of the eight hour work day. 

Now, I know for some folks that may seem silly, but eight was far preferred over the ten, twelve, or even more hours that my grandpa had worked. John Mitchell was the head of the United Mine Workers in a day when robber barons and rich mine operators had a stranglehold on the men and who worked for them. Each man contracted individually, according the their needs as decided upon by an often shrewd mine operator. All workers were required to rent a house from the mine operator, buy their coal for home heating, their tools and powder and calcium carbide, even their food and clothing from the "company store." Further, they weren't even paid in "U.S. Currency", but in a "company scrip" which was only good at the company store. If you wanted "real" dollars, the exchange rate was prohibitive. Just ask Tennessee Ernie Ford.*

Often single men working the mines would pool their resources and all live together in one house, sharing the heating and food and chores. Leaving their "own" rented houses empty and donating their required minimum coal and food purchases to large or needy families whose father was also working the mine. It was a brutal line of work, but the living conditions enforced by many of the mine operators was generally inhuman.

Now, I supposed there is no point in discussing the extreme oscillations of power between management and labor. I have been on both sides of that particular equation, and eschew any extreme. I generally believe in Ol' Tom Paine, and the Rights of Man being a decent place to start.

At any rate, growing up, Dad always had Mitchell Day off. Now since he changed shifts weekly, his time off might vary as to the time of day. One year, he was on second shift which meant he went in around 2 in the afternoon and didn't come home until after midnight. Since my brother and I were in school during those hours, we didn't see him until the weekend or a rare holiday like this.

I don't recall how, or even really why, but this particular year we came up with a brilliant idea to "April Fool" our Dad. We filled an old galvanized steel bucket with corn and perched it precariously on a rafter in the barn with a rope made of braided baler twine attached down to the door. Did I mention we were brilliant?

At any rate, we went off to school confident that we would trick our Dad and, when we came home, hilarity would ensue. I guess I didn't mention, but I was maybe nine, and my brother around six years old.

All day I watched the clock. I could hardly concentrate. It was going to be sooooo funny. Around 2:30, I was called to the office. Not unusual for me, but never really a good sign.

I gathered up my books, and slowly trudged down the hallway trying to figure which particular offense I had been caught at this time. Reaching the office, I saw my brother and my Mom, both with a worried face. My principal asked me if I had anything I needed to say. They always said that, and I knew better than to incriminate myself, besides, I was truly puzzled this time. The clocked ticked and my face reddened. My brother started to shake in a silent sob.

Finally my Mom said we had to go to see my Dad in the hospital because a large can had split his head open when he came home from work.

I was choking back tears as Mom signed the papers to get me out early. We got in the car and she headed toward our house. She kept glaring at me and said we needed to drop off our books.

When we got home Mom rushed us as we needed to get to the hospital in a hurry, it was bad.

Coming in the back door, I saw my Dad sitting at the kitchen table. He was grinning as he said, "Who's the April Fool now?"

That's why, despite never having a day as short as eight hours in my life, I still prefer to celebrate Mitchell Day.

Thanks for Listening,

Dave