John Deck the Blacksmith

My Grandpa was a metal monger.

In his day his muscles bulged as he shod horses or fixed wagon wheels or forged plow shears.

His Oshkosh overalls were covered with the residue of his trade though they never seemed dirty.

Forge coals reflected in his steel grey eyes through round metal rimmed glasses pitted and grimed by tiny projectiles launched by his forge hammer ringing rhythmically on his anvil.

He had a quiet, in no way shy smile that tilted his brushy grey mustache.

Leather hands somehow gentle to the grandson but hard as the iron they forged.

Silent Patriarch, essential Craftsman to the Community.

The artist reduced to element, humanity in commerce, a timeless ideal.

John Deck The Blacksmith.

Written in September 1976 when there were no blogs.