Yet, canaries have become ubiquitous with mining in general and as a figure of speech.Īnd we are your historians for this episode of Dig.Įlizabeth: So we’re doing this animal series at the behest of Marissa. In the grand scheme of things, that’s not a long time at all. They were only used as sentinel animals in British and American coal mines for roughly 100 years. Marissa: Contrary to popular belief, canaries in coal mines do not have a very long history. In the case of coal mining, canaries - or really any small bird - are very susceptible to changes in air quality because of their rate of respiration, anatomy, and small size. Often animals are used as sentinels because they are more susceptible to environmental hazards that humans may be in the same environment. The canary in the coal mine is now a metaphor for something horrible about to happen whether it be a financial crisis, a world health issue, or the whims of fashion.Įlizabeth: Metaphors aside, canaries are a sentinel species, used by humans to detect environmental risks by providing advance warning of a danger. The practice was so commonplace that it’s become a cliche. Like our fictional vignette of a miner carrying a canary into the coal mine, canaries were often taken into mines during the first part of the 20th century to test the air for poisonous gasses. Marissa: The term “canary in a coal mine” is ubiquitous for any early warning signal. Humming with Seymour as he chortles in the small cage you carry him in, you walk towards the end of this tunnel to begin your shift. Picking up Seymour you step out onto the slick ground. You Seymour’s little cage down for a minute and heave the squeaking metal gate aside. That bird will save your life, and the lives of hundreds of others down in these mines.įinally the creaking cage comes to a stop at the bottom of the shaft. But little chirping Seymour is not insignificant. Contemplating such a serious name for such a small, insignificant animal you hum a tune as the steel wire rope lowers your cage further down and down into the depths. Looking down at the small box you are carrying you smile at your little buddy, a small yellow bird named Seymour. This thing will keep you breathing if things go south down there, or if tweety here starts acting kooky. The tubes run along each side of your head, draping over each shoulder and connecting to a big, hard, yellow backpack attached to your shoulders with more straps. There are leather straps with two buckles holding two metal and canvas tubes against your mouth. You chuckle as you think what Millie, your wife, would say if she saw you in this get up. This is just a routine trip for you, checking the air quality before your crewmates head down. You do this descent daily and the innate panic your body’s defense mechanisms should kick on as you plunge into the depths is only a whisper now. Even with this silly breathing tube contraption you’ve got on your face, you can still smell the mine. The dank air feels cool and smells like dirt and wetness. The air gets colder and colder as the light disappears from above and you are plunged into darkness, lit only by a single dim bulb attached to your helmet. Elizabeth: It’s 1926 and you’re in a mine cage, a type of elevator contraption that slowly descends down the shaft of a coal mine.
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