The Forge(Carl Brooks) Prologue:

The small, rural community of Bowie, Texas was hardly noticeable if you happened to be driving through North Texas, especially in 1947. This was before freeways ruined the commerce of such small places; with their bypasses, Wal-Mart’s and cut rate drug stores on every corner. Back then, the town was enjoyed by its inhabitants, as well as occasional travelers who needed a break in their journey, and maybe enjoy a hamburger and chocolate milkshake. It had always been a friendly place. Even Bonnie and Clyde had once stopped at Morrow’s Coffee Shop, for breakfast one morning. No one bothered them. Bowie’s inhabitants were generally not worldly people, most of whom had spent their entire lives there, enduring the same hardships and joys that rural people know so well; even through World wars and police actions such as Korea. It was their home, where they were known, and felt secure. They were mainly cotton farmers, as well as the necessary service people who supplied the basic, peripheral needs of a small community. Those who owned more than a few acres of land also raised cattle, for their own use, as well as for the stockyards in nearby North Fort Worth.

The residents knew everyone in town, as well as their business; public and private; even some business that would be best forgotten. If you wanted to catch up on the local gossip, there were special places where you could get the latest on just about anyone. Yes, we had a beauty shop, two grocery stores, as well as a feed store, and a Greyhound bus station; all of which did a roaring business in discussing other people’s activities. For the men, another hot spot was a pecan grove down by the railroad tracks, adjacent to the train depot, and then there was the blacksmith shop. Ah! The blacksmith shop! However, in the great scheme of things, it was all quite harmless. We were the same people you will likely find anywhere, especially in Texas.


The Forge

I was six years old when I discovered the place. It was foul smelling and awful. My mother was very liberal in allowing me to wander through the confines of our small community, exploring whatever sparked my interest. However, the blacksmith shop was different. It was hot, dirty and dangerous; definitely a man’s world, and only men were welcome there. The weathered, and grayed, oak sign hanging above the double, barn-like doors read, J.A. Brandon, Blacksmith. This was one of those places you could identify before actually seeing it: like a train station, or sawmill, or cotton gin. It was distinguishable, not only by its hellish brimstone smell, which its forges emitted, but also by the sound of raw iron violently being pounded against itself. The pinging was unmistakable. The place had a strong personality of its own, warning the faint of heart, as well as little boys, to remain clear of it.

The four active forges inside, had been placed in the shape of a four-sided diamond, allowing easy access from the center work area. Cutouts had been fashioned through the slatted board walls to allow for ample ventilation from the intense heat generated from within. It didn’t work. My uncle Clifton often told me, in teasing, that was what Hell smelled like, and his description was all it took to keep me away from that Devil’s Den of a place, at least, up until one Second Monday.

While experiencing the swarm of activities on Main Street one Second Monday, I heard the sharp ringing of metal being pounded against metal, the sound of which intrigued my young mind. Cautiously ambling toward the clanging, I tiptoed closer to see what it was making that unique pinging sound. It was then I observed six old men sitting in a circle around one of the forges in the blacksmith shop. It was an eerie site for a young, impressionable, country boy. The radiant heat and warm glow from the live, red and yellow embers made their faces and eyes appear like demons, especially in the otherwise darkness of that partially enclosed room. They were constantly mumbling to one another in a chant-like manner, although, facing and talking directly into the forge; as if it were a sentient entity, intently listening, to their prayers.

Mrs. Thompson, our elderly baby sitter, had often captured my undivided attention, on evenings when I resisted sleep, by flooding my imagination with ghost stories supposedly passed on to her by black people living in the Mississippi Delta. I was mesmerized while listening to her stories about devils and witch-covens, as they gathered around similar fires, conjuring up the spirits of dead people and haunting graveyards. A chill ran up my spine as I watched those old men; the firelight reflecting from their devilish eyes and eyeglasses, and talking to the forge.

The men sat in cane chairs, leaning back as far as possible, without falling. Almost in perfect sequence, they would briefly interrupt their diatribes by taking turns forcing their chairs upright just long enough to emit a brown, juicy expectorant into the red-hot forge, one at a time, as if giving a gross offering to their fiery god. An initial s-s-s-s-stt might be heard, in verification that their aim had indeed hit it’s target - the red-hot coals. The spittle immediately changed to yellow-green smoke, as it evaporated into nothing, like unkept promises, or words spoken in haste. A permanent cascade of snuff and chewing tobacco juice stained the outside stones making up the forge, displaying its errant usage, as well as the user’s poor aim. The other three forges were used exclusively for the business of blacksmithing, while the forth had been chosen for whatever the intended purpose might be that day. This day, it was getting a lot of use.

There was no shortage of curse words uttered throughout their running conversations, as they regularly interrupted each other with descriptive epithets. Within the confines of their personal forge, truth was not a necessary attribute in order to join their colorful grouping, nor was it even given fleeting consideration. Local wisdom, half truths, suppositions, exaggerations and guesswork were the order of the day, all in an attempt at besting their rivals. It was as if absolute truth had been suspended, allowing for wild declarations to be offered as sworn testimony and without the necessity of verification. At times, their discourse was light, and even comical; at other times, it was serious, argumentative and accusatory. The actual degree of seriousness depended on the personalities present at the time.

