'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, and after one hour more twill be eleven. And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, and then from hour to hour we rot and rot. And thereby hangs a tale.
That tale is really why I love everything old. A story in every scratch, an event in a distressed corner, poetry in the peeling paint. Still, as far as I am concerned, there are few better storytellers than Rust, the Shakespeare of Nature.
In a tragedy, Rust is the territorial murderer, unpredictable and dangerous. In a romance, Rust is your watercolour artist, painting landscapes in hues of heaven. Then there is the time when Rust plays a trick and a bottom falls out and we laugh. The Comedy of Rust.
So if you see a pail with its trusty companion, don't throw it out. Just turn it to where the story suits you,
furnish it with a bouquet if you must and if the stories become unbearable, place it under a table so that they are barely visible. Believe me, there really is beauty when rust envelops and conjures and draws.
Pre-rust ordinary bottle cap
See what I mean?