Wesley Watkins was a blacksmith. That is, before he became too old and before Smithing became a lost art. Now, Smiths are mostly fresh college kids who have majored in "art" and bang around on anvils to shape iron and other metals into pleasing forms that appeal to affluent patrons or governmental agencies. Wesley would have none of that.
A good Smith developed a following who respected his trade, whether it was in shoeing horses, repairing wagon wheels, reshaping and pointing plow shares, &c;. In addition, he might also be able to, as described in George Morrow's Lavengro - Romany Rye, be able to produce passable copies of most any metal object. Wesley was this kind of Smith. And now he was old.
The tools of his trade had long been sold off, save his anvil and a couple of hammers. Now the anvil sat in his side yard still atop the massive bodarc block to which it was firmly affixed. And Wesley mostly sat on the front porch of his two room board and batten, tin roofed, house.
He had no family as he had now outlived all his brothers and sisters, his cousins, nephews and nieces. But because Wesley could always be counted on for a good story about the "old days", he often had an audience that sat and listened.
Sooner or later, every kid had to strike the anvil. So Wesley would hand out his eight pound hammer. Most found it almost impossible to use, having to grip it almost at the head to control its motion. After a few tries, it would be passed back to Wesley who would with a great deal of difficulty, raise the hammer above the anvil and there would be silence.
Then, the hammer would appear to slowly drop toward the anvil. As it made its arc through the air, the hammer head moved faster and faster, but with no apparent effort from Wesley who now appeared to be only guiding its direction to assure that it struck the horn. And strike the anvil it would. A clear ringing, not unlike a church bell was forthcoming and almost as by magic, the hammer rebounded, this time even higher than before. Again it would crash down, with a resounding ring and again it would rebound. Over and over the motion was repeated. Now, Wesley played on the tip of the horn, to the back of the anvil where the wedging holes were shaped. Onto the sides, the web, even the base and back to the horn. His movements were effortless as he played on his anvil not unlike Gene Kruppa on the drums. But unlike Kruppa, there was no forced movements, no rush to combine the sounds. No, Wesley's strokes each produced a clear sound only capable of being produced by "his anvil".
And then almost as he had begun, the hammer with each strike would lose momentum until on the last note, it was stopped in mid-air. Wesley would pass the hammer to a waiting accompanist who would try in vain to produce the same musical sounds.
Finally when all had taken their turn, the smaller children would approach the anvil and seeing another use in such a mysterious device, would mount it, facing the horn and it became a magic steed capable of carrying them far away from the dirt roads, summer heat and biting insects. Sometimes two or ever three would take their place on the anvil.
One day I got a call from a neighbor of Wesley's. The message was brief. Wesley's dead. And, he added; "They will take his stuff".
That afternoon, I went to Wesley's house. The front door was ajar, something that Wesley would never have permitted. His door was either closed and locked or wide open indicating that he was home. Even in the dead of winter if you approached his house, the front door would be open and the tin stove would be glowing a cheery red, the door being open to let the heat escape.
It was quiet. His pig was gone as were all the chickens. Even the dog was gone.
Inside, his iron framed bed had been moved. The mattress and coil springs had been stood in the corner. The closet contents had been tossed onto bed frame. His dresser was gone but the contents had been dumped on the bed frame as well. Even his tin stove and its tin stove pipe had been torn away from its position on the galvanized metal tray. They were all gone. In fact the light bulb had been taken from the single metal fixture that hung from the twisted wires in the center of the room.
I returned to the porch. While the cane bottomed straight backed chair he had always reserved for a guest was gone, the old broken but serviceable chair that was his remained. I sat in his chair and looked out on the cotton field as he most surely did. You could feel the silence of the area removed many miles from heavily traveled roads.
Imagine the feeling of silence. Peace.
I remembered when I had bought the place and I went to his house and met Wesley for the first time. We sat on this porch. I said, "Wesley, I bought the farm. And, I would like for you to stay here. But, Wesley, you will have to pay rent for your house. That way, it's yours. As long as you pay the rent." He didn't say a word. I continued, "I charge Ben Minor ten dollars for his house." Finally he said, "Ben's got a well. And, Ten dollars' too much." So I said, "How about seven?" He said, "five". And the deal was done. Every month, my daughter collected from Ben and Wesley and they never missed a payment. Now you may say that charging any amount for those two houses was too much. And I would agree, but, from both Ben and Wesley's judgement, it meant that my word and theirs counted and they had a home as long as they lived. Not a bad deal.
