MoranMemorial

And, he told me I had to get another pup, right away, and I did.

For someone so famous for his bladesmithing, and the history behind his life, to take time and tenderness to be there, and care, is what this world is all about. He meant a lot to me, I loved him dearly. The world will truly be an emptier place now that he's gone. And I'll miss him more than most, though there are many who will.

Goodbye and thanks Mr. Bill, for all the wonders you brought to this world, especially for what you brought to mine. Pat Jamgochian

Many years ago when the Blade Show was in Knoxville, my dear friend Clyde Fischer got to be "good friends" with my (then) little son, Al. Clyde promised to make a knife and send it to Al as a gift. After several months of enjoying Al getting the mail from the mailbox without being told to do so, the knife arrived. Al was ecstatic, but then I had to revert to once more asking Al every day to get the mail! Al's sister, Becky (about 2 years older than Al) was somewhat indignant as to why Al got a knife and she didn't. I relayed that story kind of casually to Bill and Margaret Moran at the next hammer-in in Old Washington, as just a little humorous story. Margaret being the type she was, said that she perfectly understood Becky's feelings and that she should have a handmade knife also.

About 3 months later, here comes a package in the mail addressed to Becky Harris............. from Maryland. Inside the package was a wonderful note from Margaret (who was quite the "note writer" anyway). Paraphrasing the note, it told of how Bill and Margaret discussed the events leading to Becky's "problem", and Bill told Margaret that he should make a knife for Becky right away. Enclosed was a beautiful, delicate little fixed-blade knife, repleat with typical "Moran-style" maple handle, silverwire inlay, a classic, feminine looking choil, and a beautifully hand-tooled leather scabbard.

Of all the acts of generosity and kindness (which number so high as to escape my count) which I have seen over the years coming from Bill and Margaret, this one really stands out, as it was extended to my little girl.

I know Bill and Margaret are together again in a better place, but the selfish part of me wishes they were still here.

Want to memorialize Bill's passing and celebrate his life? Perform an act of selfless kindness and be humbly appreciative of something that others normally take for granted, and treat all with respect................. that is how Bill lived his life. Jeff Harris

For the past 17 years, I have lived approximately six miles from Bill Moran's shop. While driving by Bill's shop on almost a daily basis for several years, that big knife over the door would always catch my eye. I assumed that since there was this Big Knife hanging over the door of the building, whoever owned it must have something to do with making knives, I knew nothing else about it though.

After wanting to learn how to make knives myself since I was a child, I decided about 18 months ago to give it a try. By coincidence, I was at my barber's shop in Middletown, MD, one evening shortly after making my decision to learn knifemaking, the subject of Bill Moran came up. My barber, who had known Bill for many years, told me all about how famous he and his knives were and how much it cost to buy one, providing you could find one for sale. My barber also told that evening that I should stop by Bill's shop and introduce myself.

After putting it off for a few weeks, I finally worked up the courage to stop in one morning. Bill was standing in his shop door and no one else was around. I walked up to Bill and introduced myself, and before I could say another word, Bill said, "come on in here and sit down!" By this time, I was so excited that I could hardly breathe! He ask me if I made knives and I told him that I had always wanted to and that I was about to give it a try. At this point, he began to ask me what types of knives interested me and was I going to learn to forge to just grind them out, etc..

Within the next few minutes, I had received a crash course in bladesmithing! I got to hold and look at his personal carry knife as well as others that had just been forged out. I was in Heaven, here's a man who up until 10 minutes ago, didn't know that I existed! Bill treated me as if he had known me for years!

Since that first meeting a year and a half ago, I've had the great honor, on several occasions, of sitting in Bill's shop and listen to him talk about his early days in the business as well as many of the old Masters who had passed on. There is not a dollar amount that I can conceive of that I would trade for the times I got to share with Bill Moran.

The first blade I ever attempted to forge, I was lucky enough to have Bill check it out. Not only did he compliment me on the parts I'd done right, he also pointed out, with the same amount of candor, what I had done wrong! Never in my life have I ever gotten such satisfaction out of being told that I'd screwed up!

