Extremely Average

My Journey in Writing, Ranting, and Woodworking

Browsing Posts published in January, 2010

Sunday had been relaxing.  Henry spent the day finishing his dado jig for his router.  He was starting to get comfortable using the router and was able to create a straight edge, then from that, square up the jig.  He could hardly believe it when he put the square on each corner and they were all at 90 degrees.  What a rush.  After he finished the jig and photographed it for posterity he relaxed a bit and bought a new case journal.  He jotted down a few of his thoughts.
Jan 2, 1955 A New Year…A New Case.  37th floor, Chrysler Building, Office 16…Go there in person, meet his co workers, look for clues.  8 am Monday.
Henry had called Luna, just to check if she had heard from her father, and he told her he intended to look around his office on Monday.  She said that she suspected someone at the firm.  Her father had been missing since Dec 24th, and Monday would be the first day the firm was open since he disappeared.  Henry wondered if they knew he was missing.  He would have to be coy.
The door of his office was mahogany and had his name on it.  He walked in and weathered woman with a serious look was sitting behind a desk.  She had a bit of a scowl on her face and was opening the morning mail.  She looked up and asked, “May I help you?”, in a voice that was much kinder than Henry expected.  “Yes, I was wondering if I might speak with Mr. Alexander.” He said, taking off his hat.  He had decided he wanted to see if she knew anything.
“Mr. Alexander isn’t in yet, but he should be here shortly, he is never late.  Do you have an appointment?”, she said, while continuing to open letters.
“No, I was hoping he might have a few minutes.”  Henry said, sure now that she wasn’t aware that he wouldn’t be coming in.
She opened another envelope and the phone rang, she answered and  then said, “Excuse me, are you Mr. Wood?”
“Yes.”  This caught Henry off guard, but he was good enough to put on his nonchalant expression.  He assumed she would elaborate. He was correct.
“Mr. Alexander apologizes for being late; you may wait in his office.  He will do his best to get here as quickly as he can.”  She hit a button under her desk, there was a low buzzing sound and she stood up and opened the door and showed Henry inside.
The office was very nice with a large art deco desk and book shelves along both walls.  There was a plant of equal height in each corner behind the desk; in fact, everything was exactly where one would expect it to be.  Luna had described her father as meticulous and now that Henry saw where he worked, he understood.  The desk was free of clutter, a new pad of paper by the phone.  The phone was placed so that it was parallel to the edge of the desk, with the cord draped neatly over the side.  Next to the pad was a group of 6 pencils, which were all lined up next to one another.  They all looked to be the same length and as Henry looked closer he noticed something odd.  Every pencil was rotated so that the brand name was not showing, except one.  Henry looked around the office and didn’t see anything out of place.
Having spent his entire Sunday fastidiously measuring and remeasuring every single cut and drill hole, he was feeling like he understood what it was like to be so precise.  Though he wasn’t normally a neat and organized person, he appreciated its advantages and the esthetic.  He leaned forward and carefully rotated the pencil around and on the other side were six numbers.  He read the numbers to himself, 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, and 23.  He put the pencil in his pocket and pushed the other ones together.  Just then he heard the buzz of the door.  He quickly sat back down.
The secretary walked in and said, “Mr. Alexander just called and he apologizes but he is not going to be able to make it into the office.   He said to apologize for not being able to discuss your numbers.”
“Thank-you” Henry said, as he stood up to leave.
“Do you mind me asking; are you a client of the firm?  I thought I knew all the clients.”
Henry, quick on his feet said, “I am considering this firm.  I met Mr. Alexander recently and he offered to go over my books.  He said that each partner has different strengths and he would tell me who might be best for me.  I won’t give my business to just any firm.”
This seemed to satisfy her and she smiled and held the door for Henry.
While he rode the train back home, he thought about the numbers.  What did they mean?  Obviously Mr. Alexander is still alive and well, but what is he up to.  How did he know I would be there at 8 am?  How could he have known I would find the numbers?  He had gone into the city looking for answers and only found questions.  Henry decided he needed to think, and he felt he needed to tidy up his workshop.  Mr. Alexander’s office had rubbed off on him.  He could clean and think.  Plus he needed to find a place of honor to store his dado routing jig.

 

