The Town
The glow of furnace fires painted the hillsides of Lawrence County in molten gold, the smoke rising like specters into the crisp winter sky.

In the late 1800s, the town of Ironton hummed with industry, its rhythm kept by the clanging hammers and roaring fires of the ironworks.

The Ohio River was the city’s lifeblood, with riverboats churning through the waters, their whistles blending with the low, constant pulse of labor.

Towering above them all, the Ironton Furnace, just on the edge of town, burned hotter and brighter than the rest, a testament to the wealth and ambition of its owner, Samuel Whitmore. But all knew the widowed ironmaster’s most closely guarded treasure was not his furnace — it was his daughter, Clara.

The townsfolk often whispered about her, likening her beauty to that of her mother’s, a shining star whose brilliance once lighted the town’s social firmament and, oh, too soon extinguished in the smallpox outbreak of the ‘40s. Behind their admiration lurked pity, not just for the loss of a mother and friend. Samuel’s ironclad grip extended beyond his empire and over his daughter, dictating her every move. Clara’s life seemed gilded to outsiders, but it was a cage she quietly fought to escape.

Her resistance was subtle but steady. She visited the families of furnace workers, braving icy roads to deliver food or bundles of wool to those who had little.

Samuel called it “charity,” tolerating her excursions only as long as they didn’t interfere with his plans for her future — a marriage to a businessman from Cincinnati, maybe someone who would strengthen the Whitmore name.

Clara smiled at her father’s ambitions but harbored dreams of her own, kindled by the quiet fire of independence that warmed her heart.

Tinder
One gray December morning, the bells of the Methodist church sounded across the way as Clara climbed the church steps. Inside, pine boughs lined the pews, and the warm scent of beeswax candles filled the air. The congregation bustled with activity, organizing bread and fruit baskets for Christmas deliveries.

Clara moved among them, greeting the workers and handing out loaves. In the tight quarters, she backed into…

“Miss Whitmore,” came a low, hesitant voice.

She turned to find herself face-to-face with Tom Bennett, one of her father’s furnace laborers. She recognized him instantly — broad-shouldered and weathered, with an air of quiet strength. He wasn’t the type to draw attention, but something about his steady demeanor lingered in her mind.

“Mr. Bennett,” she said warmly. “Could you help with these?”

She motioned toward the loaves of bread she was packing, and for the briefest moment, their fingers brushed. Tom averted his eyes, his voice halting. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see to it.”

As he walked away, Clara’s gaze lingered on his retreating figure. She couldn’t explain it, but something about him — the quiet resolve in his eyes, the way he seemed grounded in the earth he toiled — stayed with her.

The Beast
The air around the pig iron furnaces was thick with heat and the biting tang of molten metal. It was a brutal, unforgiving workplace — where men toiled under a haze of ash and smoke, their skin slick with sweat and grime. The roar of the blast furnaces was constant, drowning out all but the shouts of foremen and the clang of tools striking iron. For the men like Tom, it was a test of endurance as much as skill. Each shift demanded strength and precision; a single mistake could mean severe burns or worse.

Tom’s job was one of the most critical — and perilous — on the line. He worked as a “tapper,” using a long iron rod to pierce the clay plug at the base of the furnace, releasing the molten pig iron into troughs that directed it into molds.

It was grueling work, standing so close to the searing heat that the skin on his arms prickled and burned, despite his leather apron and elbow-length gloves. He had learned early to respect the molten metal — it moved like liquid fire, swift and unpredictable. A misstep, a clog in the troughs, or a buildup of pressure could cause an explosion of slag and flame, a deadly hazard that every man feared, but rarely spoke of.

The furnaces seemed alive, their glowing mouths breathing heat and light, their bellies constantly hungry for more ore, limestone, and charcoal. Tom often thought they mirrored the men who worked them — burning themselves out, hour after hour, to feed the endless demand.

Yet, there was pride in the work, too. The pig iron produced here would go on to build bridges, railways and cities. Tom took solace in knowing his labor had a purpose, even if it left his body aching and his lungs filled with soot.

The dangers of the job were constant, but they had become as familiar as the tools in Tom’s hands. However, an undercurrent of unease had been growing in the furnace yard.

Lately, the air seemed heavier, the furnaces hotter than usual, as if the place was holding its breath. Tom had noticed small things — a flicker in the flame where it shouldn’t be, an unusual vibration in the troughs.

He dismissed them at first, chalking it up to fatigue or imagination. But the men whispered about the faulty tuyeres and the oft-restricted slag notch, and even Tom couldn’t deny that something felt off.

