Have you ever had the feeling you were not alone as you stood in an empty, silent room? Did you ever see a shadow moving in the dark, moving so quickly and disappearing so completely that you questioned if it was ever there at all? I’ve had these experiences in Ludlow, Colorado at the monument dedicated to the Ludlow Massacre, a scarcely remembered incident in American history that changed the lives of American miners forever. I’ve had these experiences as I stood beneath the monument itself in a dark, damp cellar that once held frightened women and children huddled together in fear as a battle raged on above their heads. The women and children died in this cellar, but some part of them remains. Not just the feeling of dread they felt when they knew they were about to die. No, there is so much more in this place. There is also the feeling of hope, the feeling that perhaps, through their sacrifice, others might live.  

Near the Colorado border with New Mexico, just off I-25, is a Point of Interest marker that most drivers pass without a second glance. I am one of the few who cannot drive on without stopping to pay my respects to the men, women and children who sacrificed their lives to make life better for others. It is a lonely, yet lovely place, once haunted by the sound of the wind and the clanging of a nearby railroad sign. They’ve fixed the sign, but the wind still howls, mourning the lives lost in the horrific battle of April 20th, 1914. The battle took place in a tent camp where miners and their families stood side by side in protest against the oppressive and dangerous working and living conditions forced upon them by Rockefeller’s Colorado Fuel and Iron Company, one of many mines employing young children, forcing families into eternal debt with the company store, and demanding that employees work with little or no safety precautions. The frustration and anger of these miners was fueled by union organizers who traveled from camp to camp, inspiring workers to stand in masse against mine owners who valued their donkeys more than the men and children who worked as slaves in the dark pits worming their way through the mountains.

The battle took place in a small valley near a railroad track where the miners had pitched their tents. The fight raged on for fourteen hours while the women huddled in cellars dug out of the ground to shelter them during the fight. A small number of men and boys were killed during the initial gun battle, then a train passed by and the miners ran for cover behind its slow-moving cars. The state militia, who were called upon to handle the situation by the governor, took advantage of their temporary abandonment of the tents and set the tents on fire. Two women and eleven children suffocated in a cellar beneath one of the tents. The deaths were later blamed on the owner of the mine, John D. Rockefeller Jr., who steadfastly denied knowledge of any wrongdoings at the mining camp, but eventually accepted full responsibility for the incident and spent the rest of his life trying to redress the situation.

The first time I stopped at the Ludlow monument I was a young mother with two children. I was running from an abusive relationship, beaten, heartbroken, battered and bruised. As my children slept in the car, I stared up at the marble statues of the proud miner, his worried wife, and the frightened child she sheltered in her arms. When I reached my destination, I researched the massacre at the local library. Instead of making me sad, the story of these strong, determined people gave me strength. A few years later I returned to the monument with a friend. We strolled about the grounds, listening to the wind, admiring the detailed work of the sculptor and speaking in whispers of this brief moment in history that meant so much to so many. Then we found the cellar. It is unmarked and covered with a heavy, metal door. We slowly descended into the darkness using a small flashlight as a guide. The feeling of dread was immediate and overwhelming and I started to cry. I turned to look for the stairs…and that was when the shadows seemed to move. Just for a moment. Just long enough to catch my eye. We scrambled up the stairs and ran for our car. We didn’t speak until we were well into New Mexico, and even then, we didn’t speak of the shadows. Not ever.  

I once wrote a juvenile horror story about the Ludlow Massacre and it was published in the Midnight Lullabies anthology now available through Amazon. All proceeds for the book are donated to Doctors Without Borders, which seems appropriate to me somehow. The story is called “Blood on the Sangre de Christos,” and although I am proud of the story, it still falls short of capturing the dread, horror, and, oddly enough, the inspiration one feels when visiting the monument honoring the victims. There is the ghost of a painful memory in this place, the imprint of emotions felt long ago. I have no doubt that these poor, abused souls have moved on to a better place with the families they loved so well, but I am also convinced that some part of them remains as a haunting reminder of the thousands of immigrants who died in the mines as they strived for a better future for the ones they loved.