Henry’s head was still throbbing from ringing in the New Year.  He looked at his calendar, a present from his brother in Manhattan, a New York Giants fan of all things.  The calendar had a team picture of The World Series Champion Giants, who swept the Cleveland Indians in 4 games.  It was galling for him to look at and he mumbled to himself, “At least the damn Yankees didn’t win their 6th in a row.”  For though Henry didn’t care for the Giants, the previous two years had seen his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers beaten by the Yankees, and he could barely stand it.  But looking at Jan 1, 1955 filled him with hope and optimism.  This would be the year for Robinson, Hodges, Reese, Koufax, Newcomb, Campanella and the boys.  His day dreams were interrupted when there was a mouse like knock at the door.  He started to yell, “Come in”, but then lowered his voice and mumbled, “Yes?” His head ache made him wince in pains.
The door opened slowly and a tall svelte woman eased herself into his office.  Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun.  She was really quite striking, but obviously shy.  He guessed librarian.  “May I help you?”  He asked, trying not to sound miserable.
“Are you Henry Wood, the detective?”
“Yes, and you are?”
“I am Luna Alexander, and I am afraid my father has gotten into a sticky situation.  I need your help.  I am sorry to bother you, and I didn’t think you would be here, but…”
Henry was a detective by day and a woodworker by night.  To be truthful, he was a moderately good sleuth, but a subpar craftsman.  Just two days earlier he had been gluing up a jig for his router, to cut perfect dados, and the squeeze out had gotten everywhere.  It had been a sticky situation, in its own right.  He turned his attention back to Luna, who he was sure wouldn’t be interested in his gluing issues.
After she had told him about her father, his background and when she had last seen him, she asked if she might sit down.  When she took a seat, it seemed as if the weight of the world was threatening to crush her.  She looked defeated and sad.  “Will you help me?”
Henry was about to say that it sounded like a missing persons matter for the police, but instead said, “I would be happy to take your case Luna.”  She gave the slightest smile, stood and shook his hand.  Henry wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught the briefest glint of hope in her eyes.  She handed him an envelope and said, “My address and number are in there, along with the retainer.  Please let me know as soon as you find out anything.”
As the door closed, he took out his little notebook and jotted down the details.  Her father, a senior level accountant with Smith, Havershome and Blickstein Law firm and had been working for them for 20 years.  Lately he had seemed distracted.  He and Luna lived in a modest flat in Brooklyn and he took the train into the city.  Luna worked at a bakery and was always up and gone before her father, but also arrived home several hours before him.  She described him as a meticulous man.  He liked routine and always came home at 6:22 each evening.  Lately however, he had been getting home at all sort of odd hours, would skip dinner, not even bothering to listen to the radio.   He loved his job, he loved radio mysteries, and he loved routine.  She mentioned that she first started to notice something strange, when her father didn’t even react to ‘The Shadow’ going off the air.
Henry wondered if ‘The Shadow’ knew what lurked in the heart of Mr. Alexander.  He headed back to his tiny little house and into the basement.  He checked his magic closet which had a time portal to the future, and occasionally a new and wonderful tool would show up.  The Bosch router had arrived just a month or so earlier with a magazine describing all sorts of things it could do.  The story of the portal was a mystery that Henry had not been able to solve, but since it hadn’t sucked him into an abyss, and often gave him presents, he didn’t care.  Today it was empty.   The glue up, from the day before, was ready for him to start the next step.  He found that woodworking helped him mull over his cases.
The instructions, in the magazine by Woodsmith, indicated that the dimensions are rough, but Henry figured he needed the practice, so he devoted a bunch of time to precision.  After cutting two pieces he realized he hadn’t accounted for the kerf of his circular saw and had also made a measuring error of 2 full inches.  He found it amusing that his attempts at precision had been such an abysmal failure.  Henry had anticipated just such a result and had purchased plenty of extra lumber.  On the upside, he had gotten much more comfortable with his circular saw.  Henry was a glass half full sort of guy.
He took a few photos of the glue up and then went upstairs to call Mr. Alexander’s firm.  Then his foggy brain remembered that it was Saturday and also January 1, so he would have to wait until Monday.  He returned to his jig and thought about Luna.

“Confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar Stood ruled, stood vast infinitude confined; Till at his second bidding darkness fled, Light shone, and order from disorder sprung.” -John Milton

You might have to read that quote a couple of times. It is about confusion and after I read it the first time, it confused me even more. I wonder if that was Milton’s goal. Today, I was ruled by confusion. I felt like every moment from the first light of day, until now, has been a disorganized mess. I had several things pulling me in different directions. As the work day came to an end, I started to think about today’s blog. Again confusion raised his befuddled head.

I finished the saw horses. I haven’t finished them yet. See, even my blog is confusing. I should have said, though I haven’t applied a coat or two of finish to the saw horses, I have completed the construction. I intend to apply a finish to them. I also need to decide on my next project, for without a project, there isn’t woodworking, and without woodworking, there isn’t a blog. Oh sure I could ramble on about something else, perhaps discussing changes in cheese making technology, or look into recent attempts to unionize hurdy gurdy players, or even write horoscopes for cats. (Leo: You look purrfect today, people admire you, and they want to be near you, to serve you and do your bidding…in other words, same old thing. A new ball of yarn catches your eye. Play with fuzzy ball, nap, play some more and repeat.) But those things don’t really interest me.

I also consider the possibility of just skipping a day. I could do that. What is the worst that could happen? I could go hang out with some friends at the Sports Column in Iowa City. Of course, breaking my streak of 27 days would probably make me feel awful tomorrow, lead to more drinking, and missing of another day. This vicious circle would continue for a fortnight, leading to unemployment, incredible depression, the adoption of a dozen cats (One for each sign), and ultimately the writing of catascopes. So skipping a day seems like a bad idea.

