Arthur: 1947

It is the sound of grunting men that attracts Art’s attention. Grunts, mild cussing, and the sound of splintering rock. Art just bought a sack of seed at the Co-op; he’s on his way back to toss the hundred-pound bag into the bed of the Model-A truck he’s owned since 1928. He hears the men curse again, and so, he draws around the corner of the Co-op to find out what the fuss is all about.

He sees two men, Jack McCracken and Frank Honey. Men younger than himself; boys really, their forest-green work shirts sticking like bread-dough to their chests in the July heat, each heaving twenty pound sledgehammers at the wall of the Co-op. Jack is taking golf-like swings at the wall, his hands high on the ash-handle to control his strikes. From the look of things, they haven’t made much progress in their work. A few forlorn chips of stone are flecked about their feet, dusting their boots grey.

“Afternoon, boys,” Art says. “What’s all the racket over here?”

“Hello there, Art,” Jack says, removing his hat and wiping his brow. He’s too weary to match Art’s grin. “We’re trying to put a hole in this wall, here. They want to build an addition to the Co-op out back, but we have to take down the wall first. But this part of the wall isn’t brick, it’s solid rock. It’s probably been here since Creation,” he pants.

Art sizes up the grey rock. “This doesn’t look too bad,” he says.

Jack guffaws. “Ain’t too bad? Frank and I have been out here for a half-hour trying to put a hole in this here wall. If the two of us can’t do it, you can’t either. And we’re half your age.”

“Well, let’s see about that. Hand me that hammer,” Art says. “I’ll have it down in a jiffy.”

Jack snorts and horks something yellow into the weeds. “All right. Be my guest, Art. Let’s see what you can do with her.”

Art sets down his grain sack, and pulls his hanky from his back pocket to dry down the handle of the sledge. It’s slick with sweat. It wouldn’t do to have it go flying out of his hands. He wads up the red cotton and stuffs it back where it came from.

“The first thing about sledgehammers, it’s about speed, not strength,” he says to Jack. “You have to hold it right here at the end so that you can swing it as fast as you can. You’ll be banging on this wall all day if you choke up on the handle like you were. You need fast, hard swings.”

Art hefts the sledge by the end, and whips it around, the tendons on his arms jumping out with the force of his swing, aiming for what looks to him like a mortar line. The rolled cuffs of his shirt pop as he flicks the sledge with sudden, vicious speed.

Pwack! He’s satisfied to see a fault develop in the wall from just the one hit. Jack and Frank exchange looks.

“The other thing about sledgehammers is, you have to start your swing over your head. Let gravity do some of the work. Swing down at the wall, like you would chop a tree. Down, not from your waist.”

Art snaps the sledge behind his ear, and arcs another strike at the wall, grunting with effort:

"Uhhnn!" Pwack!

The hammerhead thunders into the wall, a rattling shower of rubble breaking loose and tumbling to the earth. Art felt that last impact shake the wall a bit. It won’t take many more. He rests the hammer Bunyan-style on his shoulder. Jack and Frank aren’t wheezing for breath anymore.

“And if you think you’ve got the grip…well, the fastest swing of all is with one hand. Your other hand can slow you down, oftentimes.”

Art looks at the wall, widening his stance and spins the sledge from his shoulder one-handed like an Indian tomahawk. He steps into the swing, a sneer of effort creasing his face, as he puts all of his two hundred and twenty pounds behind the hammer, following through the impact to his mark like a pitcher would release a good, hard fastball.

Pwackk!

And a rock the size of a pumpkin disintegrates, splitting and tumbling into the basement of the Co-op with a half-dozen others, a hole at last ripped wide in the rough-hewn granite. A cloud of rock-dust billows from the wound, rolling in the summer air and sticking like flour to the faces of the men. The wall looks to be at least two feet thick at this point. With three hits, Art did in thirty seconds what Jack and Frank couldn't do in a half-hour.

Art hands the hammer back to Jack, dusting off his hands, and tips him a wink. “Maybe you fellows softened it up for me first, though.”

He picks up his grain sack like it’s nothing more than a bag lunch, hefting it over his shoulder and ambling again for his Model-A. It used to be red. It still is, only now it’s because the scars of twenty winters have rusted the doors and rocker panels.

Jack watches him go. Almost fifty years later, he’ll meet Art's grandson on the occasion of his funeral, and he'll tell him about the day he saw Art break down a stone wall with one hand.