Editorially speaking…
Coincidental to my reading a great book, Last Man Out, the story of the Springhill Mine disaster of 1958, there was a news story in the Times Colonist about Indian construction workers trapped in a collapsed tunnel.
Their rescue with modern mining equipment took two weeks but all were saved and, it appears, were in good health and spirits.
What a contrast to the Cape Breton coal miners of 40 years ago who were the dozen survivors of 90 caught in the “bump” that collapsed much of the world’s deepest coal mine in 1958.
The No. 2 Mine, Springhill, N.S., scene of one of Canada’s worst colliery disasters in 1958. —www.pinterest.com
Yes, the Indian tunnel workers were trapped for two weeks—but they never missed a meal. They had light, food and water all through their ordeal, which I don’t wish to downplay. I’m making the point that, throughout their imprisonment, surface and rescue workers were able to communicate with them and feed them through air pipes which somehow hadn’t been severed when the tunnel in which they were working collapsed.
The Springhill miners survived nine days and eight nights without food, without water, without, after their batteries died, light. And without contact with rescuers who didn’t even know they’d survived, amid the corpses of their more unfortunate coworkers who’d been killed outright.
They were the focus of world-wide attention thanks to a new innovation in communications: live television broadcasts. (Some of them later appeared on the popular Ed Sullivan Show.) Their ultimate rescue has been termed a miracle.
I’m simply comparing the two events: tunnel workers trapped for two weeks with the stress of wondering if they’d eventually be rescued, but with, shall we say, most of the comforts of home.
As opposed to the Springhill miners who, although convinced that rescuers had given up looking for them and had turned to recovering bodies, continued to hold hope to the end.
Most of them, as it turned out, never got over the experience, some physically, all of them mentally.
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The Victoria Parliament Buildings, home to the British Columbia Legislature, has new signage acknowledging the site’s Indigenous roots.
Long before the Parliament Buildings, Fort Victoria was the legislative capital of Vancouver Island, and later, mainland B.C. —Author’s Collection
When the Hudson’s Bay Co. built Fort Victoria in 1843, most of the local Lekwungen people lived at Cordova Bay but resettled on the west shore of the Inner Harbour to be nearer the trade action. They ultimately were relocated to Esquimalt through negotiation and, if truth be known, some coercion on the part of the provincial government of the day.
Recently, a series of Indigenous language signs bearing seven messages “about ancestors, warrior, settlers and children” were installed at the Parliament Building’s stone sidewalk perimeter.
On behalf of the NDP government, Legislative Speaker Raj Chouhan apologized for the colonial abuses of the past and explaining that the signs are intended to “make sure this building” becomes more welcoming and inclusive.
“This is a great honouring day,” Hereditary Chief Edward Thomas Sr. told the Times Colonist, “to unveil a piece of who we are as Lekwungen speaking people. It’s a long time coming.”
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There’s a new book out on the famous CPR coastal steamship, Princess Maquinna. The book’s title aptly described this grand old lady: The Best Loved Boat.
As indeed she was for the length of her 40-year-long career.
(It should be noted that she was the first CPR ship to bear an Indigenous name.)
In my years of researching west coast history I’ve seen her name in old newspaper accounts 100’s of times. Before roads to the Island’s westernmost communities, it was the Princess ships that delivered people, goods and equipment to communities and industrial sites.
And, despite their slow pace, served sometimes as ambulances and seagoing hospitals.
The CPR steamships and the equally famous Union boats are all gone now but they continue to live in aging memories, in archival records, old newspaper accounts, in books, photos and E.J. Hughes paintings.
How sad that this grand old lady of the sea ended her days, cut down as a barge. How great that she continues to ‘live’ in print.