Extremely Average

Tonight’s post was born of an inability to sleep at 4 in the AM.  The pollen count is high enough that I am miserable.  I am not usually bothered by such things, but last night I was a bit.  As I mentioned yesterday, I am not able to do any woodworking, as I am at my parents.  I was busy today and didn’t even have time to visit the Woodsmith Store, as I would have written about that.  So you are stuck with Ch 1 of a story that may never get a Chapter 2….unless I can’t sleep, or somebody expresses an interest in me continuing.  (Note:  I am still polishing up the final bits for Henry Wood, in my head, so it isn’t ready yet.)

The man mumbled some of the time, but often he spoke in clear nonsense.  ”Ink blots, purple dots, taking Rorschach’s test.  Little mice, roll the dice, more is often less.”

David found the man’s ramblings were like tiny droplets of creative rain.  When writer’s block would set in, he would head to the market for fresh fruit and a helping of the crazy man in the torn coat and worn pants.  In David’s third novel he had based one of his murder victims on his favorite poet.  He wondered if he knew.

It wasn’t like David to talk to crazy people, or strangers, or his editor.  He kept to himself.  As long as the words were flowing, he needed little else but the comfort of a growing word count.  He had typed his first novel on an old Maroon Smith Corona, which his mentor had purchased in 1935.  The old English professor had never had a best seller, a good seller, or even a slightly fair seller, and held ‘money’ writers in disdain.  He had given David the typewriter when he retired, and told him to put it to good use.  If he had known that David would ‘sell out’ and become successful, he likely would have chucked it in the rubbish bin.

Because David was a superstitious man, he had begun every novel the same way.  A stack of clean white paper, an eraser, and a yellow legal pad and pencil.  The pencil would write a sentence on the yellow pad.  It would be inspected for greatness, and if there was none to be found, a neat line would be drawn through the words, and another sentence would be written below.  Once there was even the faintest whiff of clever or brilliant for interesting, David would gently roll a piece of paper into Monroe, the name he had given his prized typewriter, and bang the keys until that first sentence was now ‘typed’.

Everything had to be perfect with that first sentence.  No typos, to be sure, but also the sound of the keys had to have just the right cadence.  If it was too slowly, zip, the paper would be yanked out of Monroe, and another carefully put in it’s place.  In truth, David liked the sound of quickly pulling a sheet of paper out of the typewriter, so the first page was almost always deemed unsatisfactory.

So David stood and listened to the man in the torn pants, the poet on the streets, the man and his face, to which, David had never asked a name.  He listened to his deep baritone voice.  The voice boomed, “The fires gates seem welcoming, the line is always long.  Don’t fret, don’t leave, I know your fate, three coins and I’ll sing a song…three coins and I’ll sing your song.”  It wasn’t the ‘Devine Comedy’, but there were people snickering.  David looked at the crowd and his mind began to paint a story.

The woman with the nice breasts and long black hair, she was laughing at some remark, which the guy beside her had made.  He wore a ‘Green Day’ teeshirt and torn jeans.  He was trying to look casual cool, but it was obvious he was her designated nerd.  Her jeans were tight, and left little to the imagination, though David was sure that the guy had imagined those jeans on his floor.  David knew it would never be, because he could see that the woman knew it.  All attractive woman have a designated dork, or nerd, or gay guy.  Some have two.  He was hers.  She would spend time with him, if all her real guys were unavailable, or if she needed some compliments, or dinner.  He would always pay, and she would say, “You don’t have to do that.” as she gently touched his elbow and gave it a light squeeze.

Next to the woman and her nerd, also snickering was a goth woman.  She was generally angry and bitter, so goth seemed to be the way to go.  She liked piercings.  She liked rain.  She liked politics, well not really.  She liked going to rallies, calling Republicans Nazis, and getting drunk afterwards.  If one were to ask her who the Vice President was, she wouldn’t have any idea.  If one were to ask her about who had won ‘American Idol’, she would act like she didn’t know.  She knew all their names and hid their cds in a box under her bed, behind another box, which contained clothes her mother had bought her, which had color.  She would later die in an uprising in Uganda, while doing relief work.

