Sam the Blacksmith

Sam was a real character. When he was in the mind, and someone paid a bill, he would spend the whole morning in the pub and would have spent the whole day drinking if the landlord hadn't turned him out. Staggering all over the road, he would wend his very devious way back to the smithy, collapse on the floor, and in a few minutes would be snoring his head off.

One day my brothers, whose workshop adjoined the blacksmith's shop, found him in this state. They got two sacks, pulled one up to his waist, put the other over his head, and tied the two together. When he eventually woke up, you can imagine his consternation. You can also imagine his language! It's a wonder the sacks didn't catch fire. The elderly maiden lady who lived in the cottage opposite hurriedly shut her windows and retreated to her back room. My brothers stood and watched, helpless with laughter, until they finally untied him and made themselves scarce before he could get up.

Probably the biggest laugh was when the village parson happened to go past, and saw Sam lying in an unconscious drunken stupor. He took one look, then came running round to the carpenter's shop.

"Oh dear, Mr Harvey", he puffed, "Sam is ill. May I borrow your wheelbarrow, as I must get him home."

My brothers soon found the barrow, and wheeled it round next door. They got Sam loaded up with some difficulty, with his head hanging over the back, and his legs dangling between the handles. Then they left the parson to it.

Unfortunately for him, the two hundred yards or so to Sam's house ran right through the village street. Before he had pushed and wobbled the first twenty yards, the villagers had heard the commotion and were standing at their gates ready to see the fun. The parson, short and fat, his face as red as a turkey-cock, and dog collar all awry, staggered his way along. Now and then he tripped over Sam's dangling feet, the barrow tipped, and he almost lost his load. The sight of this, following by a procession of yelling kids, left the onlookers speechless with laughter.

I don't think the parson ever really lived this down, and 'The day Sam was taken ill' was a standing joke for many years.

The smithy was one of the focal points of the village, especially for the older men. On a wet day, when the farmers took the opportunity of getting their horses shod, there was always a half dozen or so onlookers, clay pipes well to the fore. However hard up they were, they always managed to get their half ounce of cut plug tobacco. They eked it out by first cutting a plug, and chewing that for an hour or two. The chewed plug was then tucked into their hat band to dry, later to be smoked in their short‑stemmed, blackened clay pipes. It was a toss up which smelt the worst, the burning hooves or their pipes.

It was warm and cosy, for all that. The bright fire, the rhythmic creaking of the bellows, an occasional oath as someone got in Sam's way, the ring of the hammer on the anvil, all seemed to stimulate the conversation. The horse shoes almost magically took shape under Sam's skilful hands, with a background of snorting from the horses. Then the clouds of acrid smoke as he fitted the shoes, and the hiss of the hot iron in the water trough as the completed shoe was cooled off, all ready to be fixed.

For all his drinking and swearing, Sam was an artist with iron. A pair of gate hinges, intricate fancy ironwork for a wagon, or an iron window, all would be wrought with loving care. There was a real pride of accomplishment, not so common today I fear. He had a real sense of humour, too, and found something to laugh at in the most unlikely of circumstances.

In later years, when I joined my brother in the carpenters shop, we used to get an occasional coffin to make up. As most of the cottages had narrow, winding staircases, Sam would lend us a hand to get the body down. One day, we just accomplished that, and Sam stood looking at the old man lying in the coffin. He had been very bowlegged, and whoever had laid him out had tied his legs together, with tape.

Said Sam "Aren't you goin' ter untie his legs, Charley Boy?"

"Why", said my brother.

"Well", Sam rejoined, "if you don't the poor old bugger won't be able to walk come Resurrection Day!"

Sam worked until he was half‑crippled with rheumatics, but he lived till he was ninety. He still staggered along to the forge every day, being a nuisance no doubt, to the new blacksmith, criticising everything he did, but all in good humour.