The Brownhills Colossus A.K.A Jigger
During Our UK Trip in 2009 I took the photo above when visiting Brownhills where my mother had lived as a child and where my parents met.
On the A452 roundabout in the little town of Brownhills in the Black Country of the UK is a imposing 12 meter tall sculpture, created by sculptor John McKenna, of a coal miner, made from welded stainless steel sheet.
A contest was held a couple of years after the artist 's sculpture was erected in 2008 and the winner was Jak Groves a local schoolboy, who suggested "Jigger" the nickname of his Great-Great Grandfather, in tribute to all who had worked in dreadful and dangerous conditions and sometimes paying the ultimate sacrifice.
I later found out from Mum that Jack "Jigger" Taylor is my Great Uncle on my mum's side of the family. My Maternal grandmother was Sarah Jane Taylor and Jack was her brother.
On the evening of 22nd of January 1951 Jack was critically injured when part of the roof of the Walsall Wood pit collapsed. He died two days later after an emergency operation, leaving his wife, Ivy, and children John, Jill and Valerie. Jack and his family had lived lived in Bridge Street, Clayhanger and "Jigger" rests at St James Church in Brownhills.
Sadly the inquest into his death was brief and the outcome was “Accidental Death”. By today's standards this disregard for human life would not have been acceptable.
Jack went down the pit in 1929 aged 14 and died at 36
Was Yer Ferther A Miner?
Was yer ferther a miner like mine
Did he work in the dirt and the grime
Went to work on a byke, used a bow saw and pike
To dig out black diamonds that shine?
Was yer ferther a wrecked body like mine
Through working in dust, no sunshine
His shuky was his light, damaging God’s given sight
Deep in the dark bowel face of the mine?
Did he take a piece of best Sunday cake
Ter give to the pit pony, whose poor limbs ached
As he dragged a pit tub through rubbish-sludge
So mine owners their profit could make?
Did he bath by the fire in a tub
Un yer mother his marked back did scrub
Scratch caused by low roof, scars plain making proof
Of the days of pit-props and horse hoof?
Did he often sit and tell the old tale
Of disaster and pain that prevailed
When the roof tumbled in – rock ripped at the skin
And sight of widows – children their faces pale?
But if you asked this old ferther of mine
Ter tell yer about it, his old eyes would shine
No sad tale to tell, of the Muck – the Hell
‘Ar them days of hard work were mine’.
