Steam Engine Show
(The Pioneer Engineers at Rushville, Indiana)

Before the harvest time draws near,
When all the fields turn brown,
Folks old 'n' young, they gather up
'N' come t' Rushville town,

T' pay their homage t' the past
'N' mark another year,
Roll back the time-lines o' their lives
T' celebrate the Pioneer.

They crowd the gate in the warm forenoon,
Park on the fresh-mown grass,
Then scurry up t' the viewin' grounds
Along the dusty paths,

With childr'n runnin' far ahead
(They can't get there too soon!)
While grown-ups stop t' bathe their minds
In the sweet calliope's tune.

Just gittin' there is half the fun,
All worldly cares are shed.
Sights, sounds, 'n' smells of another world
Steal their place instead.

There nestled 'neath the grassy hills
Two acres, mebbe one,
Cooled in the shade o' nature's green 
Umbrellas from the sun,

With folks a-bustlin' all about
Their minds 'n' bodies filled
With ice cream, lemonade, 'n' pop
'N' the past that they've been willed.

The smell o' coal smoke lingers there
'N' other scents, no doubt...
O' hot dogs, popcorn, barbeque...
Some named 'n' some without,

'N' like gaudy birds beneath the trees
Machines that grow so rare
Each one painstakin'ly restored
with time 'n' thought 'n' care

From hard-worn ruins forgotten long
In fields overrun with weeds,
with kind attention paid t' find
Firm metal underneath.

With things today 'n' back then too,
'N' how they made repairs
With scraps o' wire 'n' bottle caps
'N' sharpened all their shares.

They talk o' horses even, some,
Their numbers now are few,
'N' what a change that came their way
When these machines were new.

All day long the show goes on
As engines bark 'n' hum
'N' they all join up in a gay parade
T' pass by one by one,

The chuff, chuff, chuff o' old-time steam,
The throaty whistle's yawn,
The eruptin' clouds o' thick black smoke
That spread about the lawn,

The pack, pack, pack o' steel-wheeled beasts
That run on gasoline,
'N' all the colors o' creation mixed,
Or so, at least, it seems.

If you follow 'em a little ways
You can watch 'em do their feats
From threshin' wheat on the wide, long belt
T' slicin' logs in sheets...            

Too much for one man goin' on,
Try it as you may,
You'd swear a whole dern lifetime's span
Was baled up in a day.

'N' finally when the sun hangs low
'N' it's time t' move along,
Folks have t' pull themselves away
T' get back t' their farms,

'N' as they drive the roads toward home
Their thoughts just overflow
Like their pride in the world o' the Pioneer
'N' the machines that made it so.

This is an original poem by Mike Fowler formerly of Shelby County, Indiana, now a resident of Oklahoma.  It was written in late summer, 1995.

Thank-you Mike!

Post Script:  Mike Fowler passed away December 11, 2002 after a short bout with cancer.  We are so grateful and privileged to have been given this gem of his to publish on our site.  It is not only a wonderful tribute to our club, but also to the man who wrote it.  God bless.