PDA

View Full Version : Of Wood and Men



David Fried
04-07-2005, 12:35 PM
My mother just mailed me an essay, "Of Wood and Men", from the Los Angeles Times Magazine, April 3, 2005. If you get a chance, it is a good read.

Ken Salisbury
04-07-2005, 1:13 PM
here is a link to the article:

http://www.latimes.com/features/printedition/magazine/la-tm-workshop14apr03,1,1450257.story?ctrack=1&cset=true


http://www.oldrebelworkshop.com/misc/moderator.gif

Keith Starosta
04-08-2005, 8:08 AM
For those that don't want to have to go through the registration process, here is the text of the article...



Of Wood and Men
By Kathleen Clary Miller, Kathleen Clary Miller is a freelance writer living in San Juan Capistrano.

The primal pull of whirring blades and the scent of sawdust

My mother had to move her car permanently out of the garage. The doctor down the street often stitched my father's fingers back together on the kitchen table. I grew up thinking that my father lived in our garage because whenever he was not at the office, I found him there, sanding, varnishing or hammering. His dream (shared by every man I've ever met) was to have his own shop in which to produce the workings of his own hands.

There wasn't enough land where we lived in Pasadena, but after my mother died and my father and I moved in together on an acre, the addition he built was his and his alone. Make no mistake about it, his woodshop is a sacred place. Bill Clary, at 87, eats his cereal at 7:30, heads down the backstairs, out the backdoor and across the steppingstones to his shop for another day of work, pausing for a sandwich at exactly noon ("stomach time") and ending at 5 p.m sharp for a noggin or two of Pusser's Rum. He is the consummate carpenter, the master craftsman of the furniture he designs. He has made every bed, dresser, table and chair in the two places we have called home.

Beginning with a stool he built at age 7 for his father, he has created astonishing works of art ranging from aircraft-plywood rocking chairs to zebrawood jewelry boxes laced with ebony. No one in our family knows the retail price of a single piece of furniture.

"I'm looking for a project," he'll say, and the phone lines start vibrating and letters pour in from nieces, nephews and grandchildren across the country. They send him pictures from which he renders his own designs, drawing precise measurements with now slightly shaking fingers. And although the etchings on paper may be a bit wavier that they used to be, the end product—an angiko coffee table with a mixed-wood mosaic inlay, for example—is perfect, seamless, balanced by an arch constructed from layers of veneer, the joinery invisible to the naked eye.

Just as the aroma of barbecuing steak turns heads on a summer evening, the scent of sawdust from my father's shop is the call of the wild. In 1996, when we moved to San Juan Capistrano, a neighbor, upon observing the contents of the moving van in the driveway, wandered across the street on the pretext of an introduction. "What incredibly beautiful furniture!" he said as his eyes passed from a polished round occasional table to the inlaid grandfather clock to the Texas sofas. When my father acknowledged that there was no room for all of it in our new house, the neighbor didn't miss a beat. "What would you charge for that table? And may I come over and see your shop?"

What is it about the grind of the saw and the aroma of sawdust that arouses grown men from their sofas for a sudden dog walk? They drift past our driveway, noses in the air, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the handicraft they can sense is being sculpted by a master. We already know about men's insatiable urge to acquire tools; ever since early man first fashioned a stone to pound with, his progeny have kept pace by inventing a better belt or box to keep them in.

But an entire building dedicated to those treasures is enough to lure total strangers to my father's cave. An elderly gentleman wanders by to inquire about repairing a broken chair in his living room and ends up staying out there until dinner. The young doctor next door brings over a box he is making, and the next thing I know another apprentice is in the shop, abandoning his wife and children every moment of his free time. If they want to talk to him, they now telephone the shop. Yes, it even has its own phone number.

Inside the sanctuary, row upon row of drawers compartmentalize the enviable inventory. The eye candy of shiny brass fittings engages unsuspecting visitors, but it's the idea of having it all in a dedicated space that leaves them salivating. Plus, by nature, it's always messy. No nagging is allowed there, no tidying regulations. Wood shavings and scraps litter the cement floor and the windows are smudged; one remains broken from a piece of ply that flew through it and across the backyard last spring.

Whenever I open the front door for the UPS delivery man, his eyes widen with wonder at the eclectic mix of warm woods in the entryway and living room. He steps into a fantasy world of carpentry and sees not only the work of an artist, but also the history of a family. The delivery man is impressed with the furniture, yes, but what he's really itching to do is see the shop that Bill built.

The man to whom I am now married began wooing me by listing all the reasons I should meet him for a glass of wine. But when Brad learned that my father lived with me and had his own wood shop, he flat-out told me to forget the wine; he really wanted to get to know my father. And soon after Brad proposed, my father went over to his garage to check out the groom's tool dowry—a stunning collection from Bridge City Tool Works and a new Skil saw with no place to put it. A marriage made in heaven, and I believe a wedding that would have been shotgunned to the altar had I hesitated.

There was no reluctance on my part; I know a good woodworker when I see one. I wisely installed carpet the color of sawdust, and every weekend I carry sandwiches and drinks out to my husband, my father and the ever-increasing neighborhood entourage. That gives me the house to myself.

A woman's home is her castle, but a man would give his kingdom for a shop.

Jim Becker
04-08-2005, 9:21 AM
That's really excellent and absolutely renders what nirvana is for many, real or imagined. Great story!

Mark Singer
04-08-2005, 9:33 AM
That is a great story....very well written and describes the feelngs most of us feel and find difficult to express about woodworking...

Keith Starosta
04-08-2005, 10:16 AM
I absolutely agree. It almost brought a tear to my eye, thinking that this is how MY Dad would have been had he lived to that age. Great story!!

Keith

Bob Winkler
04-08-2005, 10:21 AM
Thanks for sharing this story. Can't wait to show my wife and daughter. Maybe it will help them understand...
I'd show it to my daughter's boyfriend, but since he doesn't know a hammer from a wrench, it may cause some feeling of insecurity. What the heck, I'll show him anyway.
Bob

Jerry Olexa
04-08-2005, 11:49 AM
Wow. That is EXCELLENT!! Thanks for sending it along. It expresses so well the love many of us have for WWing but have difficulty expressing !! I will be forwarding this to a few of my special freinds. Must admit a tear formed on my cheek as it reminded me of my treasured Dad!! THANK YOU..:)

Jerry Olexa
04-08-2005, 11:51 AM
For those that don't want to have to go through the registration process, here is the text of the article...

Keith Thank you. Pls read my post.

Robert Cox
04-08-2005, 12:06 PM
That was awesome.

Zahid Naqvi
04-08-2005, 3:42 PM
Great read, thanks for sharing David.