A Young Dick Jones

My sister recently reminded me of this incident that occurred when I was ~5 years old. She had a horse at the time, and asked me if I wanted to go along with her to the blacksmith’s shop to get him shod (she is 18 years older than me). I didn’t know what “shod” meant, so I figgered I oughtta go along for the ride and see what was gonna happen to the horse, me being a naturally inquisitive kid.

We pull up to the blacksmith/horse-shoe’r dude’s place out in the country—he had a barn/shop with two large barn doors that were wide open at the time, so Sis backed the truck/trailer up and I lept out and scurried inside for a look-see.

The blacksmith dude had (apparently) JUST finished hammering out a set of shoes in anticipation of our arrival—I espied four of them hanging up on a long straight rod next to the blacksmith’s anvil and workbench.

I had to see ’em, so I dashed over to the rack and, before he could utter a word of warning or move to stop me, I picked one of the shoes up off the bar and IMMEDIATELY put it back down.

He chuckled and said: “Hot, aren’t they?”

“Nah—it just doesn’t take long to look at a horseshoe.”

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