A Smithy

Jonas slowly opened his eyes and frowned, realizing a throbbing headache. Thinking he had simply awakened from a night’s sleep, he struggled to reason why, practically at the end of his nose, there was a wiry white haired fellow gazing at him intently. Jonas firmly pushed the man back with a callused right hand against his chest.
“Not so fast, Jonas,” said the little man. “Are ye aware that ye have met with a serious injury?”
“I am aware that my skull hurts, and who the hell are you?”
“Now, we’ll have none of that, “said the little man, “There are ladies present.”
From a chair in a shadowy corner of the room rose a gaunt figure of a women dressed in black lace. The Presbyterian Lady’s Auxiliary had seen the need to send it’s most ardent busy-body, the moral harpy, Ms. Tripp.
“Oh yes, Jonas Finch,“ she said in a high raspy voice. “It’s plain to see that you are at yourself. It appears that prayer can only go so far and that you have not awakened as a new man ready to preach on Sunday. With such an abundance of heathens through out the county…”
“Ain’t they some hogs somewhere that you can torment?” Jonas muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” Ms. Tripp glared back at him.
“I said, I…I wouldn’t want to put the preacher out of work,” Jonas said a little louder.
“Well!” She said with some disgust. “I think the Lord could not have too many in His employ.” With barely a glance towards the kitchen she continued while walking toward the door. “Abigail, I am relieved to see that you are not yet a widow, and if I can be of guidance to his salvation…”
“Thank you, Ms. Tripp,” said Abigail hiding a grin behind small fingers. “I think we can manage.”
Jonas squinted hard as the screen door slammed loudly.
The little man leaned forward again and said in a quiet concerned tone, “Jonas, do ye know me?” he said, studying Jonas’ expression. “I am Doctor Eli Wilson.”
“Well, I reckon I’ve seen you”, Jonas said as he took a long breath and exhaled. “But, I don’t recall having business with you.”
“No sir, ye wouldn’t”, the Doctor smiled, as he sat back, closing his bag. “It has occurred this morning that Henry Mott’s Morgan horse placed hoof to head rendering ye insensible. Ye have slept through our business and God willing, our work is done.” He turned to take a coffee cup from the small table by the bed.
“I thank you, Mrs. Finch”, said the Doctor and he took several short sips once again studying Jonas. “Ye should not work this day and perhaps not tomorrow.”
“Think so, do you?”, said Jonas as he sat up and lowered his feet to the floor. He would afford no more notice of the Doctor’s mandates than if he had spoken from the other end of the county.
“Jonas, ye should not take this lightly,” said the Doctor. “As ye have lingered briefly at death’s door, ye should reflect that that door could yet open.”
Jonas seemed undeterred as a relatively tiny Abigail rushed forward leveling an outstretched arm and finger pointed directly at Jonas’ nose. “And where do you think you’d be going” Her Irish temper was well known to him and on any other day, a source of amusement.
“Do you not hear this man? Do you know how hard it would be for your children and for me if you fall over dead? Aye, you will wish to be kicked by another horse if you think to get up now!”
Jonas would back down from no one except for the fiery haired mother of his children. He eased his six-foot frame back onto the bed and breathed a heavy sigh as the Doctor tried to contain a laugh. “Mrs. Finch, I expect he is in good hands now and I should be calling on the Millers before nightfall. Sara is expecting her seventh child soon, they are hoping for a girl this time.”
“ I suppose there is always hope“, said Abigail, “T’would not be too much to ask, after six boys.”
The Doctor closed his bag and stepped toward the door.
“What of Mott’s horse?” Jonas asked.
“Well, the horse got the last word with ye this morning, and as ye can see, it is now late afternoon,” the Doctor chuckled. “Your apprentice, has since shod the horse, which I am sure, is no worse for wear, though I think him lucky not to break his leg on such a hard head.”
Jonas turned a hard look in the direction of the Doctor and growled under his breathe, “Be gone, Quaker.”
The Doctor smiled and turned to Abigail, “ I have left some powders there on the table if he should see fit to give in to it. I shall return before weeks end. Mrs. Finch, I thank ye for the coffee and bid ye good day.”
“Thank you, Doctor Wilson,” chimed Abigail, as the screen door slapped shut.
The solemn faces of three small children then pressed against the window screen looking in at Jonas. He reached out from the bed and thumped the screen and the little faces pulled back smiling. Jonas winked at the least one, Emmy, a tiny girl of four years. They all ran giggling off the porch and around the house.
Jonas watched the children playing in the dirt between the roots of a great oak tree. They recited pretend dialogs while moving stick people and few marbles along the dusty trails of imagination.
By evening Jonas was up and about with a stiff headache, the likes of which recalled his younger days when he acquainted himself with his Grandfather’s jug of corn whiskey. The ill effects soon dispelled any chance of a lasting partnership, much to his Grandfather’s delight.
Jonas was no stranger to pain. His hands and arms were scarred from the hot iron of the blacksmiths trade. Heavy work with wagons and horses had fashioned a solid figure of a man of twenty eight years.
The next morning, Jonas got up early as usual, having rested more than he felt like he needed. He had stoked the fire and laid iron aside to fashion into hinges. He fed the hogs then returned to the house and ate a good breakfast of bacon, eggs and biscuits.
Leaning against a front porch post, Jonas surveying the street feeling like town emperor with a biscuit in one hand and the butter spoon in the other. At the far end of the street he could see the grain mill and a heavy wagon being loaded with bags of flour. The millwright, Samuel Newsom, was walking towards him with a big smile and grain dust puffing out of his clothes.
Just then a man on a new bicycle passed Samuel ringing the warning bell on the handles. The rider passed the house ringing the bell twice more, as Jonas watched him disappear around the corner.
“Well.” he said almost out loud.
“Jonas, you got to get you one of them”, Samuel said as he trotted up the steps hardly noticed.
“What?”
“Damn bi-cy-cle, boy! I swear, somebody‘s gonna make a killing off them things before it plays out.” Samuel dropped onto the porch swing in a cloud of flour dust. “Tell me now, just what jug must a man drink from to climb onto Granny‘s spinning wheel and ride it down the road, anyway?”
“I don‘t know, but I expect he’d have to drink enough that he couldn’t walk,” said Jonas, waving the butter spoon about.
“It is a truly marvelous age”, Samuel continued, “It seems that every couple of months there’s some kind of a new contraption.”
Samuel threw his head back and rubbed his chin stubble . “Now, I believe that’s D. W. Picket’s brother, James.” he said. “You know, he ain’t no circus acrobat…does well to tie his own shoes. But I seen him the other day coming down Graves Hill just a flyin‘.”
“Well, even a rock can roll down hill,” Jonas said as he gulped down the last of the biscuit, “I’ll be impressed when I see one flyin‘ uphill.”
Despite wanting to sound like a skeptic for Samuel, Jonas could see the changes coming. He had seen steam engines and mechanized industry in his youth when his father worked in a Pennsylvania foundry. There seemed to be a machine for every job there, and he had marveled at the workings of a machine performing the skilled trade of his father, Ephraim.

Work in progress.