David wasn’t sure about the death in Uganda part, but he felt confident that he had everything else pretty much on the mark.  He decided to look for some good fruit buys.  Fresh fruit feeds the body and the mind, he would often say, though usually only to himself, as he didn’t talk much.  The plums looked especially tasty today, they had good color and would be right at home in the bowl next to the peaches and limes.  Sometimes he worried more about aesthetics than taste or what he really wanted to eat.  He gave Antonio, the fruit vendor, a twenty and told him to keep the change.

Antonio had been at the market since before David had made ‘The List’, and in those days, David did talk to people.  When he got that first box of books, with his name on the bottom, he gave one to Antonio, who treasured it and gave him free fruit for a year.  David alway felt badly about receiving gifts, and felt that Antonio was being much too kind, so when the royalties started to make life comfortable, he started to overpay.  Antonio was a good man and he knew that it made David happy, so he let him, but it was hard for Antonio too.  They were quite similar in that regard.

David moved through the crowd, saw faces, got quick flashes of what they might be like, and quickly decided he didn’t care for most of them.  There was a woman, who quite obviously was a hoarder with cats.  There was a budding rapper who was probably a closet math genius, and would later disappoint his friends by going to MIT.  His mother would cry when he got the scholarship though, and he like his mother more than his friends.  Plus she could kick his butt, and he knew it.  There was the lonely guy buying dinner for one, or was that just a reflection in a window?  Sometimes he couldn’t tell.

As he walked passed the last stall of the market he saw a woman, holding a bag.  She was Asian, short black hair, attractive, and he drew a blank.  Cliches seemed to fall off this woman like water off a ducks back, he thought to himself, then felt momentarily ill for letting the duck comment dance across his brain.  Still he looked at her, almost to the point where he felt himself cross the line of lechery.  He quickly assigned her the career of lawyer, with two kids, a loving husband, and a fondness for crosswords.  David was quite sure that none of that was true.

He had filled his brain up with characters and now he needed to get home and show some of them the doorway into his next novel.  Sadly though, when he entered this flat, sat down at the table, the pencil seemed too heavy to lift.  The vodka bottle was considerably lighter.

The creek wound through the valley, which lay between two wise old mountains.  The water, teaming with life, made its way towards the sea, moving at a lazy pace.  If one listened carefully, the gentle breeze and babbling brook seemed to sing in harmony.  A deep breath would fill the lungs with energy and the spirit with optimism.  The man with the wooden staff was called Stone, or Mr. Stone, or sometimes Stoney.  The boy with the flash in his eyes went by Seth.

Stoney and Seth would set out each morning and walk through the vast valley.  Sometimes they would head up stream, other days they would follow the paths up one side of the mountain or the other.  There were ancient caves to explore, and long abandoned keeps to conquer.  Seth found these adventures delightful and he would listen as Stoney told his stores of their history.  The stories always had a maiden or treasure, and the good guys usually won.  Sometimes they lost.  Seth didn’t like those stories as much.

Stoney would see his forlorn look, after a story had taken a turn for the worse, and he would remind Seth, “Life is not always treasure and triumph, sometimes it is defeat and total loss.”  Seth usually changed the subject after such a depressing comment.

On this day, Stoney was telling the tale of the battle of two warring clans, which had taken place a long time ago, in a place near to where they stood.  He described their numbers, their battle dress, their weapons and how the hatred had begun some three generations ago.  They had been fighting, killing, breeding and living this way for almost 80 years.  Neither side could get the upper hand and so the living and dying went on without much change.

After one especially fierce battle, where many had died, a young warrior from the clan to the north got lost on the mountain.  The chaos had prevented anyone from noticing that he was missing.  A young woman from the clan to the south had wondered off too, grief stricken over the loss of her brother in battle.  The clan from the south realized she was missing and had set out to find her.