Kindling
The streets of downtown Ironton were bustling with life as Christmas approached. Horse-drawn wagons rattled over the bricks, their wheels crunching through patches of snow and ice. Shop windows gleamed with holiday displays, from shiny tin toys at Bester and Bros. Hardware to bolts of bright fabric at J. T. Davies Dry Goods. The savory scent of fresh bread wafted from Smith’s Bakery, mingling with the ever-present taste of soot and charcoal smoke.

Clara, bundled in her crimson cloak, stepped carefully along Railroad Street. The rumble of a passing locomotive sent a shower of soot into the air, and she turned her face to avoid the cinders. The powerful steam engine exhaled plumes of black smoke that drifted across the sky, a stark reminder of the industry that kept the town alive.

As Clara adjusted her hood, she spotted Tom Bennett just ahead. He was balancing a burlap sack of potatoes over one shoulder while awkwardly attempting to carry a smaller parcel in the other hand. His face was smudged with soot from the furnace, and his boots were caked with mud. He hadn’t noticed her, focusing firmly on not dropping his burdens.

Clara’s cheeks flushed, and she caught her breath as her heart gave an unexpected flutter. Perhaps it was his rough-hewn strength or the easy way he moved through the busy street, nodding politely to those he passed. She quickened her pace to greet him.

“Mr. Bennett!” she called, her voice cutting through the din of passing wagons.

Tom started at the sound of her voice. As he did, his boot caught on a patch of ice, and he stumbled forward. The burlap sack tipped precariously, spilling a small avalanche of potatoes onto the bricks. The parcel in his other hand — a carefully wrapped loaf of bread from Smith’s Bakery — squashed against his chest, leaving a comical dusting of flour on his already soot-covered coat.

“Oh, no!” Clara gasped, rushing to help. She crouched to gather the spilled tubers. “Are you all right?”

Tom flushed a deep crimson that rivaled Clara’s cloak. “I’m fine, Miss Whitmore, just a bit clumsy today.” He bent to help, nearly knocking his forehead against hers. They both froze briefly, eyes wide, before breaking into sheepish laughter.

“I suppose the bread is a lost cause,” Clara teased, nodding toward the flattened package.

Tom scratched the back of his neck, grinning despite himself. “It’s not much worse than what I’d manage baking. But I reckon Smith’s doesn’t sell ‘pre-squashed’ loaves.”

Clara giggled, brushing dirt from her gloves. “You might be onto a new trend.”

As they finished gathering the coal, Tom seemed to remember himself. He stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. “Thank you, Miss Whitmore. I didn’t mean to trouble you. I should’ve been more careful.”

Clara straightened, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Nonsense, Mr. Bennett. It’s not every day I get to gather potatoes — or meet such a hardworking Santa’s helper.”

Tom grinned, rubbing at the streak of soot on his face, not realizing it had only made it worse. “You’re far too kind, Miss Whitmore.

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “It’s easy to be kind in good company. Call me Clara, please?”

The words hung between them, the sounds of the bustling street momentarily fading. Tom cleared his throat and shifted the now-dented bread package under his arm. “Well, I won’t keep you, Miss Clara. I’m sure you have much more important errands than rescuing me.”

“On the contrary,” Clara said, her voice warm. “This has been the most eventful part of my day.”

With that, she offered him a small, knowing smile and turned to leave. As she walked away, Tom watched her, his chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with flattened bread or spuds.

For Clara, the encounter, despite the wintry air, warmed her heart. The bustling town faded as Tom’s awkward charm replayed in her mind.

Sparks
In the days that followed, Clara noticed Tom more often. On her visits to the furnace yard, she watched him stay late to mend the bellows or help a fellow worker complete his shift. Despite the hard, thankless work that defined his days, he carried himself with dignity.

For Tom, Clara’s presence felt like sunlight breaking through a winter storm. But he didn’t dare to hope for more than a passing glance. She was Samuel Whitmore’s daughter — a woman of grace and privilege — while he rented a cold, drafty room with wages that barely fed him.

One afternoon, as Clara delivered supplies to a sick worker’s family, she found Tom helping to stack firewood outside the tiny home. They exchanged a few words, and when their eyes met, something unspoken passed between them. Later that night, as Tom returned to his quarters, he thought of Clara’s smile — not as charity, but as something genuine.

Oxygen
By Christmas Eve, the town buzzed with anticipation. Snow had fallen earlier in the day, blanketing the streets in a soft, shimmering coat that muffled the sound of passing footsteps. At the Methodist church, candlelight flickered in the frosted windows, beckoning the townsfolk inside with promises of warmth and song.

