In my little part of the world I have gained a small reputation as a metalworker of some skill. When I was younger I worked a five year stint with a master tinner and gained a little knowledge and skill in the process. Occasionally one of my neighbors will call me and ask me to make a repair to a machine or fabricate a replacement part. I get enough calls to sustain a small part time business.

On this particular day my friend Ronnie has called and asked me to repair a large cast gear on his aging elevator. Unfortunately Ronnie has already attempted to repair the gear twice with his arc welder. I am not surprised. Ronnie is only twenty-six. Welding always fascinates young men. They believe they can do it and most of them foolishly want to do it. It is the primordial lure of the fire, the thrill of handling the flame, that bewitches them.

When I was younger, I actually enjoyed my time in that dark little world beneath the welding hood. There I could shut out the world and dream about, and hope for, whatever I wanted. I admired the dangerous impersonal power of the fire, and enjoyed with pride my ability to put it to what seemed to be constructive use.

Then early one bright March morning, as I watched my first son struggle into this world, I knew reality would soon displace all my dreams. My hands became offended at the fire and metal, and could only be contented to touch my son and wife. My ability to utilize impersonal power became boring.

The factory and the foundry no longer seduce our good young men. Today it is the bank and the business office. The dangerous impersonal power they long to master is not the fire but the dollar. The dark dream world is not under the welding hood but behind the desk.

As I get out of the truck in Ronnie’s yard, and gather up my tools and gear, I notice my son’s old football behind the seat. For an instant I see his sweaty body and determined face hurtling toward me. A big blue jay cries out from the top a tall cedar next to Ronnie’s house. I pick up my gear and walk toward the yawning dark of the open barn doors with regret.