The evening was cool and when the sun set, it became quite chilly.  The young warrior was clever and used his flint to start a fire.  He was a fine archer and easily rounded up some dinner.  The rabbits, turning on the spit, gave off a heavenly smell and soon the cold and tired woman saw his camp.  She was frightened, but she was also really hungry.  She stepped out of the darkness and startled the young warrior.  He grabbed his sword, but quickly lowered it, when he saw her flowing red hair and beautiful face.

He invited her to join him.  She accepted and sat down next to him.  They talked and ate, and were having a lovely time.  Suddenly the southern clan appeared all around them.  They too had smelled the game cooking and moved in to save the young woman.  She told them to stop, and they did.  She explained that he had been a complete gentleman and though he was from the north, had shared his food.  The warriors lowered their weapons and the young man heaved a sigh of relief.  When he turned toward the leader of his hated enemy, the young woman took his sword and drove it through his back and heart.  He died instantly.  Everyone cheered.

When the southern clan returned to their home, they found that the northern clan had taken their live stock, burned the houses and grain stores, and left the few who had remained burning in a pile.  The rest of the group from the south, including the woman, died a slow and horrible death from hunger and cold.  And so ended the 80 year war.

Seth did not like this story, and told Stoney so.  Stoney laughed at him and then hit him with his stick and made Seth fish them some lunch.  The morning walk had been mostly pleasant, aside from the ending to the story, the lunch which Seth had caught tasted great, and they returned home in the early afternoon.

This story does a really poor job of illustrating the type of day I had.  In fact, there aren’t really any similarities at all.  Last night I had some computer problems and it forced me from my home.  I went to my parents house, so I could have access to a computer while mine gets worked on.  I can’t live without a computer.  So the next few days posts may not have much to do with woodworking, because my shop is far away.

I was supposed to help my friend Lisa with her photography, but alas, my photoshop is on the computer which is under the weather.  Sorry Lisa.

Henry walked slowly up the stairs.  The weight of this case was hitting him harder than Thor’s hammer.  His head was pounding, but the die was cast,  and soon there would be resolution, for good or bad.  Each step rang hollow in the hallway and seemed to echo into eternity.  The rest of the world was silent.

When he neared the door of the strange little man who had appeared before him after the fire, he found himself trying to quiet his steps.  It wasn’t intentional, nor did it matter.  He heard the patter of Bobby’s feet and the door opened, though with less flair than Henry expected.

“Hey Henry…” Bobby said and then lowered his voice a bit and slowed his pace, “How you doin?  Anything you need?”

“No Bobby, Thanks.”  Henry said, and smiled.  The shortness of the meeting seemed odd, but he was thankful, he didn’t feel like getting into one of Bobby’s long winded discussions.  Bobby turned and went back into his horribly cluttered office and shut the door gently.

Henry’s office seemed cold, but when he checked the thermostat, it was fine.  He took off his hat and coat, put them on the tree and sat down at the desk.  He leaned slowly back, keeping his gaze on the phone, eyeing it suspiciously, like it might bite him.  He waited.

The phone rang.  It sounded strange somehow.  It rang again and Henry leaned forward and slowly picked up the receiver.  He didn’t say anything.

“Mr. Wood I presume.”  said the voice on the other end.

“Yes.  Who is this?”  Henry said with a sudden confidence and swagger that may have been posturing, but it felt right.  The game was on.

“This is the man, whose business you and your little friends have been sticking your noses into.”

“I have a lot of cases, could you be more specific.”  Henry responded as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Tommy’s short fuse had been lit and he roared into the phone, “Listen you little bastard.  I have your broad Sylvia, you have my book.  You are going to bring me the book, and I won’t burn your world to the ground.”

“You are a scum bag.  I doubt Sylvia is still alive.  If she is, perhaps we can work something out.”  Henry said, thinking he had over played his swagger.

A rustling of chairs and the the sound of a slap and a yelp shot through the phone line and burned into Henry’s mind.  He would never forget that moment.  Then Sylvia said, “I am here Henry.”

Tommy took the phone back and said, “You bring the book to my warehouse on the south side.  You bring it at 11:00 tonight, you come alone.

