The Village Smithy

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

From The Village Blacksmith, by Henry Wadsworth Longfeller

We residents of Efrat have our very own blacksmith. Actually, Elimelech Feigin is more than a blacksmith; he is a blacksmith artist and craftsman. Elimelech specializes in a form of artistic metalworking that lies somewhere between silversmithing and blacksmithing. His work might be better explained by examples of his artistry, of which this is one:

This beautiful rose started out as a small blank of iron, about 2 inches square, as shown below.

Through a series of steps, shown below, Elimelech turns pieces of iron, steel, copper or aluminum into amazingly beautiful works of art. His gallery/studio is in the basement of his home, just down the block from me. He makes many of the tools he uses andeach hammer or other tool has its own specific use.


Elimelech’s works of art include mezzezahs, menorahs, handrails and many other works of art. His customers come from Israel and other countries, and his works of art decorate homes and synagogues in Israel and around the world. His contact information is on his website: http://metalcombinations.com/.

Elimelich Feigin is another one of those “DearHearts and Gentle People,” who live in my home town (See my blog of that name - 1/21/11). I’m in awe of his talent and I’m very proud to have him as a friend.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And bear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his haul, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought!

Be well, Y’all,
Mel