The Ringing Anvil

Whenever I call to mind the old blacksmith shop in our town, the clear ringing sound of a heavy hammer striking an anvil carries on the air. Memories formed at that time linger. Tagging along with my dad to leave plow lays for sharpening meant new experiences. On entering this sanctuary the blacksmith would shout out a hearty, “Hello, Spike. I see you got little Shinglenails with, too!” Why he hung those monikers on us, I never knew, but he saw me as a small nail standing alongside a big one.

The town blacksmith played an important role because people didn’t throw away an item just because it stopped working. Broken, bent, or dull, it could often be restored to a product almost as good as new. If an item didn’t exist, one could be fashioned or even invented. And, creations could be made to look artistic with a few clever twists, welds, and bends.

The dark interior of the shop with its unwashed windows permitted the blacksmith to watch the color of metal change as it heated in his forge. Color was important because it told him when the broken piece was ready to work with.  That dusky atmosphere also let me watch spectacular showers of sparks whenever he worked at his grinding wheel or when I watched the coals in his forge come to life when he forced air on them. 

In the mythology of ancient people certain gods possessed the skills of blacksmithing. The Greek god Haphaestus worked metal and crafted weapons used by the gods. Norse mythology recognized the dwarf Brokkr as their blacksmith god. Why they identified him as a dwarf stretches the imagination. Blacksmiths I’ve seen stood at least of average height and possessed burly strength. Wielding heavy hammers to pound and shape metal on their anvils created strong forearms.

Our blacksmith sometimes appeared taller than he was whenever he’d stand upright with his welding helmet cocked in the upright position. He’d remind me of a European soldier of the 1800s wearing a tall bearskin hat to look bigger and more menacing on the battlefield. The helmet he wore amused me at times because he was profanity prone, and after lowering it to shield his eyes, I could hear his muffled cursing coming from inside it. 

Wheelwrights are closely related to blacksmiths, sometimes being one and the same person. Watching a demonstration in Fort Ransom where one fitted an iron rim to a wooden wagon wheel exhibited a whole new skill set. He laid the circle of iron flat on the ground and banked it with hardwood chunks. These he set on fire, carefully tending them as they did their work of heating and expanding the iron. In the bright sunlight he couldn’t judge the metal’s readiness by color, but instead tapped it with a hammer and listened for a particular sound known to him. At the right time, he and a helper using tongs picked the rim out of the coals, and carried it to the wagon wheel. Placing it on the rim’s edge they began pounding the hot expanded iron tire down to fit. When satisfied it was in place, they dunked the wheel into a pan of water to shrink the iron tight on the wheel. It made for an interesting show.

A book in my personal library, Iron Spirits, discusses the blacksmith’s role in fashioning grave markers known commonly as iron crosses. In Germans from Russia communities that formed in North Dakota, the immigrants brought with them the concept of bending and welding iron into ornate memorials to commemorate their deceased loved ones. Many examples of crosses, some simple, some embellished, can be found in cemeteries in the central part of the state. One sad story occurring in 1898 tells of a family’s losing seven children in the diphtheria epidemic near Strasburg, North Dakota. For their burial spots, the parents ordered from a blacksmith seven identical crosses to mark each of their graves.

Our blacksmith reached the end of his days, so the sounds of  hammer pounding iron on an anvil no longer rings. The community rebuilt his shop after fire burned it to the ground, and he continued for a few more years. After his death no one came forward to take his place at the forge. The modern age of farming and farm shops mostly eliminated the need for this type of business. The anvil no longer rings.

One could end here with  lines from Longfellow’s “The Village Blacksmith,” such as “at the flaming forge of life our fortunes must be sought.” But rather, consider Thor, the Norse god, who wielded a heavy hammer and caused thunder and lightning in the sky. Possessing tremendous strength, he met unexpected defeat one day. In The Land of Giants he was challenged to a wrestling match by a wrinkled old crone. To Thor’s frustration she won easily because she was none other than Old Age against whom no one could win.