“I’ll be there.”  Henry said, and hung up the phone.

The wheels were turning, the game was indeed on.  Now to add one more player to the mix.  Henry picked the phone back up and soon had the DA on the phone.  Henry masked his disgust and tried to sound upbeat.

“Hey, I have some good news.”  Henry started.

The DA voice was calm, “Oh really?  What is that?”

“I know you felt bad about losing the journal.  I am a cautious man and I wanted to cover my own ass, so I made a copy before I gave it to you.”  Henry said, not wanting to anger the DA by telling him that he had been given the copy.  Henry was sure the DA would consider that a terrible slight.

“You did?!  Well that is fortunate.  You must bring it to me immediately.”  came the response.  Henry could hear the sweat forming on the DA’s brow.

“It is even better.  I am meeting Tommy at 11:00 tonight, at his warehouse.  You can catch him with the goods.”

There was a heavy breath and the DA said, “Yes, that is good.  We will get him this time.  You have done a great job Henry.  I won’t forget this.  I will see you there.”

The phone line gave a click as the DA hung up.  Henry thought to himself, you will certainly remember this night, that I promise you.

Henry looked at his watch.  It was going to be a long wait.  He leaned back in his chair and thought about getting a bite to eat.  The plan was in motion, but it could go wrong a thousand different ways, and even a convicted scum bag on death row, gets a last meal.

When I started building the ikebana vase, I didn’t realize how much fun I would have using it.  Mom and I played with it a bunch yesterday.  The fun of ikebana was seeing how many different looks we could create with flowers and stuff we found outside.  When I say ‘stuff’, I mean weeds.  We did one arrangement entirely with weeds.  It looked pretty good too.

History is interesting.  The ikebana or “arranged flower” is the art of Japanese flower arrangement.  There are those who say that the art of ikebana is to bring nature and humanity together, and they would be correct…except for seven things.  Fine, they are right, and I don’t really have a list of seven other things, but I was feeling a bit silly.

My taste tends to run towards minimalism and ikebana is all about creating interest and beauty from just a few items.  Mom picked the flowers for the first few arrangements, as I set up the camera and lighting equipment.  Because it was easy, I only brought a couple of basic lights, with one white umbrella and one reflecting umbrella.  That was all I needed to add a small amount of highlights to the shots.

Here are the first few.  You will notice that the first image, which is probably my least favorite, is taken with the blank wall behind it.  Normally I like a simple background, so the subject really stands out, but I found that it didn’t look natural or humane.  It wasn’t the ikebana photography way.

I decided that a more interesting background would better suit the photo.

Mom and I were having a good time playing with the flowers and the ikebana, but I thought a different background might be nice.  So we move the equipment to the deck and took some more shots.

I liked the above photo, as we made it from weeds and a dead branch from a tree.

And then one more from inside.

From this experience a couple of things became obvious, one mom has a really cool kitchen island counter top.  The second revelation was that one is only limited by their imagination, when it comes to making ikebana art.

The street was packed with parked cars, there were two people standing outside smoking and talking.  There was a car just leaving, so Henry took the spot.  ”Luna, I need to talk to Mike.  I am going to ask him to keep an eye on you…”

Luna immediately flashed a look at Henry and objected, “I am coming with you!”

“No you aren’t!  You are going to stay here, and stay out of it.  I am going to get Sylvia and put an end to this, once and for all.” Henry said in a calm measured tone, with a cold forcefulness which left no question as to who was in charge.  Luna affixed a look of anger to her face, but her eyes revealed relief.  She did make Henry walk around and open the door for her however and she walked with heavy pouting steps, on their way to Mike’s front door.

In Luna’s mind, she could see herself behaving like a small child, and she didn’t like it, but her emotions were so mixed up, she didn’t know what to do.  She knew that Henry was about to risk his life, for Sylvia, and for her father, and sitting in the car sobbing, seemed ungrateful.  Though in truth, she really wanted to to hide, to go back to they way life was, to forget that all of this ever happened.

