A Symphony of Noise

               Noises assault the ear from every direction. Grinders, spitting sparks into the air create a whine. It is a high pitched sound which can grate on your nerves.

               Machines rumble. Some merely filling in background noise while others scream as gears mesh in high speed engagement. Blowers add to the cacophony of sounds, a whine of rotors pulling dust and powders away from the workers.

               A vertical lathe provides a syncopated beat as vanes are intermittently cut to size. The beat changes as the tool cuts into the part.

               Air hoses whistle as chips are blown from newly drilled holes, the chips bouncing off the drum tight safety shields. The alarm on the crane clangs as the hoist moves down the aisle. The sound of the bell decreasing as it moves away.

               A chorus of voices can be heard, filling in as noises dim. Laughter, yelling, discussions of dimensions create a song of work and workers.

               The machine shop is an orchestra of noises. None planned, none scripted, yet they can all fit together to make a symphony out of the clamor. It is a concert of industry preformed by the machinists and their instruments.

               On a good day it can sound wonderful. On a Monday, it can sound like hell!

A Brief Bit of the Real World

Quietly the water slips past, a small murmur rising as it passes over a low spot in the stream. The rocks on the bottom cause ripples, a soothing “white” noise to my ears. Some birds keep me company; I hear them but don’t see them.

                The water on the upper section of the stream is glassy, reflecting the trees hanging over it. The shrubs reach down to touch their counterparts in the water below. The colors are those of fall, browns, oranges and worn out greens. The weeds along the sides are tinged with yellow. The fresh green of spring has long since been replaced with the fading colors of autumn.

                The air is cool. It won’t be long till the trees are bare and the weeds are brown clumps pushed downstream by the cold winter waters.

                Leaves are already scattered over the rocky shore while others slowly drift through the artistic scene reflected by the stream. They drift past, much the way we as humans drift through our lives, drifting on towards our inevitable future.

I do my best to soak it all in, remembering the view, savoring the bird songs and drinking in the sounds and the smells of the stream.

I can see my car from where I sit, in the summer it is hidden by the foliage. Across the stream the new condos are starting to appear again as the leaves fall.  My spot of relaxation and de-stressing is slowly being revealed once again.  I won’t be coming here as often as I do in the summer. I will be back to enjoy the view of snow clinging to the trees and ice coating the weeds and limbs hanging in the water. The chill will keep my visits short. All the while, I’ll be looking forward to those first green shoots that will pop out in the spring.

I come here to sit and enjoy the sounds and smells of nature. A short visit before I head into the noise and stink of work. By listening to a birdsong or the babbling of the brook, to watch a heron fly upstream when he senses my approach or watching as the flowers slowly appear as the summer nears, these things give me the strength to step back into the world of manufacturing. A brief bit of the real world before I step into the “other world”.