Story Under a Stone: George Newton, Blacksmith

 At one time blacksmiths played a crucial role in the life of a community, but in today’s

“throwaway” society those people have become almost obsolete. George Newton is the blacksmith I remember working his trade in Sheldon in the shop that people identified as “Newtonville.” I’ve written the following poem about him.

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Story Under a Stone: George Newton, Blacksmith

Dad’d take his breaks to the local blacksmith

where I’d always beg to go along with.

He hung nicknames on the two of us, Dad was Spike,

Shinglenails for me, I was short in height.

You could say his shop was kind of a shack

with piles of junk thrown out to the back,

plow lays and more littered the floor 

but the farmers kept on’a bringing in more.

He could hammer and pound and drum so loud

like the god Thor who lived in thunderhead clouds

and then make his anvil ring

sweet as a bow drawn across a string.

When he lowered his helmet, it amused me each time

I’d hear the muffled curses he’d utter inside.

While grinding a weld he’d make a shower of sparks,

then turn and start talking with manly remarks.

  

One Saturday afternoon while in town

men in the bar sat drinking their rounds,

but soon they all came tumbling out

when someone had run in to shout,

“The blacksmith shop’s on fire!”

Excitement couldn’t grow much higher.

They all high-tailed it over there,

but all they could do was stand and stare

No one could make the old fire truck go,

so they just stood watching flames glow and grow.

That old shop fell in a heap of smoldering debris

Onlookers shook their heads and could see

the town had lost its blacksmith shop.

But wait, why can’t we build it back up?

They opened their wallets, volunteered labor,

a perfect example of neighbor helping neighbor.

Soon a new building rose in its place.

When they gave him the keys, you should’ve seen his face.

Sadly no one remained in town to stoke his forge

when after a few years he moved on to meet his Lord.

But he’s in a heavenly place where his anvil rings

sweet as a bow drawn across a string.