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I felt inspired when I wrote this little narrative. I hope you like it.
As I was working under a horse at one of my regular stables, a guy I’d never seen before walked up to my anvil, grabbed my hammer and started smacking my anvil with it with no stock between the hammer and anvil.
I explained to him that when you hit the stock, it receives the brunt of the blow. But when there’s not a softer metal between them, you will cause permanent damage to your anvil face or your hammer.
He didn’t understand, so I told him that it was like guys who own sports cars or expensive golf clubs. I asked, “Would you want someone to walk up and start messing around with something of yours that is so personal?”
He replied, “It’s just a hunk of metal, but you’re comparing it to a sports car?”
“This anvil is my sports car. And I’m closer to this anvil than any person who owns a sports car is with that vehicle.”
He still didn’t understand with that comparison, so I continued.
“Twenty-seven years have passed since I shod my first horse. I have dripped the sweat of my brow on this anvil — gallons of it. I have dripped blood from my hands onto this ‘hunk o’ metal — lots of blood.
“The chips and dings in it represent the times in my life that I have failed in one way or another. The temper of…