One would think there might be some kind of death benefit from an on-the-job incident like that. One would think the company that employed Thomas Ross Wingate when he died would have at least made some kind of payout to his family, to help support his wife and eight children. But look closely at that coroner's report and you'll see that he died of natural causes. 

Um, yeah. Sure. A man of thirty-seven with a heart so weakened he died from it. Whatever you say, doc. The term "myocardial degeneration" isn't in vogue anymore, and all I found online about was this coding definition from the International Statistical Classification of Diseases. My grandfather wouldn't seem to fit in either the "senile" or "fatty" degeneration camps, so it would seem that he either (a) had a heart condition he didn't know about, or (b) inhaled something noxious at the factory and died from it. 

At the time my family felt like it was a bullshit cause of death. Because the death was ruled natural, the family received no benefit. 

If I could go back in time and get a lawyer, I would. But I can't, so I simply have to live with the long-running resentment of "The Man" that has manifested itself within my family for generations now. My grandfather's remaining family getting screwed over by Toxic Chemicals, Incorporated. My dad getting screwed over by J.P. Patti Roofing—or was it the Composition Roofers Union, Local 10? 

Either way we were screwed. Screwed over by "The Man." Hear that enough times growing up and it sticks with you. Becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, even. If you hear it enough times as a kid, you might even think—as did Thomas James Wingate, eldest son of Thomas Ross—that you were born to lose.