ack in the old days, when G. Krug and Son on Saratoga Street was still surrounded by fields, geese would sometimes swoop into the shop, pick at hot chips flying from the blacksmiths’ anvils, then keel over almost instantly. The workers ate the geese for lunch. Some things were less complicated then; no animal activists lined up to protest. By contrast, other things were more intricate; consider the elegant ironwork on and in so many old and historic Baltimore buildings: bells, railings, ornamentation of all kinds.

If our architecture rarely includes such intricacies today, we have not after all lost the means of creating them. The shop on Saratoga Street that opened in 1810 and made so much of the ironwork of the past is still in operation, still dedicated to fine craftsmanship, and still owned by the descendants of Gustav Krug, the German immigrant who took over from the original owners in 1871. So
G. Krug and Son, with its long history, is also part of Baltimore’s

present and future, with a very twenty-first-century twist: G. Krug and Son is now partly in the hands of two daughters, Alexandra and Rebecka. Alex, as

Alex demonstrates a belt driven hammer.

she prefers to be called, actually forges metal, while her sister studies filmmaking but remains involved in the family business.

In July of 2006, Baltimore Heritage, Inc. took its members on a “Behind The Scenes Tour” of the shop. The girls were on hand along with the senior Krugs who now run the business full time: their father, Stephen, and their uncle, Peter, a master craftsman. Peter’s son, David, like Alex, also works the forges. The visitors tried to ignore the dripping July humidity in order to get as close as possible to the blistering hot forge and to peer into the past through the craftsmen’s techniques and tools, most of which were handmade in the first place: hammers, tongs, swages or shaping tools that can stand alone or at the end of an anvil.

Alex demonstrated forging techniques and became extremely passionate as she explained the difference between hand-forged metal scrolls and the cast metal we buy in our local hardware stores. “If it’s cast, the curves will not be curves at all, but flat and square in appearance,” she explained. The men and women in the crowd, young and old, but especially the women, stood riveted by Alex’s passion and skill. So, why wouldn’t a homeowner choose the real thing? “It's because architects don’t budget for craftsmanship anymore,” Pete said.

Pete is tall with curly brown hair and quick to smile. He is totally humble when he talks about the talent, including his own, that abounds in the small but lively blacksmithing community throughout the USA. Pete learned his craft from a master forger, Randy McDaniel, at the Carroll County Farm Museum, the home of The Blacksmith Guild of Central Maryland. He also attended the Valley Craft School in New Jersey.

It is Pete who is passing his skill and experience on to Alex and Dave, but it was Steve who aroused his daughter’s interest long ago, when she was but a child. He would bring her to the shop, pull out all the drafting equipment (paper, compasses, pencils), and let her draw the day away.  As she got older, she actually began to work in the shop and remembers a lot of sweeping.

There was never a
question of being told,
“Girls can’t be
blacksmiths.”

That bought a smile to her face. Sweeping is always the apprentice’s initiation chore, and it is unending. Either you get into the rhythm, absorbthe inner hum of the shop, and tune into the camaraderie, or you don’t. Alex liked it. She also

remembers sliding on a moving ladder that allows access to the ceiling-high wooden drawers with their miscellaneous nuts and bolts. Unfazed and smiling, quiet and soft-spoken then as now, Steve let her go at it, then took her to lunch at Lexington Market, where she preferred the pretzels over the famous corned-beef sandwiches and crab cakes.

A view to Saratoga street from the rear of the shop.

When she was a teenager, Uncle Pete began showing her the basics of forging and recognized immediately that she had ability. There was never a question of being told, “Girls can’t be blacksmiths.” This self-confidence comes across loud and clear in Alex’s quick and curious eyes.  She doesn’t blacksmith every day, maybe three days a week, because she and her cousin Dave are also musicians. She plays guitar and sings (you might catch her at Iggie’s Pizza), and she also plays cajun, a wooden-box instrument from Peru via Africa. To listen to her is to know that she is endlessly curious and extremely comfortable in her own skin.

Alex tells the story of the afternoon when two women from the Penland School of Crafts in North Carolina, both blacksmiths, stumbled over the threshold of G. Krug and Son and were flabbergasted with what they discovered. They think that G. Krug and Son may be the largest continuously operating ironworks in America. It is certainly one of the oldest, but the greater claim has yet to be documented. “One day,” Pete and Alex say, almost in unison, “one day, we’ll get it documented.” Meanwhile, there is much work to be done.

Shelves with parts and an empty bottle of whiskey.

This begins in the Design Room, on the second story, facing onto Saratoga Street, where for more than 190 years, craftsmen and draftsmen have been putting ideas on paper. Today, the space is filled with preliminary drawings on silk paper along with a fascinating array of artifacts: delicate lace-like ironwork patterns, doorknobs, fireplace

implements, hinges, an iron wreath of laurel leaves, fire rails, iron with a beeswax finish to soften the color, and a remarkable small model of a patented mansion gate that is set in motion when carriage wheels roll over a lever.

But it is the commanding presence Gustav Krug, presiding from a portrait over the fireplace, that stops the eye. Alex’s great, great, great grandfather came to Baltimore in 1848 and began work at what was then known as the blacksmith shop of Augustus Schwatka. From journeyman, he advanced to foreman, then partner, and eventually, in 1871, to being the sole proprietor of one of the most prestigious ornamental ironworks in the country. The firm’s name was officially changed to G. Krug and Son in 1875. At one point, the shop supported 100 artisans and was proud to boast that virtually every building in Baltimore contained something made in the shop, even if that something was only a nail. Pete and Alex both speak with enthusiasm about their current team, nowhere near 100 people, of course, but an encouraging re-emergence of talent—many kinds of talent. During the July tour, the gates to the parking lot next door were accidentally locked, meaning that the visitors had no place to put their cars. Pete couldn’t find anyone to unlock the gate—so he simply removed it with a set of wrenches. The laughing and appreciative visitors learned that if you’re going to be locked in or out of any place, it helps to have an ironworker with you and a forge nearby.

After that first sweltering summer visit, I went back the following January, a much better time to visit an ironworks. The morning light crept through the old windows to cast a soft glow on the time-worn flooring, made of wooden-planks at least a foot wide. The deep oily finish muffles the sound of footsteps. Closer to the forge, an uneven brick floor, held together by dirt instead of mortar, dips and curves to protect the shop from flashing sparks.

It was a good time to think about how much we’ve lost in the way of craftsmanship in this country, and how sad it is that so many beautiful or historic (or both) old buildings have also been lost to the wrecker’s ball. “Architecture,” the German philosopher Friedrich von Schelling

(1775-1854) reminds us, “…is frozen music.” If we will but stand and listen, so many old buildings will still sing for us—and, I imagined, with special tunefulness if they have at least nails if not more visible

G. Krug and Sons,
with its long history,
is also part of Baltimore’s
present and future

elements made in the shop of G. Krug and Son and now Daughters. But, of course, if these buildings are destroyed, the music is silenced forever. That winter morning on Saratoga Street was, for me, a chance to recommit myself to preservation. But whatever I can do in my small way will be nothing like what the Krug family has done already and, thank goodness, continues to do.