Yesterday Big Bore and I ventured into southeast Kansas, and I insisted we make a quick, windy stop to see Big Brutus, a huge coal shovel that has been retired and turned into a tourist trap. I had not seen Brutus since my college days when “he” was hard at work in a large pit. One of my many diversions to avoid studying was to gather a bunch of friends and a picnic lunch and drive out to wherever Brutus happened to be digging away. We’d pass the time eating and watching Brutus do his thing. No one seemed to care. At least no one ever ran us off. It was a cheap thrill. And I was about as cheap as they came.
Recently some dimwit decided to base jump off the top of Big Brutus. Now, Brutus is tall, 160 feet, but he’s not exactly the Empire State Building. I’m no base jumping expert (surprise, surprise) but I suspect this man’s parachute scarcely had time to open before he smashed into the ground. He probably would have had a better chance of survival using an umbrella. But, alas, we’ll never know.
Still, the accident couldn’t keep me away since Big Bore and I were in the general vicinity of Mr. Brutus. I wanted to pay homage to his industrious past and my lazy past and get my picture taken with him. He’s not as much fun to watch as he was 40 years ago when he was belching steam and kicking up dust, but then I don’t suppose I’m quite the looker that I once was, either, --although my own belching has gotten much louder over the years. Great seeing you again, old friend.
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