These men were farmers, ranchers, and the like. Perhaps they came into town on a Second Monday to enjoy the trade-fest, and visit with neighbors. They might congregate at any time, but Second Mondays were their favorites. This allowed opportunity for the women to shop for groceries, and purchase food items they couldn’t grow, and for the men to congregate at the cotton gin, trade their goods, and hear the latest news. No one knew where, or when, the “Second Monday” of every month had been selected, and designated as a community open market, but that particular day eventually became a necessity, being special to everyone. People came from miles around. For them, there were two distinct fountains of knowledge available as sources for the latest news: the radio, and your neighbors; neither of which was very accurate. Will Rogers had recently told us that newspapers couldn’t be trusted.

James Alexander Brandon, my great grandfather on my mother’s side, had been a farmer, a rancher, a railroad worker, and had owned and operated several blacksmith shops throughout Texas. He maintained that he could identify the sound of a blacksmith shop from miles away, by the unique sound of the pinging on an anvil. During the great flood of 1909, between Galveston and Houston, he exchanged coded messages across the flooded basin by hammering them out on his anvil. He told me that the ringing could be heard for miles. When he was younger, he drove cattle from central Texas up the Chisolm, Great Western, and Texas Trails to the railhead in Kansas. He had many stories about Indian raids, as well as many exploits along the Red River. Now, 82 years old and semi-retired, he had opened his third blacksmith shop, each becoming more obsolete with the coming of the automobile, and the simultaneous fading of horses. Now, his blacksmith shop had deteriorated into not much more than a meeting place for old men to congregate and tell their stories; to chew their tobacco cud, and espousing their truths as they understood them. However, when in his element of the blacksmith shop, he was tantamount to a high priest, holding court in his last refuge. All of his stories repeatedly coming alive, when retold across the forge. There might have been slight exaggerations, but no one dared challenge them.

Many of the men spent their time trading for tools, and such, as well as items they didn’t have, but needed. While others, with perhaps nothing to trade, ended up at my great grandfather’s blacksmith shop, literally spitting their sworn stories into the forge. There was a hint of mystery surrounding that revered temple, that I desperately wanted to keep alive to examine in great detail. I watched as the old men shamelessly professed their offerings into the white-hot coals of the forge, as well as to each other, the forge responding by belching its wisdom in the form of yellow-green smoke.

Pa Brandon’s blacksmith shop was only a block away from my grandmother’s house, in town, where my mother and I lived. The shop may as well have been 50 miles away, as it was forbidden territory to me, and for all women. I do know that women never went there, and I could certainly understand why. Even a small child could sense that the atmosphere in the blacksmith shop was intensely masculine. Because of its mystique, something inside me found the place irresistible. Therefore, when I discovered the blacksmith shop, I was drawn to it like a magnet to new steel.

The wide sidewalks in front of the downtown stores were packed with people, winding in and out like single-minded ants on a sugary mission. Some came to purchase goods and wares from our small variety of stores, and to buy feed for their livestock, while also gathering sustenance for their curious minds. Others came simply to marvel at the human static electricity, caused by the confluence of so many varied personalities in such close proximity. Then, there were the men at the blacksmith shop who congregated around the magic forge, and it was magic, to me. I wonder what the ancient Greeks, or Romans might call such a pit of stored knowledge; perhaps, the “Forge of Truth,” or, “The Oracle of the Smithy?” Oh, the ocean of wisdom that could be captured there on a Saturday, or Second Monday afternoon. The Forge was the old men’s personal testament; containing a depository of rich stories, anecdotes, curses, histories, and outright lies. The Forge contained rich pearls of their own personal, homegrown wisdom, along with solutions for the world’s problems. All of this had been deposited in the forge over time, by the multitudes of prophets before them. All was stored there, available for me to marvel at, as long as the embers remained active and glowing. That’s when it’s magic came alive.

I considered returning to the crowds on Main Street, but I became engrossed in watching those old men sitting around the Forge, as they became more serious and intense with their declarations, and the imparting of their wisdom. All of the non-stop excitement whirling surrounding me was truly dizzying, as I desperately tried to hold the memory of it for replay when I slept, later that night. I attempted to put it into some sort of perspective, then I realized there was no perspective. It was simply random declarations, being offered up to some invisible entity by way of colored smoke. What I have described, was all around me, pervasive, ongoing and eternal. It was what it was, and what it will always be, at least to me. There was no actual substance to it. However, within the millions of live sparks emanating upward from that forge, lives the wisdom of the world.

Those old men are still very real, as I have permanently stored them, as well as their mumbled chants, their truths, and their declarations, in my memory. I am now 78 years old and they are still sitting around that magic marshalling point at the Forge, stoking the coals, in an attempt at keeping the embers alive; still spitting their rich wisdom into that glowing pit. Oh, yes! The forge is still there, embers still glowing, at least in my mind, and at least for a little while longer. However, I can already feel the warmth leaving the forge; the embers losing their radiant color, as they aren’t quite as red and yellow, or quite as hot as before. It is all disappearing right before my eyes; I watch as it fades into nothingness. The accumulated knowledge stored in the forge is going up in yellow-green smoke, not unlike the expectorated tobacco juice. Nothing is permanent. Now, I understand that the forge isn’t as eternal as I had once believed. Those old men are there, because I want them there; they are my conjures, my minders of the flame that keeps the forge, as well as my memories, alive; they keep me company..... at least for a while longer. I watch as a small, curious, six year old boy is peeking through a knothole in the gray, weathered boards, attempting to glean the necessary secrets of life from six old men who know everything. They are all still alive because I keep them alive, at least in my memory.

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