By Roy Berendsohn
If you want to work with metal, there's one thing you have to confront: You need heat. With it, you can make the toughest metal submit to your will. Without it, you'll never gain full mastery over this stubborn material.
Over the years, I have been frustrated by my inability to work hot steel. I've bolted metal together, welded it and soldered it. But I couldn't shape it, and so large swaths of the mechanical realm were off-limits to me.
But blacksmithing never felt alien. My father is a metallurgist, descended from generations of 19th-century blacksmiths and born in Germany to shipbuilders whose forges scattered sparks over the shores of the Elbe River and the North Sea. I grew up in rural Connecticut among Yankee mechanics who could forge anything, machine anything, build anything, fix anything—and I've been trying to live up to those old-timers' standards all my life. It wasn't a hard decision to take another step, and teach myself some blacksmithing skills. |
By Roy Berendsohn
If you want to work with metal, there's one thing you have to confront: You need heat. With it, you can make the toughest metal submit to your will. Without it, you'll never gain full mastery over this stubborn material.
Over the years, I have been frustrated by my inability to work hot steel. I've bolted metal together, welded it and soldered it. But I couldn't shape it, and so large swaths of the mechanical realm were off-limits to me.
But blacksmithing never felt alien. My father is a metallurgist, descended from generations of 19th-century blacksmiths and born in Germany to shipbuilders whose forges scattered sparks over the shores of the Elbe River and the North Sea. I grew up in rural Connecticut among Yankee mechanics who could forge anything, machine anything, build anything, fix anything—and I've been trying to live up to those old-timers' standards all my life. It wasn't a hard decision to take another step, and teach myself some blacksmithing skills. |
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