Henry knocked on the door, Sally Mae opened up and said “Hello Henry, good to see you.”  Her eyes were bright, she wore a little pink dress and had bows in her hair.  She had worried and cared for Mike, as much as any doctor or nurse at the hospital.  Now it appeared she was helping with the welcome home party.

“Hello Sally Mae.  You look quite lovely in your pink dress today.”  Henry said with a smile.

She beamed and quickly replied, “It’s new, just for today.  I helped make the cake too!”  She stepped back and pointed to the table in front of a big sign which read, ‘We Love You Big Mike’.  There were people everywhere, with plates of food, talking and laughing.  Sally Mae said in a very grown up voice, “There is food, and punch, and of course cake.  May I take your hat and your coats?”

Luna couldn’t help herself, a smile snuck onto her face, and a little bit of joy found its way into her soul.  ”Thank-you Sally Mae.”  She took off her coat and handed it to her.  Henry did the same and then plopped his hat on top of her head.  She giggled and ran off to the back bedroom.  Henry noticed Mike talking with Francis across the room.

Mike saw Henry and gave a nod.  He made his way through the people and shook Henry’s hand with his left hand, and gave a smile to Luna.  She smiled back, feeling suddenly shy.  Henry lowered his voice, “Is there someplace we can talk.”

Mike continued to thank people for the party as he and Henry made their way to his little office in the back of the house.  It was cluttered, with lots of books, newspapers, magazines, and general guy clutter.  Mike lead up against his desk, “What’s going on Henry?”  Henry closed the door, took a moment to think about what he was going to ask, then started to catch Mike up.

“It is a mess Mike.  They took Sylvia, and gave Winston the same treatment they gave you, but he won’t be getting any welcome home parties.”was

Mike’s face turned to stone.  ”Go on.”

Henry went back to the day Mike beaten to a pulp.  He went over every detail, explaining how they had made a copy, which they had given to the DA, how the DA was in it up to his eyes, and how Henry thought it had to play out.  Mike listened, getting angrier as each new revelation was made.

Henry laid out every detail, then he let Mike digest it.  Mike paced back and forth, talking to himself and Henry.  ”I didn’t want to believe that anyone on the force could be in cahoots with Tommy ‘The Knife’, but if the DA is crooked, then we can’t trust anyone.”  Then he paused.  He had reached the same conclusion which had occurred to Henry.  Henry could see the moment of realization in his eyes.  There was silence for a long while, as they both let the truth of the situation sink in.

Mike agreed to make a few calls, and to watch over Luna while Henry went after Luna.  A little knock at the door and a tiny voice let them know the meeting was over.  Sally Mae asked if Big Mike was getting tired and should maybe lay down for a bit of a rest.  Mike chuckled and told her he was fine and that they were coming back to the party right away.

Henry talked with Francis for a bit, shook a few hands, then said good-bye to Luna.  He found his coat and hat and then headed out.  He bummed a cigarette from one of the guys smoking outside, and slowly walked back to his car.  He knew that the next call he would get, would be the when and where.  There was nothing to do but wait.

Henry pulled the car out from the drive and made a left onto the main road.  He still had the smell of wet, charred, murder and arson, burning his nostrils.  Luna wept to herself.  He drove for about 5 minutes and pulled into the first gas station he saw.  The attendant, and old man with an oil stained rag in his back pocket, came out to meet him.

“Hey there old timer, you got a phone?”  Henry said.

“Sure, but it’s for customers.  You buying any gas”

Henry handed the man three bucks and went in to use the phone.  His first call was to the fire department, as nobody had noticed the fire before him and Luna had gotten there, or they would have already been on the scene.

Then he picked up the phone and called the hospital.  They told him that Big Mike had gone home that morning.  Henry looked out front, the old man was cleaning the windows, and eyeing Luna.  Henry made one more call.  ”Hey, Big Mike.”  he said, when he heard a voice on the other end.

“No, this is Joe, Mike is in the kitchen.  Who is this?”

“It’s Henry Wood, you mind putting him on…it’s important.”

“Sure, I’ll get him.”