Then I thought of the time when I was cutting soybeans and one of the bearings on my old blue Ford combine seized. The result was a disaster, it caused the straw walkers to move out of synchrony and before I could shut down the belt drives, a lot of sheet metal was bent and damaged beyond repair. This was going to cost me a lot of money. Since it was the middle of the day, I stopped at Wesley's on my way out of the field, sat on his porch and told him the problem. We sat there in the two chairs and after a while he said, "James Brown's combine caught fire." Then after a long pause, "It's just like yours." Another long pause, "Tomorrow we can go see him about the parts." So on Saturday morning, I was at Wesley's house at seven in the morning and off we went to Lauderdale county to see James Brown. Down one of the county roads, were a number of Farmers Home Administration houses. Brick, two or three bedroom houses that were financed by the Government for anyone who had clear title to the land. We stopped at the first. Wesley and I both got out and went to the front porch. He knocked and a face appeared in the crack of the door, beneath the face were two smaller ones. Wesley said, "We're here to see James Brown." The response, "He don't live here."
So, we got back in the pickup and started for the next house. We could see the combine in the field just behind the houses. This time, Wesley said, "Stay in the truck." So I did. He went to the door, and after an animated conversation, returned to the truck and said, "Try the next house".
The same, he went to the door and I stayed in the truck. Again, lots of talk, hands waving, pointing to the combine in the field. And Wesley came back. He said, "They all got telephones." Now it dawned on me, no one was going to reveal where James Brown was. As we moved from house to house, they were calling ahead.
So, I turned the truck around and headed back the way we had come. As we neared the first house, a young man of about twenty five stepped out and waved us down. For the fourth time, Wesley explained what we were after. We needed combine parts, would take them off the burned combine and would pay for them.
He said, "Wait til I get my shoes and I'll help you." In a minute he was back, climbed in the back of the truck and we drove over to the combine. Now all combines are Rube Goldberg contraptions. The Ford was probably one of the worst. But it worked! I climbed inside the maw of the combine and Wesley and his accompanist worked the socket wrenches from the sides and bottom. In less than an hour, I had just the parts I needed. We still hadn't discussed price. The young man loaded the parts into the truck, climbed in along side Wesley, and I drove back up to the house. Finally I said, "How much"? "Twenty Five dollars". "O. K". I handed him a twenty and a five. And, we drove away.
Wesley said, "Good" (meaning I had struck a good bargain). Then he added, "That's James Brown".
You might wonder how it is that Wesley remained a bachelor. Especially, when he appeared to be such a good catch. Maybe one of my rememberances will set the picture for you. I was over at Wesley's and he said, "The vets going to be at the store on Saturday to vaccinate the dogs." I said, "Would you like me to take you over?" "Alright, but we'll have to get there before eleven, so's it's not too hot."
On Saturday, I stopped over and Wesley had his dog on a short rope. He put the dog up front, climbed in and we were ready to go.
Now the road from Wesley's joined the county maintained road which really wasn't much better than the one I kept up to Wesley's house and it being mid-August, it was dry and dusty. We stirred up quite a cloud of dust as we drove along the road. Ahead was an old woman with a dog on a rope, actually not much more than a piece of binder's twine around its neck. She was obviously on her way to the store to see the vet, so I stopped. I asked if she would like a ride, to which she readily agreed, and hoisted her dog over the tailgate and tied him to one of the tie-downs. I expected Wesley to get out and put his dog in the back as well. Nope, Wesley and his dog just sat there as quite as could be in the air-conditioned cab. So I dropped the tailgate and the old woman climbed in the back. There she and her dog rode all the way to the store.
The coming of the vet to the Fulton gin and store was a community affair and there must have be fifteen dogs and their owners. The old woman untied her dog, climbed out over the tailgate and she was gone. I never did see the old woman again. Since it was Saturday and Wesley had some visiting to do, he said he'd catch a ride home with someone else.
So Wesley was a confirmed bachelor and I suppose that the "ladies" preferred that he stay that way.
As I sat there in Wesley's chair, I looked to the fields again, my cotton was in full bloom and with the white, pink and finally red blossoms it is in my judgement, one of the most beautiful plants. Much like a hibiscus, but instead of a single plant, there were acres and acres in bloom.
Still silence.
And I thought I heard the strike of the anvil.
I looked to the side yard, but the place where the anvil had stood was bare. In fact the depression made by the block was all that remained. It must have taken several strong men to lift the one hundred and fifty pound anvil and the heavy bois de arc block into a pickup. But they had and Wesley's anvil was gone.
Next year, I gave a neighbor half the lumber for tearing down the old house. A bulldozer cleared the site and now cotton rows run through where Wesley's house stood.
Years later the farm was sold. But in my mind, I can still sit on Wesley's front porch, look out over the cotton and hear the anvil's ring.
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