Railroads, nails and the fiddler

Don't ask me how that title is going to fit in with this post. But these are my thoughts, so work with me.

Just watched "The Fiddler on the Roof" again tonight (for the umpteenth time). My husband almost made it to the end. I'm so proud of him.

I always cry. For different reasons each time. This time it was the tailor. And the butcher. And for Tevye, the milk man. All had to leave their home and most came to America. With their migration they brought their skills and talents.

Industry. I'm taking a quess, but I think we're craving a bit of that right now.
Is this why I'm in love railroad nails? I don't have a clue. But my husband couldn't understand why I went to the thrift store today in search of a glass container for...my nails.

You just can not appreciate them sitting in the bottom of a galvanized bucket. No! I dare say, not!

Work, work, hand forged hot iron (oh, I can hear ol' John Henry's hammer now!). Rusted history on the side of the tracks. Glad someone went walking there so I could procure these fellows (I know, I usually refer to my items as "she"...but they just seem more...manly.).
Now don't you think they conjure up all sorts of images of the wild, wild west? Sitting all pretty like that in my glass container.