Henry heard the phone being set down and from the sound of the room, Big Mike must have gotten a welcome home party.  A few moments later he heard someone hobbling towards the phone, “Henry, how is it going?” said Mike in a familiar and booming voice.

“Not so good my friend, but before I get to that, how are you doing?”

“I am on the mend.  Still got the arm in a sling, but the bruising has gone down, the head aches have stopped, and I am itching to get back on the beat.  They tell me that I have to rest for two more weeks.”

“I am glad to hear it buddy.”  Henry said, with a bit of relief in his voice.  He needed some good news and this made Henry feel a little better about bothering Mike.

“Thanks….now tell me what is up?”  Mike said, while lowering his voice and changing to a serious tone.

“I need to see you.  I need to see you now.  May I come over?”

“Sure thing Henry, we can talk upstairs, if it needs to be private.”  Mike said.

“Thanks…on my way.”  Henry said and hung up the phone.

He returned to the car and thanked the old man.  He took Luna’s hand as he pulled out of the station.  ”Don’t worry.  I have a plan.”

She squeezed his hand and smiled.   She had stopped crying and was trying to steady herself.  The rest of the drive to Big Mike’s house passed without a word between them.

The table I want to build is still a fuzzy image in my head, but the legs are coming along nicely.  All the tools that need a sharp edge, were tuned up last night.  The chisels and the hand planes were all thrilled to be razor sharp again.  Sharpening, like hand sanding, is something which I can do while watching TV.  I needed to get caught up on the last few episodes of Leverage, so I gathered all the tools together and they watched too.

With a fresh edge on my Jack plane and the 4 1/2, I went to the basement, and tried them out.  They were wonderful.  The more I use my hand planes, the better I get at the skill.  The 4 x 4 of hard maple had been squared up and had the cut marks which Jeff had left.  I spent a glorious 90 minutes turning the rough edge on two of the sides, into a smooth, surface.  Then I was tired.

I imagine that if I were a professional woodworker and had cause to use a hand plane for several hours per day, I would be in excellent shape.  Many people have told me that adding wax to the sole of the plane makes it easier to use, but I didn’t have any.  Maybe I will try to pick up some bees wax this weekend?

Today I took the piece of hard maple and used Jeff to turn it into 4 pieces of hard maple.  The dimensions are just a shade over 1 5/8 x 1 5/8 inches and 33 inches long.  I don’t know how tall my tiny table is going to be yet.  The one in the book, titled, ‘Table’, which I am using as a guide is 28 1/2 inches tall.  I also have visions of applying a taper to the legs.  I might build a jig to do it on Jeff, or I might use my router.  I will have to ponder my options for a bit.

So tonight I will flip though a few magazines about woodworking and watch the rest of the TCU vs. SMU game.  Perhaps after the weekend of football, I may have a clear vision of where this table is going.

I am at Mom and Dad’s place tonight, so tomorrow’s post will likely be less about woodworking, and more about football.  I just thought you should know.

The Arthurian Legends didn’t mention the court jester.  His name was Albion ‘the feeble’ and when he was young, spent countless hours amusing himself, as the other children seemed not to be interested in playing with him.  He was lonely at times, but not often, mostly he was fascinated by life.

Albion didn’t spend all of his childhood alone though, he would visit Blancheflor, who was known to be a witch that lived deep in the forest.  Blancheflor was definitely a witch, people would say, because she had never married and had lots of chickens.  Albion would try to defend her, pointing out correctly that everyone had lots of chickens.  It usually fell on deaf ears, so after a while, he just stopped trying.

Her cottage was small, sturdy, and near a tiny pool of water at the base of a waterfall.  The forest was thick but fore the clearing next to her cottage, where the garden would grow and the chickens would wonder about, generally in good spirits.  Albion thought that her chickens were the happiest chickens he had ever seen.

Blancheflor was a friendly lady, who simply preferred to be self sufficient, to someone’s wife and care taker.  She didn’t mind living alone, but enjoyed it when Albion visited.  He would tell her stories and she would teach him about gardening, chickens, and tried to answer questions, as they arose.  He had a lot of questions.  His father was a carpenter and his older brothers helped their dad in the shop.  Albion wasn’t old enough to help, or that is what they would tell him.

