While last night's revelers dream and the faithful get ready to pray, cold and aching stiff you face your day. No time for soft bed or fine clothes. There's ashes to scrape, tubes to brush, wood to split, water to haul - before you actually even begin. As you tend your labors you can't help but wonder what manner of men did this daily. You ponder the crushing drudgery of what must have lay before machines did the work as well. After half an hour of hard, dirty work you are ready to start getting ready. You lay the first wood on the grates, kneeling like a congregant at an altar. Splinters and shavings, yesterdays news, cotton waste, and perhaps a little oil. First offerings to the spirit of fire. Acrid tendrils of smoke curl on the damp morning air. Then the first timid fingers of flame - sometimes so shy that they flee, and have to be coaxed forth again. The fire slowly grows larger, hungrier. You transfer more pieces of wood from the bunker to feed it. Another quarter hour passes before you are confident that the merry little blaze is here to stay. You give it several larger pieces of wood, and shut the door. Your labors have just begun. While waiting for the fire to do it's job, you pick up a rag and oil can and begin your rounds. Every piece and moving joint wiped and inspected looking for wear, and fresh oil to ensure things keep moving smoothly. You check your fire, feeding it again. The cold iron begins to warm. Then it happens the first rumblings on the edge of your hearing like the breathing of a great beast stirring from slumber. The water has finally begun to boil. Feed the fire, fetch more wood, find your first cup of coffee while you wait. The first tendrils of steam wisp from that valve packing you've been meaning to replace. A bit later the lazy needle on the pressure gauge quivers and finally lifts off the pin. Slowly it creeps upward. When it reaches 20 you know you can finally add coal. The first hints of that magic aroma when mixed with that of warm metal hot oil touch the morning breeze. It's nearly time for the spectators to arrive. First a few stragglers, then more. They come to gawk and wonder at the quaint old things. They ask questions, you answer. You even let them climb up, "Mind, the black parts are hot!" A special needs child gets lifted up to blow the whistle, and goes back to his parents grinning from ear to ear. An elderly man tells you a story that HIS father told him of when he was young. Your aches slowly fade as you remember why you do this.
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Sunday morning steam
- Thread starter Allen
- Start date
- Joined
- Jan 23, 2012
- Messages
- 1,216
I stand humbly corrected. . . no photos is what should have been sent. I certainly did see the pictures inn my head as I was reading the o/p. and they were great.
I suppose this is actually what a writer tries to convey with his /her words, and this writer did exactly that. it was a good story.
didn't mean any insult by my comments. .
I suppose this is actually what a writer tries to convey with his /her words, and this writer did exactly that. it was a good story.
didn't mean any insult by my comments. .
