After eating at Luna Park, a local favorite greasy spoon (albeit overpriced), the family walks to the van, which is parked up a hill.  We always stop to look at the molten steel coming out of the plant.  We stop on the bridge to admire an industry that is almost gone from the USA.
We still have a steel plant and people are still at work in the Nucor steel mill.  

This poem was written about this place in Seattle.  It may not be exact, since there aren't extremely tall buildings in this part of Seattle, but it is true to the feeling of awe, I get watching a visored and padded person working the steel.  

 On the Bridge Over the Steel Factory