The Craftsman

Edward Torsche awoke this morning the same as he did each time the sun shone threw his window, achy and tired. He never fussed with appearances. That was for younger men. Still, he always had a clean pair of socks ready along with his apple cap. He dressed as he always did. Socks, for it was his father who had told him a man dresses his foot first, slacks, a tucked in Henly, underthings, and his cap.

He walked the length of his room, which hadn't more than eight feet, and grabbed his pocket watch from the vanity of his beloved Eleanor. He'd given up on watches long ago. They'd had a tendency of getting in his way. He didn't bother looking in the mirror as he passed through his door.

Monday morning. Main street in his hometown saw a steady stream of holiday shoppers poking around storefront windows. He nodded once, or twice, it was hard to remember, to a lady who'd smiled his way. A few intersections later he stopped in front of a small shop's front door. He turned the key and leaned forward, twisting the knob.

The store wasn't big. But it was his. Had been since he'd inherited the pile of bricks back in 1957. Then, he'd been an apprentice to his old man, though it had been an unfitting title. He'd been working with Robert Torsche since he was old enough to use a cutting knife. His apprenticeship hadn't lasted long. By the Spring of '67 Edward's father had been struck down by his own heart. The next day, it was his.

Edward turned the sign on the window to saw "Open" and flicked up the light switch. The lights above began to blink themselves awake, and he trodded his way to the back workshop and inhaled. Cedarwood, Lemon, and Jasmine. The aromas that could define his entire life. He walked gingerly forwards, shuffling his feet along the tiled flooring and approached one of the many racks staged back here. Each rack several layers and holding ten long, curing bricks. He pulled one from the rack with the date he was looking for and place it on his workbench. He put his leather apron on and took out his cutter. His hands, shaky as they've become, worked surgically to measure and cut each slice to size. The scars that covered his hands were from years of missteps, permanent lessons on what not to do.

He'll always remember his first burn. He had turned eight years old the day before. His father had promised him that once he was old enough, he could do the mix. That day he got his most important lesson in mixing lye, always add it to the water, not the other way around. The chemical splattered all over his arm and seared his flesh. His father castigated him. That day left him with scars that still lived with him today. Edward revered his father, as, he supposed, all fathers' sons did. Robert, for his part, did the things a father ought to do for their son. Edward was housed, bathed, fed. His education was adequate and his manners were polite, if not curt. He grew to be a gentleman. The highest compliment a man could get, in Robert's opinion. That was enough for Robert. And so it was enough for Edward.

Edward proposed to Eleanor on her twenty-fifth birthday, and married her two months later. Her parents reluctantly blessed the union. Her father demanded Edward get a job worthy of supporting his daughter. Edward said he would, but never tried. Instead, he was going to prove to her father what he could be. So he stayed in his workshop most days and nights. He worked in his shop. He crafted and created and built a name for himself in town. He provided for his wife and for their three children. He even saved up enough to take them away to the seaside every few years. As his little ones grew, he was in his workshop. He sent them off to college with his earnings. He made sure they would get the chance to live the life they wanted.

When Eleanor began to feel sick, Edward was in his workshop. Paying hospital bills was more difficult than he'd anticipated. He took out a second mortgage to cover the costs. In the end it didn't matter. She passed in her sleep the day before Christmas '97. The kids came to stay with him awhile. But they had families of their own they needed to get on with. So, with bills piling up and no home cooked meal to look forward to, Edward went back to his workshop. Each day, folks came in, conversed, shopped. Over time, Edward grew to let go of Ellie. He even took up with a wonderful lady named Susan. They made it awhile, but, as things go, they decided to part ways, amicable as it was. He tried for love again, a time or two, but for an old man like himself, acquaintances proved to suffice. Besides, when you've loved with your whole soul, anything after feels... less.

He got in a local magazine once, Edward Torsche. The issue was all about local craftsmen. He had a full page layout and writeup on his little shop. His acquaintance, Peggy, even got it framed and put it up behind the cash register, she was so proud. Though he would never say it out loud, Edward was, too.

The front door opened. The first customers of the day. He peered out of his workshop. Two middle-aged women were walking around, picking up and smelling all of Edward's different bars of soap. His life's work. His father's life's work. The women carried the bars to the counter.

Edward hurried out to them, waving a hand. He greeted them as he always greeted customers. A smile and a nod. When they left and it appeared no one else was arriving, Edward walked back into his workshop, stood at his bench, and began to work.