Clara arrived late, slipping quietly through the arched wooden doors, her crimson cloak brushing against the polished oak. Inside, the church glowed with the golden light of dozens of candles. Pine boughs adorned the walls, filling the air with their sharp, clean scent, while garlands of holly and crimson ribbons hung from the pew ends. The stained-glass windows — depicting saints and angels cast faint hues of ruby, emerald, and sapphire onto the hardwood floor as the moonlight spilled through.

The choir had just finished singing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” their voices lingering in the rafters like the echo of bells. The congregation had joined in the familiar strains of “O Come, All Ye Faithful.”

The organist’s hands moved deftly over the keys, coaxing a rich, resonant melody filling every corner of the sanctuary. Clara’s voice quietly joined the others. She had chosen a seat near the back, cloaked in the shadows of the high vaulted ceiling. She saw that her father, Samuel, sat in his usual place near the front, surrounded by the town’s dignitaries and men of influence. He appeared content, nodding as the organ played, and was unaware of Clara’s quiet arrival.

A hush fell over the congregation when the Reverend summoned Tom Bennett to the pulpit. Tom stood, walked to the lectern, cleared his throat, and began to read.

Clara was transfixed. His sturdy frame seemed out of place at the pulpit, his calloused hands gripping the edges of that old, worn lectern. Yet his voice was sure and steady, carrying the familiar nativity story with reverence and warmth.

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night…”

The words drifted through the church like the rising embers of a fire, touching Clara in a way she hadn’t expected. She had heard this story countless times, but the tale seemed alive in Tom’s low, resonant voice, brimming with promise and quiet hope. His steady cadence gave each phrase weight, as if he believed in the miracle it described.

As he read, Clara’s gaze moved over the crowd. Men with weathered faces and work-roughened hands sat alongside their wives and children, their expressions softened by the glow of the candlelight. The harsh realities of furnace life seemed distant momentarily, replaced by the warmth of shared faith and community.

When the reading ended, the congregation rose for the final hymn — “Silent Night.” Once more, the soft strains of the organ filled the air as voices rose in unison, their harmonies gentle and worshipful. Clara’s eyes fixed on Tom as he returned to his seat among the workers, the light of the nearest candle casting flickering shadows across his strong features.

Clara lingered in the back as the last verse faded to stillness, and as others left, she waited for him to finish talking with other workers. The hush of the church wrapped around her. Her pulse quickened with an unfamiliar urgency. Would the words come? Would Tom feel the same? Would she be forced to choose between her father or Tom? As Tom moved to leave, she made her way to the narthex. This was the moment she must translate the feeling of her heart into words. And then…

Inferno
There was a distant alarm, the acrid smell of smoke, and then, through the door, she saw flames roaring into the night sky.

Tom passed and instinctively sprinted toward the inferno; it was the furnace. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Clara. She ran to catch up.

“You can’t go!” Tom said, grabbing her arm. “I won’t stand by,” she replied, pulling free. When they reached the furnace yard, the voices of chaos greeted them. The fire blazed hungrily, leaping toward the charcoal piles that fed the furnace. Everyone knew that if it spread further, it could swallow everything.

No one was in charge, so Tom instinctively assessed the situation. He mobilized fellow workers and organized teams — some to move fuel farther back from the furnace, some to stop the billows, and others to arrest the river of iron’s lava-like flow. For that, they would construct a dike of dirt and stone.

Clara joined the brigade of townsfolk who’d arrived to help. Some bucketed water from the river to the fire, and others soaked feed sacks so workers might smother the flames. For most, this was their livelihood, identity, and source of connection and camaraderie. It offered them meaning and purpose.

Through the thickening smoke, Clara spotted her father’s carriage. She knew he would be there, somewhere, and no doubt by now, he was likely searching for her.

Suddenly, a smoldering beam snapped and collapsed onto one of the equipment sheds. Tom rushed forward to shield a young worker from the falling debris. Clara saw it all—the courage, the selflessness—and unknown to Clara, her father did as well. He could not dismiss the bravery or extraordinary leadership qualities he saw in this young man.

And then: “Clara,” Samuel called, “Come with me, it’s not safe for you to be here.” But she would not and continued to work the line.

When the fire was finally subdued, Samuel spied Clara with Tom, her once-fine cloak charred and ragged. “Clara, come now, please. Don’t be foolish; this is no place for you.” “No, Father,” she said, her voice steady. Samuel hesitated and then turned to Tom. “Bennett,” he said. “You have my thanks.” “If it weren’t for Tom, she added, “the furnace would be gone—and so would half your fortune.”