I could ramble on about being confused…no that wouldn’t work…or would it?! Damn I wish I could raise one eyebrow, stupid eyebrowus parallelus. Could I possibly be confused for an entire blog post? Has it ever been done? I could look it up on Google or should I use Yahoo. I just don’t know. I started watching the Tage Frid video, from Taunton Press, and it is marvelous. Maybe I could write a review. Nope, I’m not feeling it today.

I know what I want to work on. I want to build a router table. No confusion there. The problem is that I am torn between two different router plates. Should I choose the Rockler Aluminum Router Table plate for Group A routers or the Kreg PRS3030 Precision Router Table Insert Plate? I have also considered the Rousseau 3509. I just don’t know and I am worried about making a poor choice. They all look like they are fine quality. The Kreg is $10.00 more expensive, but it could be delivered on Monday, while the Rockler would not come from Amazon, and I have no idea how long it would take. Once I make my decision, I am going to be eager to work on the table. I can spend the weekend making the legs. I will use the same methodology I used in my workbench. So maybe I should just ask for help?

If you have built a router table do you have a recommendation?

If you have ordered stuff from Rockler, how was their shipping?

If you have a cat, would the cat appreciate having a horoscope written for him or her?

As you can see, I am still quite a mess. I will do better tomorrow. Sorry.

Here is a picture of… a dog. This is Zoey; she lives next door to my parents, and really likes it when my dad rubs her belly. She never seems confused. I admit a cat would have been more appropriate, but I well…eh.

The Twins

2 comments
I stand by my bench with my sander in hand.  As I move it slowly over the piece of saw horse I see the marks of my progress.  I gently pass over the little imperfections that taught me how not to us a chisel.  I think about the progress.  I think about the grain and how it measures time.
The building of the Krenov saw horses is supposed to take an afternoon, but if you are really skilled you can make it take a month.  I am a person with this level of skill.  Time is a funny thing and as I sanded away the wood, in effect removing little bits of time, I thought about my two saw horses.  They would look very similar, sort of like twins, but each one unique.
In the late 70’s the skateboard was all the rage.  Not much more than roller skate wheels on a slab of plastic, it filled the summer of my 5th grade year with joy.  Riding the skateboard was fun, but the real joy was hanging out with Doug, Marty, Paul, Jenny, Teri and Tracy and riding down the hill by our school.  It wasn’t a steep hill, but to make the turn onto the sidewalk at the bottom was quite the challenge.  Once we had all mastered that, we tried going down in pairs, with each person sitting on their board and holding hands with the other with legs crossed.  Making that turn was next to impossible and most attempts ended in wonderful crashes and laughter.  It was also generally a mixed doubles sport.
I think I am hopeless romantic today, because of those days holding hands with Teri Holtz, riding down the hill.  As I sanded the boards and admired the little differences that make the saw horses unique, my thoughts drifted back to Teri’s freckles.  Tracy, her twin sister, didn’t have so many.  To say the Holtz twins were ‘cute as a buttons’, would be to sorely understate their appeal.  I think the saw horses are equally lovely.
Each minute sands away more and more of the imperfections.  The legs, the feet, and the stretchers become smooth and soft to the touch.  I spend a couple of hours sanding and waxing nostalgic.  When I am done, I glue her up. Her twin waits patiently off to the side.  While the glue is setting I think about what I have learned about woodworking.
I have cut 2 mortises, 2 through mortises, and six tenons by hand.  My skill with a chisel and Japanese saw is better than when I begun.  I have used Mary to shape the feet.  I have spent lots and lot of time sanding.  The understanding of how to mark up a board, and then cut to the line is now ingrained in my mind.  And in the end, I have two saw horses that are ‘cute as a button’.
Marty died a while back.  I heard that Jenny has 6 kids.  I don’t know what became of Kate, Paul or Doug, and I haven’t talked to Teri or Tracy since high school.  They are different people today; I am sure, as am I.  They may not even remember that summer.  It really doesn’t matter much.  I am sure that time has worn away the edges a bit and I may not remember it exactly as it was.  In truth, I am left with a soft, fuzzy memory of a simpler time, and wonderful little crush, with a bit of hand holding.  It makes me smile.
I wonder if I will remember the joys of building my first saw horses.  I wonder if the little nicks and cuts, now sanded away, will remain with me.  I doubt it.  But in 30 years, when I look at the twins, I am sure I will have a soft, fuzzy memory of how they came to be, and it will make me smile.

 

I have been giving one tip to people for years.  It is so simple, I hesitate to even call it a tip, but alas I don’t have a thesaurus handy, so I have little choice.  This applies to every photo, whether it is an image of your latest woodworking project or a prize winning picture of a yeti.  The last thing I do, before I press the button, is to slowly force myself to run my eyes around the edge of the image.  I know it sounds dumber than Jethro Bodine, but that is because it is so easy.  In the words of a thousand commercials for footwear, ‘Just Do It’. 