I could go on and on about the feelings I have for Bill Moran. Never have I been touched to such a degree is such a short amount of time, except at the birth of my children, than I have been by knowing Bill Moran. Mr. Bill, thank you and do enjoy the eternal peace that God granted you on February 12, 2006.

Ernie Brumage
6936 Mountain Church Road
Middletown, MD 21769

I came to know Bill during the 2 week course in Bladesmithing in 1990 when it was at the Rochester Institute of Technology. That was also when I first met Jim Batson and we were "roomies " together while there. I had met Bill quite a few years earlier at some gun shows where I would display my collection of Scagel Knives.
I will never forget the gleam in his eyes as he fondled those Scagels! And as the years rolled on, I don't think there was ever a time when we would meet at some show or hammer-in that he did'nt say " Gosh, I sure wish I had a chance to meet that man! "
But what is so astounding and prophetic, in fact amazing, is that Bill Moran passed away on Bill Scagel's Birthday, Feb 12th ! Exactly 150 years to the day of Scagel's birth.!!
I don't know about you, but I am certain, one way or another, that there is something tremendously significant about this happenstance.
What else can one say about Bill Moran ? He was so giving of his talents - an unique and totally unselfish man.
About the only times I ever saw Bill angry { both of us being pipe smokers} was whenever we discussed the ongoing efforts of the "do-gooders" to banish tobacco. He'd get so fired up over this foolishness that I had to once check his pulse and blood pressure, mine own included. He sure had acomplete vocabulary describing "those damn liberals" and he was'nt a bit bashful about how and when and where to use them.
Goodbye old friend-- Give my regards to Bill Scagel when you bump into him up there.

Dr. Jim Lucie

In Tribute to William Francis Moran, Jr. 1925-2006

“There are those who know not, they know not – ignore them.
There are those who know they know not – teach them.
There are those who know they know – follow them. “Anon.

The coals in the forge are cold and the hammer lays silent on the anvil. The wheezy old bellows have breathed their last for their master. William Francis Moran, Jr., left his mortal shop for the last time on February 12, 2006.

I was one who knew of Mr. Moran only by his work and reputation. I never had the honor and pleasure of meeting him in person. I drove past his shop several times, but not knowing him and certainly not wanting to bother him, I never stopped. I know now that that was a mistake.

From what I heard and learned about him at his funeral service on February 17, in Frederick, Maryland, I know I would have liked him. I know that he and my father, Millard F. Blair would have enjoyed a chew together. Minnesota farm born in 1893, a decorated World War One veteran and a man who helped create the profession of arboriculture to support his love of fishing, my father had to study blacksmithing in 1917 in order to make the special tools that he needed to advance his work on trees. Because of my father, I’ve had a life-long love for and fascination with the art of the smith.

By the dancing glow of Bill's forge and warmth of his coal-fired pot belly stove, I can almost hear them loudly, clearly and in their unique and poetically profane style decrying the way they saw this country going to Hell in a hand basket.

Like my father, Mr. Moran was one of the fortunate few who lived his life on his own terms as he literally forged a career in fire and steel with hammer and anvil. Bill Moran wasn't the first custom-blade smith, he was merely acknowledged by the best as being the best.

Because the glory days of Damascus steel bladesmithing had faded out in the 9th Century, no American bladesmith had ever mastered the technique. Four decades ago, in the magic fire of his forge, W. F. Moran, Jr. wrested from iron and steel the secrets of pattern-welding them into exquisite works of art.

Arabian Kings and Hollywood stars traveled thousands of miles to meet this country bladesmith and commission his work to be treasured and displayed as rare works of art alongside Van Gogh’s and Rodin’s in their mansions and palaces, but Bill crafted even his most beautiful knives to be used not just locked away behind glass or in vaults.

Rodney Shirk is a friend of mine who knew Bill and learned the art of bladesmithing directly from him. Rodney learned well. On Bill’s passing, Rodney commented that although he didn’t have any children of his own, many men, including Rodney, looked upon him as a father figure to respect and admire.
I envy him for the stories he can tell and the lessons that he learned from this man who was as unique as the knives that he crafted.