“Let’s go, my dear,” Samuel invited. “No, Father, Tom will see me home.” “Ok, but soon.” “Take my carriage, Tom; the walk will do me good.”

Embers
Early in the morning, Clara and Tom walked along the snow-covered bank of the Ohio. They had kept company and talked through the night. Now sunrise painted the water in shades of gold and crimson, its reflection as vivid as the fire that had brought them together.

Clara knew the road ahead would be hard. Her father might not understand, and society’s judgment could be unrelenting. But as Tom took her hand, she felt a quiet certainty.

For Tom, loving Clara wasn’t just a feeling but a covenant, a kind of work he was willing to put himself into completely. She had seen him for who he was beneath the soot and scars.

“I’ll do it, Clara,” Tom said, his voice resolute. Your pa, he doesn’t think much of me now. He’s a good man, though, a bit like a furnace – can be a little tricky and hot-tempered at times, but feed it the right fuel, keep at it, and eventually, it’ll give you something worth holding on to.

Tom resolved to show her father that he loved his daughter and would stand by her, shoulder the weight of a family, and not break under pressure. In Tom’s mind, the fire of love wasn’t just shaping him—he believed it could even soften a man like Samuel Whitmore. With Tom’s assuring words, Clara found hope with which to build their future. “Tom,” she said, “0urs is a love forged by fire.”

As the steepled sounds of the Christmas bells rose over Ironton that winter morning, Tom and Clara embraced in celebration of a message as old as time: “Love is born today.”

• • •

Author’s Note:
In 2021, after being away for fifty-two years, I returned to hometown, Ironton. It has been a joy to reconnect with the culture, its people, and our shared stories. For this season, I thought I might offer one of my own for the holiday—a short fictional story rooted in our rich history.

As a youngster, I first roamed the hills of Lawrence County as a squirrel-hunting companion to my father. During my elementary through high school years (I graduated in ’69 from IHS – GO TIGERS), I explored most of the hills behind our home in Coreyville and many parts of the Wayne National Forest. I discovered that many depressions and swales in the forests lands are remnants of punch, drift, and minor surface mines, methods used to extract iron ore (limonite), limestone, and coal from the hills of southern Ohio. l recall from my youth that the stands of trees were mainly tulip poplar, gum, sassafras and locust with fewer beech, maple, hickory, and oak. Occasionally, you’d see a cherry or walnut, hardly ever of substantial size. The days of harvesting those species to make charcoal fuel for the blast furnaces through the last half of the 19th century still left their mark.

The first furnace in Lawrence County, Union Furnace, was built in 1826 and marked the beginning of the county’s industrial boom. Soon, others followed, including Lawrence Furnace, Hecla Furnace and Vesuvius Furnace. These towering stone furnaces, sometimes reaching 40 feet, burned day and night. They produced “pig iron,” named after the mold system that made the molten metal resemble a sow suckling her piglets.

Workers fed the furnaces continuously with iron ore, limestone (as a flux), and charcoal to maintain their unrelenting heat—sometimes exceeding 2,000°F.

At its height in the mid-1800s, the Hanging Rock Iron Region produced over half the nation’s iron supply, essential for railroads, bridges, tools, and weaponry during the Industrial Revolution and the Civil War. The area’s iron was prized for its superior quality
and durability. The furnaces operated as centers of labor and community, relying on skilled workers like tappers, fillers, and moulders whose roles demanded strength, endurance, and precision.

The furnace industry created tightly knit communities where workers and their families depended on the ironworks for survival. Conditions were harsh and dangerous. Workers faced searing heat, the risk of molten metal spills, and constant exposure to soot and ash, which could lead to respiratory illnesses. Many laborers lived in modest company-provided housing near the furnaces, their wages barely covering essentials. Families often supplemented their incomes through small-scale farming, hunting, or barter with local merchants. Despite the grueling work, pride ran deep. Producing pig iron meant contributing to the nation’s infrastructure and progress, and the furnaces became
symbols of resilience, industry, and human ingenuity.

By the late 19th century, advancements in steel production and the depletion of local timber and ore caused many furnaces to close. However, their legacy endures.

Vesuvius Furnace, located within the Wayne National Forest, remains a relic and testament to the iron masters, laborers, and families who forged America’s industrial heart. Lawrence County’s furnaces represent a period of extraordinary ambition and hardship, a legacy now honored through historical landmarks, parks, and educational efforts.