SOOT IN THE FLUES

By Anna Mae
Published on March 1, 1990
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Scene from the Rushville, IN show sent to us by Richard E. Payne of 2791 Millville-Shandon Rd , Hamilton, OH 45013.
Scene from the Rushville, IN show sent to us by Richard E. Payne of 2791 Millville-Shandon Rd , Hamilton, OH 45013.

We are really in the throes of Winter as this publication goes
to pressand that means many of you are long past the shows and
reunions, but already I can picture you with that gleam in your eye
as you put forth efforts to bring a rusted piece of equipment into
a thing of beauty. Remember beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and while they may not be beautiful to the everyday crowd that has
not been bitten by the ‘steam bug’ they are really precious
gems to the builder or refinisher. Keep plugging and before you
know it, spring will be here with the anticipated events leading
into the summer attractions. And just as spring turns dead sticks
of wood and plain barren ground into beautiful buds, flowers, thick
grasses and woodsy plants and shady trees so will the artistic
ability of many of you shine forth as you so proudly load up the
machinery and head east, west, north and south to the many shows
and museums and rallies and you succumb to the feeling ‘Oh, all
that work was really worth it,’ and a joy to remember and gaze
upon on into the years.

And referring to the above I just came across this What is hope?
Hope is wishing for a thing to come true. Hope is wanting something
so eagerly that, in spite of all the evidence that you’re not
going to get it, you go right on wanting it. And the remarkable
thing about it is that this very act of hoping produces a kind of
strength of its own. Norman Vincent Peale. (I don’t know about
you, but I think that fits very well into the hopes and
determinations you folks have in creating beauties from the past
forgotten itemsseems it just was right for me to relate this to
you). Also, I just came across this writing by Frances Louise
Medlin taken from the Guidepost Treasury of Hope:

TRIBUTE TO A TREE

‘Last night a slight north wind that seemed no more than a
gentle puff took the apple tree down. It’s lying prone and
wilted now, still heavily laden with its last mellow
fruit.’

‘For weeks we have known its days were numbered. Its gnarled
trunk was infested with a decay that would not be controlled and
yet, again this April, it delighted every passerby with the
profusion of its delicate pink-white blooms, followed by apples
that soon grew to the ‘picking stage.’

‘Over the years its spreading branches have been a veritable
haven for the small boys and girls of the family, who along with
their elders feasted many mornings on apple jelly for breakfast and
apple pie for dinner.’

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