“The Symbols of Labor. The Symbols of Work.”
Next post: Pictures from the Gone World: Two Children with Toys
Previous post: Sourdough Mountain Lookout by Gary Snyder
WHEN in the course of human Events, it becomes necessary….
Welcome to the New American Digest: 2001-2022
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
by Shel Silverstein
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
Comments on this entry are closed.
Thank you for sharing..
The anvil gravestone turns out to be a theme: Google “anvil gravestone” to see a few, most with a hammer on top. But it appears that the addition of the apron is unique to this one–
This post brought together two family traditions: my husband taught several generations of Scouts to do ironworking, and one of our sons now makes knives and jewelry, being both a blacksmith and a silvermith.
My mother, in her retirement, became interested in family history, which expanded into researching local cemeteries, and then developed into a hobby of graveyard jaunts: wherever she visited, we had to include a trip to photograph the nearest cemetery, and ponder the narratives hidden within the inscriptions and ornaments of the gravestones. (I now try to do the same, and often find them the most interesting part of my touring.)
She would have loved this one.
Reminds me of this tombstone …
https://gravelyspeaking.com/2011/04/16/lightning-strike/
https://www.tsop.org/TSOP2019/photos/Indiana%20Limeston%20Trail.pdf