When you start to look at the rest of the image, not just the finely turned bowl, you will notice that there is a corner of a box of diapers sneaking into the image.  You will also get better at taking pictures of people.  The stop sign that is ‘growing’ out of your girlfriend’s head, or the car with your angry wife driving by the shoot, will suddenly pop out to you, and thus you can make slight adjustments (like making sure you take pictures of your girlfriend only when your wife is visiting her sister in Saginaw).  This tip will work with any camera you have, though I still think you should get those lazy six years olds their first job, and get a fancy pants model.  But I digress.

Along a similar line, when taking a picture of your work, if you wish to put some extra items in the background, like tools behind a project in process, or a delicious ham behind the aforementioned finely turned bowl, try to use a shallow depth of field.  Depth of field is the distance (or depth) in the image, which is in focus.  This generally applies to SLRs (Single Lens Reflex…aka…fancy pants cameras), but there are some point and shoots which have this capability.  My mom’s camera, the Powershot G10, is able to set the f-stop.  So when I say shallow depth of field, I mean a small number on your camera’s lens, or a small f-stop.  For example an aperture setting of 3.5 will cause the background to be out of focus, thus causing the subject to stand out, while f22 (f stands for aperture, I could make up a story for why they use f and not a, likely involving a priest, a Rabbi, and an Episcopalian yak farmer, but I have already digressed.), would leave everything in focus.  It is also important to understand how aperture works with light.

Shallow depth of field requires less light than a longer depth of field.  This is helpful when you are taking pictures in artificial light, because the shutter doesn’t need to stay open as long as it would if you were trying to have everything in focus.  If you are getting really excited about photography and are starting to read up on the subject, you might run across the term ‘fast lenses.  This confused me for a long time.  It is simply a lens that allows for a very shallow depth of field.  They are generally much more expensive than a normal lens.  For instance a zoom lens that goes to 300 mm, can be picked up for 3-400 dollars, a ‘fast’ lens, the giant lens that the photographers use on the sidelines of football games, those start at about $7000.00.  This is not a lens you should need, as it is too ‘long’, for shooting your work, but it brings me to my next and last subject for the day.

This photo shows tilt shifting in the table, an annoying shiny bit from a Jet clamp in the top right corner, and also demonstrates shallow depth of field.   This image can be improved substantially by simply removing the clutter in the top right corner.  Were I to shoot it again, I would also slide the mortar slightly to the left.  It feels slightly out of position where it is.

The amount of zoom you should use when shooting.  If you are limited in space, you can use the wide angle portion of your lens, or zoom out.  Zooming out, a back up the image, but it also causes something called bowing.  Have you ever taken a picture of a tall object, like a dresser, and in the photo it looks warped?  That is bowing.   If you are taking a picture of a tall building, the building seems to bow out and the edges don’t run parallel with the sides of the image.  That is tilt shifting.  It can be corrected in Photoshop CS 2, 3, or 4, but that runs you another $1000 and 8 or 9 months of intensive study to master, so fixing it, is not the best solution.  It is better to try to take the image of your dresser from a greater distance and then zooming in on it.  This will give you much better results.  If you can put the dresser in one room, and stand out in the hall and zoom in, you will be much happier with the results.  One last note, if you are taking a close up of your girlfriend’s face while your wife is in Michigan, then try to stand further away, such that the zoom is at 135mm.  This will be much more flattering.   That is all for now.  I am off to do some woodworking.

If a day goes by without my doing something related to photography, it’s as though I’ve neglected something essential to my existence, as though I had forgotten to wake up.

      -Richard Avedon

I didn’t know about the work of Richard Avedon before his exhibit at the Corcoran at the end of 2008.  As a volunteer docent at the gallery I got to hear a lecture from the curator of his traveling exhibit, and learn about his amazing works.  I became a fan.  This wasn’t the beginning of my love of photography, but it definitely gave me a jolt of energy to continue to practice and work to improve.  My weakest area is the use of lighting; in fact, I just had 3 of my images rejected for ‘poor or uneven lighting’.  I am not kidding, as I was typing that sentence I stopped to check a message from Shutterstock, and sure enough the images I used in the blogs ‘The English Plane’ and the image of the ‘stack’ were rejected.   I don’t sweat those setbacks, because I submit my images to 6 different sites, and it is rare that the inspectors agree, so they will probably get reject by 2 of the 6.

The point is that the subject of proper lighting is somewhat subjective.  There are however universal sins.  Harsh lighting is always bad.  The most common cause of this unfortunate faux pas is the use of an on camera flash.  How does one tell if the lighting is harsh?  The truth is in the shadows.  If one wants to improve their photography, striving to eliminate the hard shadows is a great first step.  I am not an expert, as I have said, but I can share the tips I have learned.

