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techniques, as such. In case you're interested, I just found a stray copu on my hard drive, and will past it below, without the formatting that the finished product had.
Thanks for making me think of this. Hope you enjoy reading it.
Redstone
-------------------- Inheritance
When the phone call came telling me that my father had died, I was just putting the finishing touches on a letter to him. One of the photographs I was enclosing was of his old table saw, a Craftsman of about 1950 vintage. It hadn’t been used in ten years or so when I got it from my brother. He thought I was crazy to lug it home, telling me that it didn't work and couldn't be fixed. But after about fifty hours of patient examination, cleaning, adjusting, and rewiring, I cranked it up and it cut its first pine board in a long time like a hot knife through butter.
In small-town Vermont, where I grew up in the 1950s and early 1960s, woodworking was one of those guy things (with apologies to all female readers; that’s just the way it was). The men of the family were expected to be able to fix cars, catch fish, shoot animals, and make things out of wood. It wasn’t necessary to be a master cabinetmaker, but when it came time to replace a porch step, you didn’t pay someone else to do the job.
Besides the societal imperative, woodworking was supposed to run in our family. My grandfather was widely acknowledged as one of the best around. He worked almost entirely by hand, with tools generally dating from the early 1900s. It wasn’t that he didn’t like power tools; I think he just liked to enjoy each project as long as possible. And what projects they were–he had a habit of just showing up at one of the relatives’ houses with his latest work (he gave away everything he made), and it was always something the recipient would scramble to make room for. His last and best effort was to make grandfather clocks for all his children and married grandchildren. These he made not from kits or even patterns, but by scaling some photographs he had seen in a furniture catalogue.
My father was more utilitarian. He cranked out the usual plywood bookshelves, storage cabinets, and toolboxes for the back of the station wagon. But he made these well enough that many of them are still around our various houses and doing their jobs, and he was thought of around town as being in the "pretty good carpenter" class.
And there was the shed. I still see it every time I smell sawdust. He worked in a cavernous two-level shed with a loft that was attached to the back of the house. There resided that table saw and all the other mysterious and dangerous tools. Like all kids, I wasn’t allowed to touch any of the good stuff, but if I nagged enough I would get a hammer, some nails, and some scrap wood to whack together into a vague approximation of a boat. That ended up being the extent of my childhood woodworking education, probably because I never asked to learn more. I just wasn’t very interested.
I got interested real fast, though, when I got divorced and moved into an empty house with an empty bank account. I knew that I would eventually need more in the way of furniture than what I had, which consisted entirely of a rolltop desk and a set of bookshelves. The choice seemed pretty clear: Head over to Goodwill, or buy some wood and basic tools for about the same amount of money, and hope that my genealogy and a few library books would provide the rest.
Well, I don’t know if it was genetics or necessity that did it, but I now have an entire houseful of furniture that I made myself. As I look at each piece chronologically, I can see the improvement in skill, design, and technique. Coming late to woodworking doesn’t mean you can’t learn fast. And, of course, each new project provided a handy excuse to buy a new tool and learn how to use it. And there are still a few spaces in the house that I can make things to fill. I'm even thinking about making a new sofa if I can learn how to do the upholstery, and of course that will mean a trip to the tool store...
But I won’t be buying a new table saw. This one is old, but it works just fine. I kept asking my father to come to the house so he could see my furniture, and how I had fixed up his saw to as good as new, but he never made it. He probably figured he’d have time to do it later, like we all do.
I wish he had, though. We all still have a child within us, and no matter how old we get, that child will always want to say what I said so long ago, holding up that ridiculous boat made of pine scraps and nails:
"Hey, Dad, look what I made!" ----------------------------------
©1992, C. Goff. All rights reserved.
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