This is the story as told by Gus Marie one Summer day sitting on his
front porch:
Paul, I’m a blacksmith. My father and my grandfather and great grandfathers
were smiths. We Maries were smiths all the way back to when we came over
to the U.S. from France before the revolution. They were like the Pilgrims
coming here to escape (I assumed it was the American and not the French
Revolution and I assumed Huguenots). My kin used to live in the East, New
York, Boston and Washington D. C.—all over back there. I think a couple
other places too. They moved to Illinois, St. Genève, then to Murphysboro
when it used to be Brownsville sometime in the early 1800’s. I don’t know
exactly when they came. Nobody kept records like that. My grandmother and
father told me these things. But I know all my relatives were smiths in the
East. We were smiths, father to son all the way from France, all the way to
me. My kin shod the horses and made wagons and the like for folks around
Washington and New York, someplace, I think, you know—back in the old
days. I do know my great-grandfather shod the horses of Horace Greely, the
“Go West young man” guy. Shake the hand of the man whose great-
grandfather shod the horses of Horace Greely… ha. (As Gus put out his big
hand to shake mine).
The story is that my relative, a smith, had joined the army, the Colonial Army,
not as a smith but as a solider. He went off to fight the British. One day the
son of a smith, next day a solider…ha! As the story goes there was this
British Calvary outfit that was overrun by the boys in his company and they
captured the whole damn shebang. They captured the troops, their horses,
gear, guns, equipment, everything… and the smith and farrier tools that went
with the unit, and of course my anvil.
Every cavalry unit back then, ours and theirs, had its own traveling smith and
he had his own traveling smith shop with all the gear to care for their horses,
tools, camp gear, and to repair equipment, fix guns, wagons and the like. Well
the shop with the anvil, tools and all the gear went straight away to make a
brand-new American Calvary unit. From red to blue…ha. Well, that young
smith, my kin, volunteered and he went from solider to the unit’s smith. One
day a solider the next day a smith…ha! I think they must have asked “Do we
have a smith in the ranks?” (as Gus raised his arm and waved as to motion
for any volunteers out in the side yard to step-up.)

As the war went along the British tried several times to recapture my anvil
and the shop but they never did. He kept that anvil away from them, the
British. After the war the army gave him that anvil and all the smith gear and
back he went to being a smith. By-and-by my kin moved to New York then on
to the West, then to St. Genève, then to the farm.
That is the story of the captured anvil out there in the shed, as he gestured
toward the blue shed. As a boy I remember my father and I used it from time
to time. My father taught me to make tools and knives on that anvil. I used it
for some on my first big projects. I got paid good money from work I done on
that anvil. When I was small all my friends and I would make knives on it or
beat on it just for fun. That must be how it got so worn down and beat-up. It’s
just always been around the shop with the other tools and other things like my
bible or my silverware there in the house.
I asked Gus what he was going to do with the anvil. He paused, then
responded.
I thought about that over the years Paul. What to do with my shop, other
earthly things, my tools, my bible, the farm, my anvils, when my time came.
The auction will take it all away. Lots of my stuff came from auctions. I’m glad
to sell some to you. I thought I would pass it on to another smith in the family,
like always, but I have no one to pass it to…ha (quietly).
Gus had no sons or daughters, no great grandchildren as smiths-to-be. I think
he had a distant cousin someplace but he didn’t appear to count her in the
anvil inheritance chain. We sat that day for a spell, me on a woodworking
work bench and him on a homemade tractor seat stool. By-and-by I said,
“Gus, I would be honored to purchase your anvil and keep it safe. I will also
keep your Colonial story and the Marie name alive” …. I said… He said,
Paul, thanks but no… you can’t buy my anvil…others have wanted to buy it or
have me give it to them for scrap during the war (WWII) or whenever but I
never did, (long pause) … but I will give it to you…I will if you promise to keep
it safe and out of the scrap yard, me to you, smith-to-smith, one day you to
your son or another smith. (I paused…. I said I could do that. We shook on
the deal).
We sat on his porch, drank iced tea and talked about smithing, life-and-death
and the “old days” and then I left. I had the intention of more time with Gus
after the pending farm auction and journey to the nursing home. However,

times and tides, circumstances and complications, people, events and
unexpected tremors in the force happen that do change all our lives and in
totally unexpected ways—they did mine. That Saturday afternoon visit to the
Marie farm was the last time I was to see Mr. Gus Marie. Other decisions took
me in unexpected directions many miles from Brownsville and Gus.
I have thought about Gus often over the years. I have never forgotten him nor
our short friendship or my promise. The Marie anvil has occupied a place of
honor in my shop. I have never cleaned it, or otherwise removed the dirt, rust
and grime of coal smoke from generations of use. I have kept it out of the
scrap-yard and away from the British. It would easily be recognized by Gus or
any of the Marie clan would they happen by.
From time to time I forge a work knife on Gus’ anvil and that connects me to
my friend.