Papa's blacksmith shop was not under a spreading chestnut tree, but it was under a huge, very old poplar that shaded most of our backyard on hot afternoons. The limbs were perfect for climbing and for treehouses and for men to gather under while Papa shoed their horses.
It was a popular place because Papa knew all about horses, repairing machinery, harnesses or even knowing what to do for sick horses and other animals. Most children now think horseshoes are to hang over doors, to bring good luck, and that horseshoe nails are for making rings for their fingers.
There was no electricity then. It was always hot in Papa's shop, with a fire blazing, white hot, on the sturdy rock and cement hearth.
A large hood was supposed to take all smoke and heat outside, but it still hung heavy as I stood pumping the big bellows that blew the fire and kept it from burning low or lazy. Papa heated the shoes in the fire and lifted them out when ready with a big pair of tongs. They would spit and protest when he dunked them into a bucket of cold water after shaping them to fit, just so, on each horse. He used a big sledgehammer to do this. Sometimes he had to trim the hooves of each horse for a perfect fit. He did this with a huge, flat knife with a curved handle. I was afraid to watch him pound the long horseshoe nails into the horses' feet, and a few times (but very few) a tiny bit of the nail would hit the quick of a foot, Then the horses would whinny and squeal and try to get their foot away from Papa, but he knew how to hold them between his knees and on his leather apron so they could not get away.
Papa has been gone many years and so has his shop, but, oh, Papa, I remember the lessons taught there by you and of feeling so secure because you were so strong.
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