On the way home from the funeral service in Frederick, I made a point of taking the back road that wends its way through Braddock Heights to Middletown, Maryland. There on the right, behind the weathered giant wooden knife that served as Bill’s sign was THE SHOP. Built of concrete block in the 1960’s, the shop reflected the master’s style: solid, practical and unpretentious. A couple of bunches of flowers had been left at the front door by friends in mourning. One panel in the Plexiglas windows at the front door had been scratched so thoroughly by Bill’s pet Rottweiler that it looked as though it had been roughed up by an orbital sander. A peek inside the good window showed a shop that looked as though Bill had just stepped out for awhile and would be back shortly.

In a world of operating room clean shops like what you see on American Chopper or Biker Build-Off, Bill’s shop is an image frozen in time right out of Longfellow’s Village Smithy. The only thing missing is the spreading chestnut tree. But this is not a reproduction of a blacksmith’s shop; it was this man’s shop for five decades. Bill built the shop building new and proceeded to fill it with his life’s work and his life’s interests. The work benches are cluttered beyond description, but I’ll bet that Bill knew where everything was and woe to anyone who would move a chisel or a fuller from one pile to another.

Deer antlers adorn the rafters; arrows lean against the wall and the big target block in the yard give a clue as to what the man did to clear the cobwebs. A big scythe hangs from the ceiling, perhaps a reminder of his youth on the family farm.

The huge, pot bellied stove in the area of the shop that Bill would relax with his friends wasn’t there for looks, its casing bears the distinctive shades of a stove that had had it’s black paint burned off decades ago. Stoked with hard coal on bitterly cold days it probably glowed dull red as it kept the room hot.

The shop had no plumbing; which would explain the well beaten path to a classic weathered green wooden outhouse behind the shop. Bill would bring an old, round canteen filled with water with him each day he went to work.

William Francis Moran, Jr. was not a large man physically but I felt the presence of an absolute giant of a man who cast a shadow around the world.

William Francis Moran, Jr. was not much for formal schooling but I felt the presence of genius as rare as that of Thomas Edison, John Moses Browning or Leonardo DaVinci amongst the clutter of a life-time of curiosity, innovation and rare artistic talent.

In a world of mass-production and success measured in millions of this and billions of that, the sum total of Mr. Moran’s life’s work of perhaps 2,000 knives probably wouldn’t fill the bed of a pickup truck, but each knife was a masterpiece of craftsmanship whether it was a simple skinning knife or his most spectacular Damascus steel art knife with intricately inlaid silver wire in the handle.

Spread across the world’s population, there are so few Moran knives that most people have never seen one. For many, it has to be taken as an article of faith that Moran knives exist, because few people will ever see one and even fewer own one. Of course they exist, but Mr. Moran’s legacy is not in the knives that he made, it is in the men he taught as much as they could learn of what he knew.

His legacy is in the American Bladesmith Society he helped co-found. It is in the W.F. Moran School of Bladesmithing he worked so tirelessly to see grow from vision to reality. This is the legacy of Bill Moran. Modern American Bladesmithing was born in his first forge near Lime Kiln and matured in THE SHOP near Middletown.

Although all who knew him, learned from him, and loved him are diminished by his passing, there are bladesmiths who have not yet been born who will create works of art in pattern-welded Damascus steel that will owe their art and livelihood to a quiet man who long ago found the way out of the darkness of history to leave a light of knowledge burning so brightly that the path is clear to all who choose to follow.

Although Bill’s favorite music was played, there were no hymns sung at the service. The hymns of praise will be rung out at forges and smithy’s and hammer-ins all over the world in the years to come by those who will keep the coals hot and the anvils ringing in honor and tribute to William Francis Moran, Jr.

Donald F. Blair
February 17, 2006

I want to thank E. Jay Hendrickson, his wife Nancy and son Shawn for reviewing this tribute, correcting some mistakes and adding some details that enriched this tribute. Although I didn’t have an opportunity to meet his other daughter’s Shari Jenkins and Stacy Tuomey, Jay is very proud of them for their involvement with Bill’s care in his final days.

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