In learning how to create ‘saleable’ images for stock sites, I have read thousands of forum posts, several books, and a few tea leaves, trying to unravel the mysteries.  One of the first tips I would give is to take your photos, with the camera on a tripod, and use the timer.  The reason for this is that you are able to shoot in situations where the light isn’t spectacular.  I don’t mean to digress again, but I should mention a little bit about light, and the way cameras work.

Assuming you not shooting in manual mode (and if you are good enough to shoot on manual, you don’t need to continue reading, so go eat a donut and come back in a paragraph or two), your camera is using the tiny computer inside of it.  That computer is taking a reading of the available light and it is deciding how quickly it need to open its shutter to get a picture that you will be proud of.  Your camera really wants to do a good job for you.  When you and your camera are shooting outdoors, with natural light, the camera has a lot more flexibility with how it is able to take the shot.  But when you are indoors, in a workshop for instance, under artificial light, the camera looks out into the room and sees almost total darkness.  It decides that in order to get a shot that  has enough light it must keeps its shutter open for 2, 3, 5 or more seconds.

Now that may not seem like a long time, when compared to the life of a  star, or even the time it takes to learn woodworking, but in the world of photography it is an eternity.  To hand hold your camera, it needs to open and close its shutter in 1/60th of 1 second.  If it is open for twice as long or 1/30th of a second, the vibration from your pulse will cause there to be camera shake.  This will lead to a slightly blurry image, and force your significant other to lie to you about how much he or she likes your picture.  This is why we want to use a tripod, we don’t need to hold the camera, hence the camera can keep its shutter open until it feels there is enough light to get a clear image.  Having the camera lounging on a tripod isn’t enough to eliminate camera shake though, you must also use the timer, lest the slight vibration from the pressing of the button, undo your efforts.

 

In the world of stock photography, the top photographers shoot medium format Hasselblad, with Carl Zeiss lens, and a digital back.  This set up will set you back fifty to sixty thousand dollars.  Do you need to run out and buy equipment of this quality?  Well, yes you do.  I would recommend, if your children are young enough, that you sell a couple them.  Another, less recommended option, is to keep the children and introduce them to the joys of spending their afternoons working in a sweat shop.  You should still be able to get some nice Nikon or Canon equipment.  That being said, it will still take you a little while to get your new equipment, so you will need to get along with your current set up.  This is fine, as long as you don’t let it go on for too long.  If you have a digital camera, even if it isn’t a fancy pants Nikon or Cannon, it is likely that there will be different write setting which determines how the camera takes the image and writes it to the disk.  Once you find the different settings, there will likely be something like, small, medium, large, fine, and raw, or something along those lines.  Basically it is determining how high a quality image you are taking.  The important one is Raw.  Shooting in raw will drastically reduce your memory card capacity, but that is what you want to use.  The reason is that in raw, your little camera is basically capturing all the information it needs to make lots of adjustments after the fact.

I can tell by my word count that I have rambled on a bit, and I am not close to finishing my photographing woodworking rant, so I will make this a multiple part series.  So before I put this drivel to bed for the night, let me reiterate the main points.  Use a tripod, because it gives you flexibility with regards to lighting, and shoot in raw, because after you shoot, you can make adjustments to the image, to get it to look the way you want.

Once you have shot the image and downloaded it to your computer, you will be given an option to open the image in an editing program, usually included with the camera.  This is where you can play with the image.  You are able to overexpose (make brighter) or underexpose (make darker) the image.  You are able to adjust temperature of the light (a future post will go into greater detail about warm vs. cold light)  I have included 4 images, the 1st one is cold, the second one is warm, the third one has the black increased, and the 4th one is desaturated and darkened to create a black and white image.  They are all from the same single shot, taken in raw.  I hope this illustrates the value of raw and will encourage you to give it a try.  I also have included a shot showing my lights.

So class, I expect that you are all eager to try out the tips from today’s lecture.  Your homework is to write a brief description of the camera equipment that you have in the comments section.  Also I invite you to pose any specific questions you might have, though I must warn you that I am not good with world capitals or the periodic table of the elements.

It was in the spring of 975 A.D. when Erik the Red’s 1st cousin, thrice removed, Sven the Brunette with blond highlights, headed out in his longship for weekend of pillage and camaraderie with his buddies. Sven was a giant of a man, standing 6’ 8” tall, with a barrel chest, and a thick beard, also with blonde highlights. His friends were also rather large and one might say malodorous (of course one wouldn’t say that until 1840 or later, as the word didn’t exist in 975, but I digress). They headed out to sea, towards a little village, which they expected would put up scant resistance to their pillaging, and Sven had heard they had a nice day spa. He figured lads would be sore after a day of pillaging and he really needed a seaweed wrap.

