In memoriam

I’m here to tell you about William Strid.

He wasn’t a large man, as men go. At under five feet tall and scarcely a hundred pounds, he cut a slight figure,

His face was thin and pinched. He had a bony nose. His eyes were gray and dull, pewter-like. His black hair, what little he had, was salted with age by the time I first met him.

Strid was a quiet man. He was not prone to tales or boasts. If he ever laughed, I know of no one who witnessed it.

But he was not cold, rude, or angry. He simply did not volunteer information. If you asked Strid how he was, he might say, fine. If you commented on the weather, he would nod.

Yet he was generous in his own way. If you were angling for a conversation or just needed to get something off your chest, Strid would square his feet and let you go on, maybe offering a grunt or two in places to show you he was listening, and grant you whatever time you needed to wind yourself down.

How many of us can say the same of ourselves?

Though he spoke little, Strid heard all. He took in our thoughts. He entertained our fancies. He absorbed our pain. His listening? It gave us strength. Faith. Comfort. Relief.

Strid worked magic with iron, steel, and copper. He was our town’s blacksmith for 42 years. He made all manner of necessary things---axes, hammers, knives, and chisels; hinges, bolts, and knobs; shovels and hoes; and forks, spoons, and knives. I’d venture that each of us has something made by Strid’s hands in our homes.

If you went to Strid with a job, he’d listen as you described what you were looking for and, when you were done, let you know when to come by to pick it up. “Next Wednesday” was about as much you could expect. He never needed more information than what you gave him to get it right. A lot or a little, it was always enough.

Strid found that wearing the same outfit every day suited him best: A wide-brimmed brown felt hat, a band-collared white linen shirt, black wool trousers held up by a black leather belt, and brown leather boots, their laces neatly double-knotted. He rolled up his sleeves and wore a thick leather apron and gloves, darkened by decades of soil and sweat, while laboring in his shop.

On cold or wet days, he would put on a waxed canvas coat that reached to his knees. If he turned up its collar you knew he was feeling better than usual. It was the closest he ever came to style.

Strid did not sing. He did not play an instrument. He did not dance. He read the newspaper only, and only on Tuesdays and Sundays. He felt it was his duty, but that was all. He had no abiding interest in worldly events, figuring that whatever was beyond his control wasn’t much worthy of his consideration.

Strid had little care for money. He had few possessions. Everything he had, had a purpose. It had to earn its keep. If something wore out or broke, he would wait a month to replace it. It was a test to see if his need was sincere and true. He found it rarely was. The less he had, the more he thrived.

Strid never married. He had no children. He had no extended family. No close friends. As a rule, he kept to himself. You wouldn’t find him either in the chapel or the pub. He never ventured into the music hall. Never did he see a movie. Or visit the traveling circus. Or take in a ballgame.

But Strid did not feel lonely. He was not sad. He was simply a quiet man who guarded his privacy.

What’s more, he was content. He did not wish for something else. He did not pine or yearn. He was happy. He often felt joy and wonder. He even admitted to a certain kind of love.

Strid lived the life he wanted, and it was everything he wanted. And absolutely nothing more.

I know all this only because Strid left me his journals.

I don’t know why he entrusted me. We barely knew each other. Like you, I’d only cross paths with Strid every so often at his shop or, more rarely, in the mercantile. In the twenty or so years since I found my way to our town, I’d be surprised if we exchanged more than a few hundred words, most of them by me.

But I am honored to have received this man’s extraordinary gift.

Strid’s instructions are confounding, but clear. He asked that I read his journals—one for each of the 42 years he lived among us in this town—and then burn them, alone, in his forge. He specified that this be done within seven days of his death.

Further, he prohibited me from sharing the contents of his journals with anyone. I am not permitted to read them to you. I am not allowed to detail what he thought worthy of documenting. I cannot copy them or photograph them or preserve his thoughts or experiences in any way.

Strid’s final wishes were clear: Be witness to his life. And then purge the evidence that he had lived.

It pains me to do so. Over the past week, I have spent hour upon hour with Strid, from first light until well past midnight. Through the tight, careful scrawl of his hand, I’ve experienced a mind unlike I’ve ever encountered. His curiosity was bottomless. His observations, achingy poetic. He was a man of grand ideas and profound insights.

He was funny, too. Strid found humor in the most unlikely moments and the slightest of interactions. Tellingly, he was not above making himself the punchline. He was serious, but he did not take himself too seriously.

As today is the seventh day since Strid passed, I have honored his request. This morning I visited his shop and burned his journals, one by one. It took less than an hour, from the first flame to the final ashes.

As I fed his journals to the fire, it dawned on me that I was not, in fact, erasing Strid’s life. A life is not what you leave behind, no matter how articulate, regardless of its beauty.

A life is not a noun. It is a verb. It is what you do, how you think, who you touch, the choices you make, the faith you follow, and what you learn along the way.

In life, William Strid was impossible to know. In death, he is a revelation.