My wife and I stayed up late last night – she, later than I – watching developments in West Virginia on the news of the trapped miners. We were amazed and pleased to hear the reports that twelve had been found alive. It truly sounded miraculous. I was most impressed with the woman whose uncle was believed to be the only one who’d perished. She was surprisingly calm and articulate given the situation, not distraught, and she seemed genuine in her happiness for her neighbors whose loved ones were reportedly safe.
As a reporter, I was a bit curious why there were no reports from officials at the scene. Everything seemed to be happy relatives, which makes for emotional television news, but is hardly authoritative. Rather than voice my questions at the television, I decided to go to bed. My wife stayed up, hoping to witness the promised march of all the survivors into that little church. She picked my book up off my chest, waking me somewhere around 2:30, and we went to sleep.
On the train this morning she called me with the awful news: all but one of the miners were dead; the lone survivor was in critical condition. The information that had been relayed from the command center had been tragically incorrect. Rumor had spread like wildfire, igniting every tender hope in that West Virginia community, and spreading through the television to the hearts of viewers. Now, my heart aches for those people whose emotions were so terribly torn asunder after hours – indeed, days – of agony. I can only imagine the pall that has fallen over that area.