Sven had not done a lot of pillaging in his life, he was more of a home body, but the continued success of his cousin, forced him to, according to his wife, ‘get out more’. Apparently the other wives were beginning to talk. So off they went. As he stood at the head of the longboat, looking out over the waves, he thought about the conquests of Eric, and he thought about his other cousin, Bahn the rather grumpy. History has forgotten Bahn, but Sven knew only too well of his tales. He cringed as he remembered the stories of Bahn, with his massive hammer over head, screaming as he ran into the villages, ‘Fear my hammer, fear the Wrath of Bahn!’. This cry would cause the men to tremble and the women to swoon. When the tales of Bahn were told back home, the men toasted him, and the women, well, they swooned too, except for Sven’s wife. She hit him on the shoulder and gave him a dirty look. That night was a cold and lonely one for Sven.

He spent the next week fashioning a massive hammer from his best wood. He reinforced the handle and polished it to a fine sheen. He then gathered his smelly friends and told them of his plan for fame and riches. The lads were not terribly bright, and they all liked the idea of getting away from the wife and kids for a weekend.

As the little village came into view, his excitement almost overwhelmed him. They had been crossing the sea all day and were eager for battle. Sven had been practicing his war cry in his head. The boat crept ashore, down the coast from the village. They made their way through the woods, over the glen, and soon they saw the village. There were several dozen huts, people milling about, an ox pulling a scratch plough, and children playing near the center of town. It was just as Sven imagined.

He led his band of Viking Warriors down the hill. As they got within ear shot, Sven yelled out his battle cry, wielding his hammer with bravado. The bravado was short lived. The town’s people all heard the cry, and a group of women, washing clothes in the stream at the edge of town, defeated Sven, not with weapons, but with their laughter. Not just laughter, but a full on eruption of boisterous chortling, with a fair amount of finger pointing. Several woman, laughed so hard that they slipped and fell into the stream.

Sven’s friends, his Viking hoard, stopped soon after hearing the battle cry, and the aforementioned laughter. They just shook their heads, turned around, and headed back to the boat. Sven was crushed. He was confused and didn’t understand what had happened. The lads got back in the boat, snickering, and waited for Sven. When he returned and demanded to know why they had stopped, Holgar spoke up, and said, “I’ve got wood!?…Massive hard wood!?…Really?! THAT was your battle cry?…Did you think it through?” The rest of the hoard busted out laughing, and continued through the night as they returned home. It didn’t stop until most of them had gone to bed, but quickly started up again, when they told the tales of their great adventure. Sven said, he would never pillage again, and his wife said she loved him regardless, which was all he wanted in the first place.

So with Sven in mind, I declare, “I’ve got LUMBER, really massive lumber.” When I began my journey into woodworking, I imagined creating all sorts of beautiful tables and chairs, with exotic woods, and stunning grain patterns. I don’t think I ever spent even a moment, thinking about where one gets beautiful lumber, for I knew that, unlike most things, lumber did grow on trees.

The book ‘Selecting and Drying Wood’, which is a collection of articles from Fine woodworking magazine, has opened my eyes to the challenges involved in selecting and buying lumber. I have learned that one should be prepared when they head out to buy those bits of trees that will become treasured projects. Roland Johnson’s article in the book, suggests that one have a ‘kit’ for their trips to the lumberyard. He believed in taking a flashlight, gloves, tape measure, moisture meter, clip board with cut list, pencil, and even a hand plane. I wouldn’t have thought of any of these things, with the possible exception of a cut list. The book also taught me the value of trying to select pieces of lumber that are from the same tree and gave tips on how one can determine if two boards go together. I had no idea how much the color can vary between different trees of the same species. I didn’t know what heartwood was or how one could use defects in a board to match it to another board from the same tree.


I learned that rough cut lumber is cheaper than the kiln dried wood one finds at a lumber yard, and that rough cut wood needs to be air dried for 1 year per inch of thickness, if you don’t have a kiln. I don’t have a kiln. But most of all, I learned that one should always keep their eyes open for opportunities to get a good deal. It became apparent, after reading this book, that 50% of the skill of the master craftsman is their understanding of, and ability to find, truly special wood.

A few weeks back I made a purchase. I bought some rough cut walnut and cherry from a gentleman who advertised on craigslist. I bought approximately 340 board feet of rough cut lumber. I have been inventorying every piece, and I haven’t finished, but when finished, I will have a detailed record of what I have in the stacks. The lumber was cut in June of last year. 80% of it is 1 inch thick and should need another 6 months of drying, while the remaining 20% is 3 – 4 inches thick and obviously won’t be ready for several years. The breakdown is 20% Cherry and 80% Walnut.



I don’t know if I got a good deal. I paid $400.00 for the lot, or $1.17 per board foot. It feels like a good deal to me, and I will get lots of hours of enjoyment from my lumber. I am learning how to build stacks. I didn’t even know what a sticker was, before I needed one. And perhaps the best part, is the joy I feel when I walk downstairs to my basement (where I have the dehumidifier running 24/7), and see the stacks I am building. There is something great about having lots of wood.

“The English Plane”

    -by Brian Meeks


In a tiny shop north of London town

At a maple bench stood young man proud.