He did like to fiddle around with the tools though.  He made Blancheflor a tiny box and she gushed over it.  One day he decided he wanted to make her something better.  He got his mind set that she needed a tiny table.

Albion’s mother made sure that all the boys could read, she was a very clever woman.  She didn’t like carpentry, but did like to write, so she would create scrolls of instructions about different types of projects.  They had developed quite a library, and there were scrolls and papers everywhere.  The brothers and his father would turned to them often.

Albion began looking through stacks of papers and boxes of scrolls, looking for something about table making.  He found some information on large trestle tables, but that wasn’t what he wanted.  He read for hours and hours, but didn’t find anything.   The next day he continued again, sitting at the desk, below a drawing, neatly framed, simply titled, “Table”.

A few hours later and he suddenly noticed it.  It had, quite literally, been in front of him the whole time.  It was a drawing for a tiny table, which his father had made for his mother, before they were married.  It had been on the wall, over the desk, for his entire life.

He chuckled to himself.  Then he chuckled out loud.  He didn’t feel stupid, well not too stupid, he felt silly.  His brother came in and saw him laughing alone and he told him the story.  His brother found it funny too.

He told the story at dinner, and though his mother didn’t approve of him spending so much time with Blancheflor, all found the tale delightful.  It was the first time Albion had caused laughter to bubble up from his family, and to him, it was more beautiful than the waterfall at the cottage.

That day changed his eyes forever.  They didn’t just take in the world, they devoured it.  He looked at every thing around him differently.  There was wisdom and humor all about he didn’t want to miss a thing.

Albion made his friend the table and she put the tiny box on it.  She liked his story too.  He became more popular with the other kids.  He was funny and they changed their mind about him.

Year later, at court, after he had entertained everyone, he overheard the King discussing a new room in the castle.  He was well liked by the King and when he mentioned that his brothers and father would be very capable of handling the commission, the King sent for his family.

The King wanted a large table with 3 sides of equal length.  Albion suggested, humbly, that a circular table would look better.  The King agreed.

Last night I got to work on some table legs.  In my mind’s eye, there is a tiny table, or more accurately, the vague idea of a table.  All I know at this point, is that it has four legs.  I knew a table that had 5 legs once, and it was the bane of my existence, so I will stick with four.

A piece of rough cut hard maple was sitting in the basement and I quickly lopped off the bad end, with my Japanese hand saw.  It is the thickest thing I have ever cut with it, and to be honest, it was easier than I expected.  I love my Japanese hand saws.

There was one flat side, as I had previously, gone to town on it with my Jack plane.  I was pleased with how flat I got it, and this flatness made the other three sides and their unflatness, stick out.  I used Jeff the bandsaw, to shave off the other three sides.

Before I clean up the hard maple with my hand planes, I think they probably need a bit of sharpening.  It was late last night, so I decided to pour over the woodworking magazines I have piled all over my office, looking for an article which might give me guidance.  I did this for several hours and then again today.

When I gave up hope of finding something, I decided to work on the ikebana and apply some finish.  I did a coat and then thought it might be good to do some reading from my finishing book.  In hind sight, I probably should have done the reading first, but I digress.  I knew exactly where the book was, as I have a stack of woodworking books near my desk.  It was on the bottom of the pile.  The book which was second from the bottom is entitled, ‘Tables’, by Anthony Guidice, from Taunton Press.

It is Awesome!  I had forgotten that I had bought this book earlier in the summer.  I started to read it and now I am really excited about making a tiny table.  I did laugh at the folly of looking through magazines for one article, when I had an entire book on the subject.  But like the fool in Arthur’s days, I can see the humor in life, and I like funny hats.

Not every day lends itself well to a funny or entertaining post.  This days is one of those.  The ikebana pieces received a healthy dose of sanding, followed by a lovely coat of tung oil.  The picture shows how I didn’t apply the tung to the interior of the center piece, because there wasn’t any good reason to do so.

