The Creative Corner
The Distinguished Windmill
The Distinguished Windmill
They were seen in the valleys, and on every hill,Standing tall and proud---ridged and still.Like a sentry on duty, the legedary---windmill.They were found in the pasture, and in fields of sage.They dotted the praries, where the wind would rage.The pioneer’s lifeblood---at the dawn of this age.When the west was yet young, they played a key roll,Straddling the top, of every well diggers hole,From the Dakotas to Oregon, to the Oklahoma dust bowl.Sprouting up overnight, in every homesteader’s yard,They stood stiff at attention, like a knight on guard,And worked like a slave, when the wind blew hard!Built of rough 4x4 boards, those huge towers stood,With basket shaped fans, made of thin slates of wood.Counterbalanced with a weight, they worked very good.Most were of galvanized steel, stretching high in the air.A thin sturdy “A” frame, with a base that was sqaure.The breeze knew it not---but this was its snare.There were many brand names, Aermotor, Daisy, Samson, and Hughs.They came boxed in crates, with a list of directions to use,The metal fan sections and tail, and all rivets and screws.Secured to connecting rods, was a series of gears.Sold in hardware stores, they could be purchased from Sears,Needing minimal maintenance, they labored gratis for years.Angle iron, nuts and bolts, they were fabricated in haste.They came with a ladder, and were firmly cross braced.And into any light breeze, they instinctively faced.Assembled on their side, then heavy ropes were tied tight.A team of horses dug in, and pulled the windmill upright.This colossal structure, stood nearly forty feet in height.They seem to sniff for the wind---small angled blades of tin.They yearn for a soft breeze---that fan hungers to spin.Then a strong westerly gust, turn that big rudder fin.A big ring a silver vanes flicker, high atop of the tower.Like a roulette wheel, spinning hour after long hour.Mother Nature’s been harnessed, her incredible---wind power.Hear the mesh of small gears, as that fan whirls around,A squeak from the long pump rod, a rhythmic sound.It’s lifting cool water, from deep in the ground.It’s now filling the cistern, the water level is low.It’s a huge reservoir, and the process is slow.Made of brick, steel or cement, it was gravity flow.It was linked to the farm house, with pipes of iron and zincPlumbed to bathtubs and tanks---and the kitchen sink.Thank to the windmill---there was running water to drink.Other brand names were, Woodmanse, Mitchell, Fairbanks-Morse.They pumped three gallons a minute, from their underground source.They kept filled the trough, for the milk cow and the horse.Also used by the railroads, in their early years at first.Filling huge water tanks, till they nearly would burst.Quenching the fire breathing locomotive’s gargantuan thirst.It was truly a godsend, this wind powered machine.It helped eke out a living, when the hard times were lean,Supplying water for gardens, to keep them lush and green.Well---this grandeur mill toiled---decade after decade.It’s job seemed secure, for it was strong and well made.And it appeared its splendor---would never fade.But---but an enemy lurked---like a---mercenary for hire.And his price was just right, for any prospective buyer.Shielded heavily he came---with---electrical wire!The windmill’s adversary, needn’t the wind nor a draft.He arrived---quietly humming---and I swear he laughed.Yes, the---electric pump---gave the windmill---the shaft.And---legions of---poles---were invading the land!Wielding 110 charging volts, in a thin wire strand.The windmill stood there in---shock, no more in demand.This small foe worked for a pittance---by the kilowatt hour,And was fed---electrical juice, that he would cheaply devour.He felt completely at---ohm, with his---quarter horse---power.Magnetic and energetic---his dynamic charisma appealed.Attracting, outstanding---in the electrical field.For sure now the windmill’s---fate had been---sealed.That rival was a true artist---drawing the amp and the watt.He encountered little---resistance, fused to wires that were hot.That pump slaughtered the windmills---and never fire a shot!So---the death of the windmill---they became obsolete.Stunned and foresakened, deserted, battered and beat.An army of wind powered mills---went down in defeat.Like a sun withered flower, sagging, wilted and bent,Tattered and ragged, decrepit, weary, and spent,Considered once priceless, hardly worth now a cent.With metal vanes missing, and blades sprinkled with rust.Looking toothless and tired, when they face a wind gust.Neglected, forgotten, their death sentence---unjust!Their big fan wheels locked up, the brake’s been applied.They no longer whirl, they’ve been turned to one side.They just stand there unkempt, unloved, and undignified.They now serve as a roost, for the hawk at night.They cast a long skeletal shadow, in the full moon’s light.Alone and abandoned, and that---just doesn’t seem right.Now I’ve spoken my peace, and this epistle must close.Windmills had their day of glory, then suffered their woes.I guess I---harbor a fondness---that I’ve exposed, I suppose.So---I’ve penned these few lines, to pay my tribute,To a vintage wind powered workhorse---that did not pollute.This rejected old structure, deserves an overdue salute.May a remnant stand tall forever, and be given due praise,In wheat fields and pastures, where a few cattle still graze.A reminder that life was once grueling, in bygone days.They’ve surely pumped oceans of water, as eons would pass.They filled cisterns and troughs---and my drinking glass.The---historic old windmill---still stands---with---class!Arley M. Bischoff
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