So a few weeks ago my daughter Rhiannon was child labour working underground in the coal mines beneath the West Riding of Yorkshire. That used to be common back in the eighteenth century, when the industrial revolution demanded fuel for steam engines and children cost far less to hire than adults and could crawl into much smaller spaces to harvest narrow underground seams. Rhiannon was one of the unfortunate ones. She was caught in a pit disaster, like dozens of children were in this area alone. She was trapped alive beneath tons of fallen rock and died slowly of starvation and suffocation because there was no way to removing the rubble fast enough. The lucky miner children of the eighteenth century survived long enough to die of blacklung as adults. The mine owner opposed reform laws that would ban children below the age of twelve from working the mines and would limit the hours others could spend below ground. Perhaps that was why Rhiannon’s ghost seemed to call that night, seemed to demand explanation for such wasted life, for children sacrificed for rich men’s greed. It was powerful theatre, and all the more impressive for being devised and performed by a group for fourteen year olds, Rhiannon’s school drama class. It was performed at the National Coal Mining Museum, in front of the government’s Minister for Education and the mayors of various local cities and towns – and me. The performance included music and dance and explored some of the issues of child labour and exploitation that are a grimy part of North England’s industrial heritage. Rhiannon got to play the victim and the ghost, and she managed to be sad and spooky. She also got the last words in the play, singing a gory Victorian nursery rhyme from the days when people knew that any really good children’s nursery rhyme had to be terrifying and about death: Little boy, ate a plum, Cholera bad, kingdom come, Bigger boy, seagull’s nest, Broken rope, eternal rest, Little girl, box of paints, Licked the brush, joined the saints, All the children, hear them squeal, Taken off for Jenkin’s meal. I was impressed by this. It was a very eerie moment, with Rhiannon singing á capello. I was amazed that Rhiannon’s teacher had heard of this very obscure bit of Victoriana and had realised how perfectly and disturbingly it rounded off the performance. Then Rhiannon explained that she had suggested the piece and added it to the drama. I was also intrigued – and a little bit worried – about how she’d learned such a strange bit of trivia. “From you,” she answered. “In your Parodyverse story.” I’d forgotten I’d included it in Premiere #26: Here Comes a Candle. I don’t think I’ve ever even read Premiere #26. Still, it’s good that the PV can be educational. Really. I promised to write a note about the event. Here it is. Well done Rhiannon.

....You're proud to be a Coal Miner's Father?


Sounds like a fine production. Good job Rhiannon!

I'd be more surprised if any white American didn't recognize the Loretta Lynn song.

> So a few weeks ago my daughter Rhiannon was child labour working underground in the coal mines beneath the West Riding of Yorkshire. That used to be common back in the eighteenth century, when the industrial revolution demanded fuel for steam engines and children cost far less to hire than adults and could crawl into much smaller spaces to harvest narrow underground seams. > > Rhiannon was one of the unfortunate ones. She was caught in a pit disaster, like dozens of children were in this area alone. She was trapped alive beneath tons of fallen rock and died slowly of starvation and suffocation because there was no way to removing the rubble fast enough. The lucky miner children of the eighteenth century survived long enough to die of blacklung as adults. > > The mine owner opposed reform laws that would ban children below the age of twelve from working the mines and would limit the hours others could spend below ground. Perhaps that was why Rhiannon’s ghost seemed to call that night, seemed to demand explanation for such wasted life, for children sacrificed for rich men’s greed. > > It was powerful theatre, and all the more impressive for being devised and performed by a group for fourteen year olds, Rhiannon’s school drama class. It was performed at the National Coal Mining Museum, in front of the government’s Minister for Education and the mayors of various local cities and towns – and me. The performance included music and dance and explored some of the issues of child labour and exploitation that are a grimy part of North England’s industrial heritage. > > Rhiannon got to play the victim and the ghost, and she managed to be sad and spooky. She also got the last words in the play, singing a gory Victorian nursery rhyme from the days when people knew that any really good children’s nursery rhyme had to be terrifying and about death: > > Little boy, ate a plum, > Cholera bad, kingdom come, > Bigger boy, seagull’s nest, > Broken rope, eternal rest, > Little girl, box of paints, > Licked the brush, joined the saints, > All the children, hear them squeal, > Taken off for Jenkin’s meal. > > I was impressed by this. It was a very eerie moment, with Rhiannon singing á capello. I was amazed that Rhiannon’s teacher had heard of this very obscure bit of Victoriana and had realised how perfectly and disturbingly it rounded off the performance. Then Rhiannon explained that she had suggested the piece and added it to the drama. > > I was also intrigued – and a little bit worried – about how she’d learned such a strange bit of trivia. “From you,” she answered. “In your Parodyverse story.” I’d forgotten I’d included it in Premiere #26: Here Comes a Candle. I don’t think I’ve ever even read Premiere #26. Still, it’s good that the PV can be educational. Really. > > I promised to write a note about the event. Here it is. Well done Rhiannon. >