The 15th anniversary of the Upper Big Branch Mine disaster took place on April 5. I wanted to share my personal experience with it, with my readers. This story is divided into three parts — stay tuned next month for part two.

By Thursday, I was desperate to make it in time for the governor’s 9 a.m. update, but everything slowed me down. A loaded flatbed crawled along the curves of the mountain road. Then, eight miles from the site, a coal train stopped on the tracks. Just as suddenly, it reversed — moving just as slowly in the opposite direction.

When I finally arrived, reporters had gathered at the mine’s security office, waiting.

I told the troopers I was with Judy.

Back to work. Trash. Coffee. Organizing the never-ending flood of food donations.

At 9:30 a.m., Governor Manchin arrived. He apologized for being alone, explaining that the others had stayed at the mine to make decisions based on the latest carbon dioxide readings.

The rescuers had traveled nearly two miles underground, carrying supplies and stretchers, approaching the longwall.

Then, a mine supervisor interrupted.

“I don’t know what anyone else has told you,” he said, “but there’s been a change of plans. We had to stop the rescuers. The carbon dioxide levels have gone above 5 percent. They got as far as they could, but it’s no longer safe to proceed.”

A woman beside me broke down, sobbing. I held her as she cried, offering whatever comfort I could.

The governor promised another update at noon.

That Friday morning, I woke to the news that rescuers had found a fire in the mine. The new plan was to pump nitrogen inside, starving the flames of oxygen.

When I arrived, security was even tighter — media outlets had allegedly tapped the phone lines and snuck inside. A trooper searched my car, before letting me in.

Inside, I was frustrated — not by the food donations, but by the piles of non-food supplies: hoodies, toiletries and baby formula. Everything was being stored in a back room, loosely monitored by Judy’s teenage daughter, Amber.

While cleaning, I overheard women whispering about selling the donated hoodies. Later, I saw a man stuffing handfuls of shirts into his car. And then I caught Amber sneaking out with a stuffed animal hidden under her shirt.

I went to the only Massey Energy representative in the building.

“Can I organize the donations into boxes — one for each miner’s family?” I asked.

She was overwhelmed, fielding phone calls, questions and deliveries. She barely hesitated, before handing me a list of names.

I asked the Red Cross volunteers for help, but they refused. They seemed more interested in chatting than working.

Instead, I recruited a group of Bible college students. I directed them to label each box with a miner’s name and distribute supplies evenly — one item per box, until we ran out. Within an hour, the problem was solved. Now, if a family needed soap or baby formula, we knew exactly where to find it.

At 11 a.m., Don Blankenship arrived with his team. The families quickly gathered, desperate for news.

Blankenship, the Massey CEO, looked surprisingly well-rested. The other men appeared exhausted.

Kevin Stricklin rocked on his heels, waiting for the briefing.

The governor’s assistant picked up a bullhorn.

Donna Joy, of Shepherdstown, is in her second term on the Jefferson County Board of Education. Her comments are personal, and do not represent the Jefferson County Board of Education as a whole. She can be reached at aumpeace@msn.com.