Fenton's
father had just taken another factory, but there was talk of a strike, and some
of what father fondly called his "able‑bodied bodies" were
threatening to quit! Such defiance of
father quite puzzled Fenton. He knew
that unions had tried this sort of thing, but father was free to prohibit
them. Clearly none of the house staff
could ever quit ‑‑ where would they live? Yet that is precisely what these workers were
threatening to do. Would they walk out
on father?
It being her
turn, Mother arranged a sit‑down with Fenton and told him the story of
the cobblers and the elves.
"Once
there was a cobbler," she began, "who lived in a little house with
his wife who helped but not enough for they were dirt poor." (Fenton stifled
a smile at the expression "dirt poor," reminding him as it did of
the humorous discussion he and father had on this subject in which Fenton
learned that it was possible to work in dirt and not be poor provided you
owned the dirt ‑‑ or as father said, if you owned enough dirt. Father always chuckled greatly at that last,
and Fenton had fantastical visions of owning all the dirt there was and laughing
broadly at being, as father put it, "dirt rich.")
"In
fact," continued mother, warming to the story, "they were so poor
that they had but enough leather to make but one pair of boots and enough soup
for but one bowl of soup. The cobbler
sadly laid the leather on the work table and retired for the night.
"That
evening, a number of elves came prancing into the shop and set to work transforming
the leather into a most wondrous pair of boots. Before the cobbler (and his wife) awoke, the
elves did their last merry little jig, sang their last merry little song, and
scampered off to the woods.
"You can
imagine the cobbler's joy when he saw the boots sparkling on the workbench! And you can imagine his feelings when a
handsome nobleman purchased them at top dollar!
"'At
last, old cobbler's wife,' he exalted 'we can buy leather to make more boots!'
"Without
delay, he purchased more leather, and being a smart cobbler for one so poor,
he laid it on the worktable, shared a full meal with his wife, and retired
early to test the magic.
"Sure
enough, the elves sang and danced their merry way through many beautiful boots
which were snatched up by the good people of the community who could afford
them. This happy circumstance continued,
so the cobbler prospered and his wife insisted that they reward the elves
with a full set of clothes.
"Upon
seeing the clothes, the elves went into a frenzy of dancing, hugging and
kissing. All at once they sang, 'Oh, since we are no longer poor, cobblers
we need be no more!' Then, taking a last look 'round the shop, they raced
into the woods never, ever to return.
"'Who
will make the boots?' wondered the cobbler's wife to herself. 'Who will make the boots?'
This was a
serious question, as the cobbler's years of labor had left him with what
Father calls "Emmanual's
disease" where a person's hands become bony and stiff because
they can't read English. Without new
boots to sell, his fortune and his friends were soon gone, and he lived out his
days in sickness and poverty. So great
was his anger that he never again spoke to his wife, though she spoke to him
until shortly after his death when she, too, died, alone and poor."
Fenton was
visibly upset by the direction the story had taken. Sometimes, he felt, it was better to dispense
with uncertainty and get right to the point.
But his parents liked to draw out these stories. Or so it seemed to him. Mother smiled, sensing Fenton's discomfort.
"Now
down the road, another cobbler had prospered from a similar elfin visit. But he was smart—like father." Fenton beamed.
"When
his meddling wife suggested that they provide a full set of clothes for the elves, he
retorted that the elves 'are a proud people, who are good with their hands.'
"So he
laid out just the right amount of leather and
retired for the night. Upon
seeing the leather, the elves fell into their wild dance until one of them realized
that it was not enough to fully clothe them all.
"The
next night the cobbler laid out almost enough
material to make ties for the elves."
"But,"
broke in Fenton, "wouldn't the cobbler eventually have to lay out enough
material to fully clothe all the elves?" "Of
course, dear," replied his mother.
"but by then the initial material would have become threadbare and
worn—hardly the cloth of your independent elf.
The genius of the smart cobbler was to keep just enough material
dangled in front of the elves to keep them coming back."
"Did
they still dance their little jigs and sing their little songs?" asked
Fenton.
"No,"
sighed mother, ringing for help, "but they showed up nights and worked
their elfin butts off."
They shared a
brief smile, mother and Fenton.