
Coal miner’s wife and three of their children. Company house in Pursglove, Scotts Run, West Virginia, September 1938
The company house squatted there in Pursglove, a gray testament to the miner’s borrowed existence. Four souls dwelled within its weathered walls – a miner’s wife and three young’uns, their faces etched with the coal dust that seeped into every crease of Scotts Run. September’s wan light did little to soften the hard edges of their lives.
The woman’s eyes, deep-set and weary, held the weight of a thousand descents into darkness, though she herself had never set foot in the mines. Her children played in the shadow of the tipple, their laughter a defiant song against the constant rumble of coal cars and the distant cough of men coming up from the earth.
They were of the land, yet the land was not theirs – their lives mortgaged to the company store, their futures stamped with the indelible mark of coal. In Pursglove, in all of West Virginia, the seams of coal ran deeper than blood, binding families to the earth with chains of debt and duty.
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