Elements of Time: The Last WheelWright

By Craig: The sun was setting in old Halifax when the lonely, forgotten man brushed off his apron, hung it on an iron hook, and emerged from the wheelwright shop. There was a slight breeze, and although it was July, he felt the cool New England evening air hit his leathery bronzed neck. It had been an unseasonably cold day with an overcast sky, but 64 year old Isaac Barker was use to the fickle weather of the region. He had spent his whole existence here. It was his land. His forbears had come over on the Mayflower seeking a new beginning. They chose this cold, barren land and over the 250 years since their arrival little had changed...but change was coming, it was in the wind and the old bachelor could sense it. He sat down on a wooden bench outside of his shop and lit his pipe.



His thoughts began to ramble and he went back to the beginning. He had been born with little fanfare in Lynn a few miles to the north. He spent his early years here living with his parents and siblings, but when he was 12 his father; Ephraim, passed away. This left his mother; Lucy, with the care of the 8 children. His mother was pregnant with her last child at the time of his father's death, and a month later child # 9 arrived, a boy. She naturally named him Ephraim. She needed help and it was decided that she would return to her hometown of Halifax where she knew people. Since he was the oldest boy he took charge of the move. He packed the families personal belongings into a wagon and the 40 mile journey began.


It was 1830. The family passed through Chelsea and into Boston where they stopped to look at the magnificent Tremont Hotel which had just been built. It was like nothing that the family had ever seen. The four story granite faced structure, with it's large spacious lobby, and its indoor plumbing was a marvel of engineering by mid 19th century standards. The family moved on and found themselves in the marketplace outside of Faneuil Hall. Here they loaded up their stock of provisions. Isaac found a small confectionary shop and without conferring with his mother bolted into it. He came out with a large pastry which his sisters Ruth and Emma hungrily attacked with much energy and dedication, saving a morsel for him and his mother who chided her son for his impetuous act all the while savoring the taste of it! The wagon rolled out of Boston and made it to Braintree where they stopped for the night at an inn. After a good nights rest they made it to their new home in Halifax that afternoon. Isaac took a good look at his new surroundings. He would never journey so far again...



Over the next few years most of his siblings married and moved on with their lives. Not him, however, he was loyal to his mother. She had her hands full. Ephraim was known as the village "idiot," and her deaf nephew Isaac Waterman came to live with them. Only his older sister Mary, remained. Every day was the same. He would get up before dawn and tend to the fields and work them until mid morning. He would then spend the rest of the day...until dusk...mending wheels. Eventually he gained a sort of reputation for his handiwork and method. Orders came in and he spent more and more time fitting the wooden spokes into the wooden hub than he did in the fields. In 1852,when he was 34, his brother Ephraim took ill. They rushed him to Boston where the doctors diagnosed him with "brain fever." He died within hours. Their once large family now consisted of himself, his mother, and his sister Mary. Eventually Mary went to live in Chelsea, and Isaac was now the sole caregiver to his elderly mother. In 1877, at the age of 89, she too, gave up her mortal cares finally joining her long dead husband in the grave. The years went by...Isaac was now alone.



He sat on the bench puffing on his pipe. The sun finally poked its head from behind the clouds. It was low in the western sky, and he smiled. It was his last sunset, and he was all alone. He must have often wondered how life could have been different. What if he had married? Had children of his own? He would never know. He was, however, aware of the change. People had stopped buying wooden hubs...and wooden spokes. It was iron now. The old village wheelwright was becoming obsolete. He sat there contemplating the vastness of the world, and the cognitive dissonance of his mind was working. Change was good...Or was it? His was a small world. A mere molecule in the cosmic entirety of space and time. He had occupied but a fragment of the lineal line of time...a dot...a pebble on the beach. He knew nothing of mankind's illusion of their superiority and greatness as it related to the natural world, and the culture from which they sprung, whether it be a revolution...a Civil War...Temperance societies...Masonic rituals...religious conformity...He was ignorant of this ostensible arrogance created out of a false sense of importance. A trillion years hence it would be a moot point! If he had been a philosopher he might have agreed with Sartre..."Nothingness, lies coiled in the heart of being, like a worm." What does it all mean? There were the wooden hubs, and the wooden spokes, the lathe, and the chisels. He looked at his once strong weathered, arthritic hands. This was his life... He thought of his mother, his sisters and brothers...The pastry in Boston, oh so long ago! all gone now...And now he too would die in a house fire on this very night, but he did not yet know it. Not that it mattered, for He was enjoying the sunset, and the melodious sound of a distant mourning dove.  He was a lonely man... a forgotten man... My uncle...The last Wheelwright of Halifax.