Rust

There is a quiet strength in old rusting machines, a beauty even.  You will find this everywhere just as soon as you begin to look.  Take a look! 

The majesty of all things railroad shelters many an example―here behind the abandoned station hearkens a big respectable gentleman, out of service, but thinking quietly all along like a horse in a stall after the last tender has left the barn and turned out the last light. He is resting gently upon this short stretch of rusted track. The horse is lost in thought and, year by year, rain by sun, snow by cold, night by day, is hurtling through the landscapes of his life and is satisfied. He has taken excited families on vacation, soldiers to war, and people to work―but has a special fondness for the children who were so happy to ride his big iron back to adventure. He can still feel their little pink faces pressed against the windows of his mind. The rust drops upon him in soft brown flakes like a shawl.

There is a quiet strength in old rusting machines, a grandfather strength, an old dog strength. 

Rust gathers in great numbers to meet in a car junkyard. It is the veteran’s center, where cards are played on Saturday mornings and all the old men trade barbs about their service. Everyone is here, equal in rank at last―the pickup trucks, sedans, hotrods, the practical and the flashy, all made proud in their dented rusted glory. Some are here accidentally, some are here just because the heart grew tired at last, and all are eager to share the stories of their dents and worn tires to anyone who will listen. Listen! The trip up the entire west coast! romance in the back seat! to the hospital for the baby! all the errands about town-my God! kids off to college! and, of course, there were always the long hot drives because there was nothing else to do, life is hard, and sometimes people need a song and a breeze to dream.

There is a quiet strength in old rusting machines, a growing strength, a dying strength, a knowing strength.

Antique warehouses collect rust in the everyday elegance of the past. You can feel the generations reach out and touch your hand as you ponder an item and whether it has a place in your life. Can you feel it? Feel! Imagine the thoughtful woman at that antique sewing machine, when new in its day―she is making and fixing the clothes for her family deep into the night, the gaslight soft across the room, draping her husband and children in love that came from her own hands, a foot pedal, a spinning bob, and the warm threads of labor that connected her to their very bodies when they left the house for the day. And over there, the old bicycles and sleds―rusted just so. Oh―the history, the play, the little bells, the laughter, breath, life, wheels, snow, speed, cold, tumble and sky of memories that will not die.

A rusted machine is a servant to the tumble of life and time.

I’ll leave you with the charm of an old rusting tractor, standing handsome in a meadow, remembering it’s long hot days in the field, feet deep in the earth, working under the spring sun and gaining strength, furrow by furrow, from the promise of the thick green flesh of life all around.