Off cobble stone road sat a flower girl

A comb in her hair from mother of pearl

 

He’d returned from the war a scar on his face

He’d flown a camel; they’d called him an Ace.

At the museum she’d once spent a day

The artist she saw was named Claude Monet


On way to his shop, each day he passed by

He oft thought of how, he might catch her eye

She noticed his walk and his hat pulled low

She thought he seemed kind, she wanted to know


Each day he worked fixing table and chair

Til one could find nary a sign of wear

An easel she made from two apple crates

With a brush and plank she painted the fates.


The days rolled by and He spends them alone

He dreams of her each night he walks home

At the base of his door, in a pink bow

Violets waited for him and whispered hello


With chisel and plane and saw and mallet

The rough hewn walnut became a palette

She painted his portrait he made the frame

The rest of their lives were never the same.


He built her a house with a small garden

She took his name and gave him three children

Though they are gone and we know not their names

His joie de vie remains in this plane.

 

 

 

While I drove home from the antiques show, the little English hand plane sat patiently in the passenger’s seat. What tales could it tell? I could only imagine. I don’t know anything  about hand planes, except that they seem to be incredibly handy to have around. I watch videos online and see people using them. The other day, when I was buying the Jet 1000B air filtration system, I asked the salesperson if they sold hand planes. He said they only had a couple, because people don’t use them much anymore. This might be true among home builders and carpenters, who likely make up most of his clientele, but it seems to me, that woodworkers still treasure their planes.

I could tell that the little plane was worried that he might be destined for some sort of knick knack shelf, for he had been travelling to antique shows for some time, and knew the fate of the tools sold at these places. When I removed his blade and began to run it back and forth across the wet stone, he purred with delight. They years of neglect fell away and the blade slowly began to come to life. As the metal changed from black to grey, I could tell that the little plane was feeling hopeful that he might again taste the sweet wood which gave his life meaning. After 40 minutes of working on the blade, the anticipation for the little plane was causing it to fidget and fuss a bit, so I decided that the blade was sharp enough for now.

I put the blade back into the plane and we went downstairs. As soon as he saw the workshop and a piece of rough cut walnut sitting on the workbench he yelped with delight. I explained to the little plane that I had never used one before, but he didn’t seem to care at all. I ran him across the board and tiny bits of wood began to come up. I adjusted the blade and he bit into the wood bringing up small shavings. Yummy! We played together on the walnut for a while. When I sensed that all my little plane’s fears were gone, I told him that I intended to continue to work on him, to make his blade sharper. I promised him that I will make sure, that no matter how many planes I get over time, I will always get him out and let him have some fun too. My little English plane was happy and so was I.

