Oh dear reader, you cannot know how blissful I was tramping among this venerable graveyard, my fearless associate in tow as I clicked and sighed and nearly wept with the undiluted joy of life.
Upon this hallowed ground men trudged to work 120 years ago in Ohio's November gray in their gray rough dungarees, their lunch pails filled with cold meat pies baked by women they'd made love to just hours before.
Bricks and rails and smokestacks, craft and shape and motion. Beautiful, majestic rubble.
This place was never more alive.
And then, oh dearest reader, oh then did my eyes spy something so spectacular, it nearly paralyzed me with disbelief.
Was it full up with feral animals? Dangerous caving floorboards? A menacing villain thumping upon a peg leg?
No.
My fearless associate and I found none of that. Mr. Myer's sturdy factory held only a host of secrets, a vial of magic and a couple of ghosts. For them, I am very thankful indeed.
Have a safe and wonderful holiday.
Love,
Erin
* * *
Further reading: F. E. Myers and Bro. Pump and Hay Tool Works
Further viewing on Flickr
* * *
12 comments:
oooooooooooooooooohhhhh.
*starts planning her trip right now*
I was saying shit like this to my buddy the whole time:
Goddamn me to hell if Bridget Callahan isn't going to freak over this!
Nice stuff Erin. You should do it more often.
And a Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.
this is one of my favorite of all your posts.
Urban spelunking at its most sublime.
So glad you are enjoying the pix glitter and Dan.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and all the Owners Manual readers.
I am enriched beyond measure by all of you, and for that I am thankful.
RJ
RJ, what would I do without you?
**gobble gobble**
Reminds me of spots back home, Erin. Detroit and northern Ohio has a lot in common.
Happy Thanksgiving!
I am glad you dropped in, Mark. Happy, happy.
Sweet.
I learned to wire control panels from a cool old cantankerous guy that spent most of his yoot running a lathe at National Cash Register in Dayton. He said the wood block floors of the machine shops had two deep grooves worn in front of each station where a guy stood, day after day, year after year, generation after generation. I never forgot that. I'm thankful for those guys, and thankful I get to bounce around my shop and my life like a freakin' molecule.
You are one sweet molecule, Phil.
Post a Comment