Ignition Smith

I pulled some black crud out of my ear a few minutes ago. My right forearm aches. My right thumb sports a blister that's becoming a callus. The first three fingers of my left hand are enshrouded in bandages from where I grabbed my own hot tongs earlier (douse your tools before you go to put them away, ok kids?). I'm roasted, dehydrated, and sore. I'm ecstatic.

After lunch, I made a little pile of dry wheat grass next to the forge on top of a paper towel. I took my rock, placed a scrap of charcloth on top of it, then smashed my new-forged striker against the rock. In moments, a spark landed on my charcloth, which had fluttered off the rock and onto my hand. I watched, fascinated, while the little ember devoured the cloth and then burned into my skin. Oh. That's hot. I should probably do something about that.

Cloth transferred to tinder bundle. Producing fire was too easy--seconds of blowing brought me my own handful of inferno. I stuffed it into the forge and called out "FIRE" to Caleb, who staggered and hopped between the anvils over to the propane tank, caught off guard by my rapid fire production.

I lit the forge with my own striker. High-fives all around. A tendril of satisfaction and triumph curls up from my toes. I took a piece of broken spring, hard metal useful only as a paperweight, and through a series of careful hammer strikes and the power of the forge, created a useful tool. Woman, the tool maker. I am.

I think about forearm exercises over lunch. After almost a year of intentionally avoiding any kind of fitness regimen, I contemplate the now urgent need for a pull-up bar in my life and whether I can install one in my bedroom door. Caleb tells me that a beginning forge set-up might cost me $600. I think about whether I can make room in my garage. The ringing of hammers against metal follows me home, even as I doze off on the MAX. I awaken in the just-emptied train at the transit station, dreaming of the forge. I go home and look up Tracker's other Blacksmith programs.  

I'm addicted to the power behind the process. To start with some piece of metal and to coax from it a final shape is to learn to love it. I see what it wants to become, where the imperfections lie, the mis-applied strikes, the too-thick sections, the piece of iron folded over that should have been a scroll. The feedback and adjustment process. The blackened carbon falling away onto my anvil. The weight of the hammer in my hand, the glow of the forge, the sweaty sheen of my roasted face and hands. This is love, you guys. I'm in love.

Kellen makes an arrowhead in the foreground. Caleb supervises Cameron in back. Photo taken by Laura.