Heroes

No comments
In 1972 October 20, Pete Rose hit a lead off home run, and then hit a single in the ninth inning.  This was game 5 of the World Series, and the Cincinnati Reds had just staved off elimination, thanks to my child hood hero’s efforts.  The Reds would win game 6 to send it to a decisive game 7 in Riverfront stadium.  I was 5 years old.  On October 22, in front of 56,040 fans, and at least one little boy at home watching on TV, the Oakland A’s captured their first World Series since 1930, beating my beloved Red 3 – 2.  I cried.
It has been a long time since I thought about Pete Rose.  I loved playing baseball growing up.  Cheering for the Reds during the 70’s turned out to be a pretty good choice.  ‘The Big Red Machine’ won the world series in 75’ & 76’.  My hero was still Pete Rose because of how he played the game.  His nickname was ‘Charlie Hustle’.   He loved the game.  He played it hard.  His later troubles broke my heart.  In the course of my life there have only been a few who have risen to the level of hero in my mind.
Last night, I looked over the stack of woodworking DVDs which I had received, from The Taunton Press, earlier in the week.  Sam Maloof, run time 55 minutes, originally published in 1989, was the one I chose.  I popped it into the computer and was introduced to one of the ‘Giants’ of American woodworking.
The DVD invites the viewer into his home and his workshop.  The cameras followed him around as he narrates his work and life.  The beginning shows Maloof picking through piece of walnut, with him explaining how he marks his lumber. We are treated to wonderful detail about his thought process.  He is known for his chairs, but we also get a glimpse into some of his other work.
He talks with ease, as if the audience is a neighbor who stopped over for a cup of tea.    We get to meet his wife, who is obviously the love of his life.  He talks about his 40 years of being a woodworker and how he is entirely self taught.   Sam Maloof is modest and endearing.  The love of his life’s work is obvious.  He talks about some of his prototypes, how many of them were sold over the course of his life and how he wished he had been able to keep more of them.  We see his templates, and he proudly shows off one that has survived 30 years and is still in use, he even shows how he has written ‘original’ on it.
The best part of the time spent with Sam Maloof, is watching him at work.  I am too new to woodworking, to fully grasp all of the tips and ideas he shares, but it is obvious that I am watching genius.   My head swirls with ideas.  In just 55 minutes I have had my perceptions about woodworking changed forever.
He talks of people, who present themselves as wood artists, and he says with pride that he is a woodworker; it is a good word, an honest word.  Despite his belief that he is NOT an artist, his work can be found in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Renwick Gallery, the Philadelphia Museum of Art and The White House Collection of Arts and Crafts, to name but a few of dozens.   He was awarded the MacArthur ‘Genius’ grant in 1985.  I learned the last bits, not from the video, but from http://www.malooffoundation.org/cvitae.cfm and Wikipedia.   The more I looked up online, the more I liked him.   The video introduces one to the work of a dedicated master craftsman and I think most people will want to learn more when they are done.
Sam Maloof passed away on May 21, 2009.  Though he is no longer with us, his work and life still has the power to inspire and to teach.  I would recommend this DVD to anyone who asks.  As for me, I have added Sam Maloof to my short list of heroes.
Since I began blogging, I have taken to carrying around a small notebook, pencil, sharpener and eraser.  I am more of a pen person, but using a pencil feels right to me.  I was at the bar in the Dublin Underground, drinking an RC, no straw, my usual drink.  This is my favorite place in Iowa City.  It is a friendly place.
I was really focused on writing down some thoughts about possible future blog posts.  I didn’t notice the woman taking off her coat and sitting down one seat over on my right.  I didn’t hear her order the glass of white wine, or notice the look on the bar tenders face when he first saw her.  I was scribbling away, when I felt the slightest tap on my right elbow, and as I looked up, she said in a French accent, “What are you writing about in zee little book?”
Normally that would be a pretty easy question, since I was the writer, and it wasn’t one of those tricky multiple choice questions, I should have been able to fire back an answer immediately.  It wouldn’t have been a problem, had I not looked up.  Had I kept my eyes on zee little notebook, I would have been able to say something like, “My woodworking blog”.  I saw her face first, and my response was, “I…um…It’s…huh…I don’t remember.  What was the question?”  I was having trouble breathing.  She giggled and pointed my notebook.
I then went into a somewhat incoherent rambling about it being notes for a blog which I have been doing since Jan 2 of this year, and lots of other details, which just kept pouring out of me.  The little voice in my head was screaming at me, “You are blathering like an idiot” I was pathetic.  She sensed that this could on for a while, unless she intervened, “What is zee blog about?”  This second question let me gather myself a bit, and I took a breath and said, “It is about woodworking.”
She wore a white silk blouse, black skirt, and had short ebony hair, with the sort of face that launches a thousand ships.   I think she said that she liked woodworking, but my head was still spinning a bit and I missed some of her response.  It wasn’t until she mentioned something about retiring from French national gymnastics team, after she grew 6 inches her senior year in high school, and had been a lingere model for the last 7 years, that I was able to focus on what she was saying again.  It was a good thing too, as she asked me another question, “What is the URL for zee blog?”
She had her iphone out and typed in the address as I gave it to her.  Since I knew that if I opened my mouth I would begin to blather on like the idiot again, I sat quietly and fidgeted with my pencil.  “The photos are tres beau, did you take them?”  I was a bit less shaky by this time, so I said, “yes, I enjoy photography.”
We talked a bit about photography and then she asked, “So you have the wood?”  At that moment I felt the urge to tilt my head slightly to the right and raise my left eyebrow.  Tragically I suffer from the rare affliction eyebrowus parallelus, from the Latin, which means the inability to raise either eyebrow without raising the other simultaneously, thus keeping them parallel to the eyes.  She quickly corrected herself, “Do you have a favorite wood?”  To which I said that I like hard maple and walnut.  She reached over and touched my arm, looked into my eyes and said, “I would love to see your wood.”  Damn eyebrowus parellelus!
She held out her hand and introduced herself.  Her hand was warm.  Her expression was kind and calming.  I guessed that I wasn’t the first guy to stammer in her presence.  Feeling at ease, I said, “It is nice to meet you Sherri Seurat, my name is Brian Meeks.”
Her father was an avid woodworker, and she was the great granddaughter of Georges Seurat.  We talked about photography, her modeling career, her grandfather, and I was much less of an idiot than I had been in the beginning.  I don’t know how long we talked, but every minute was a delight.
I was telling her about my little workshop when she asked, “What sort of air filtration system do you have?”  I said that I don’t have one, but I wear a mask.  The look of shock on her face startled me.  “You don’t have zee air filtration system?  Don’t you know that air quality is important in keeping your lungs healthy?!” Her voice began to rise.  “My father never took care of himself; he breathed that dust every day until he died.”  She got up from her seat, sobbing, grabbed her coat and fled up the stairs.  I was stunned, but I followed her and went outside just in time to see her hop into a cab and drive off.  I watched her head off along the river towards the mountains. The beauty of the setting sun was lost on me.  It looked cold and sad.
Thirty-seven minutes later I was loading the Jet AFS-1000B Air Filtration System into my car.  I am pleased with my purchases.  It has a remote.  I can breathe again.