His brothers, too. His father and his uncles. When young, they "shucked" coal. Which is, they manually separated the shale from the coal, picking the rock from moving conveyor belts that would eat them as easily as it ate the guts of the mountain. Great-grandma was married three times, lost 'em all to the mines. One was injured on the job but died at home, so the company said his widow got zip, since he didn't die on the job. She had to remarry, all she had was company script, company home, company store, hungry children, and a hungry stove.

Those kids are my kin. In my blood. Is it any wonder I can only spend a couple o' hours underground before I need sky? That I have a fondness for places I can see a horizon?

When I say grace, or what passes for it, I see this picture. I recall what they went through, what my parents went through, to provide the basis for what I've been through. Which is fucking nothing in comparison. And then I try to imagine where the food on my plate came from. I wonder about all the hardworking people who participated in provisioning my table. Truckers and packers, pickers and butchers, stockers and cashiers... Yeah, I also think about managers, accountants, CEOs and stockholders.

I'm doing okay. I owe it to those kids with the gloves in their hands. It humbles me.