I like how the picture shows the before and after tung oil.  I am looking forward to applying the water based top coat, as it is something new.  If I am to do a proper self analysis, and I think it is important to do so, every once in a while.  I would have to say that this project isn’t adding as much to my woodworking knowledge base, as I would like.

It is possible that I have gotten comfortable with the skills I learned in the building of boxes.  I really need to move on to building something with a drawer, possibly with legs.  It is this way before each great leap forward in skill.  I fret about it for a long time, then finally get the nerve.  In my basement there are lots and lots of walnut boards, which I am sure, would love to be turned into something with a drawer and legs.

There is an old story, from an ancient village, near a mountain pass, far from other villages.  The elders of the village all had unique skills.  There was one man, tiny in stature, who was often underestimated, but only for a few seconds.  Those who came to the village, for trouble, thievery, or to steal a bride, would stand before the frail looking man.  They would laugh at his defiance, but only for a moment, then they would lie dead.  He was a great samurai.

There was a woman, who many said was over one hundred years old, who would cook meals so satisfying that she could make all do her bidding, just for the chance to be invited to dinner.  There was also a wise old carpenter.  He would build houses, from wood, held together with joints so complicated that few apprentices could master them, and they would often leave after only a year or two of study.  Only one had ever completed the apprenticeship, his name was Koh, which meant autumn red.

Koh was different than the others.  He wanted to understand and master every element that the master taught, but that was not enough.  He wanted to make his own discoveries.  He thought about his craft when ever he wasn’t practicing.  The master knew that he must push him, to keep the  young apprentice engaged, so he did.

And the results were magnificent.  Many years later, the young apprentice was an elder, there was another woman who cooked, he built her house, and she made him fat and happy.  There was a warrior too, and this is how the village would remain, generation after generation.

I don’t think of this story often, mostly because I just wrote it, but when I do, I realize that I must not stop learning…or snacking.  Perhaps it is time to look for board which might want to become some legs?

It is too bad that I used the chess example yesterday, as it really works better today.  Oh well, such is life.  The final piece of the ikebana needed the slightest area routed out from the bottom of the piece.  The problem, and there is always a problem, is that the piece is smaller than the first two.

The opening in the template was perfect for the first two, but too big for the third piece.  The jig was designed so that it would be able to take other templates, but I didn’t really want to make another one, just to make a slightly smaller cut.  The answer came to me fairly quickly, which is unusual and not nearly as dramatic, but that is how it happened.

The router bit which made the cuts in the first two pieces was a 3/4 inch bit, so all I had to do was change to a smaller bit and it would cut a smaller square.  I chose my 1/4 inch Freud and while it took a bit longer to router out the area, it was much easier than making a new template.

The piece is a little bit thicker than I would like, so I am going to swap the blades on Jeff and resaw off a portion of the third piece.  This will give me a better look and make the villagers very happy.  There will likely be dancing and mirth.

After this cut I have very little left to do.  The ikebana will be sanded to 320, then a coat of tung oil will be applied to each piece, before glue up.  I am not sure if I should apply the ‘General Finishes High Performance Water Based Top Coat…Gloss’ to the pieces individually or after I glue the whole thing up.  My initial inclination is to do it one piece at a time.

The reason I chose the ‘Top Coat’, is that it was recommended as good for table tops, to protect the wood.  The kenzan holds the water to keep the flowers looking swimmingly, and I am making the assumption that occasionally water will get spilled on the outside of the vase.  I intend to use caulk inside to keep the moisture out of the interior cavity.  That being said, it seems reasonable to coat the inside too, just in case.

It is amazing to me how much I have learned this year.  I felt a little sense of pride when I read the ‘water based top coat’ portion of the can, and the little voice in my head said in a manly voice, “remember water based will cause the grain to be raised…”.  All the hours and hours reading lots of articles about woodworking projects which I am not working on, have paid off in developing the beginning of a mental data base of woodworking knowledge.

Woodworking is cool.  Learning new tricks is fun.  Knowing that I am continuing to progress…priceless.