For as long as I can remember woodworking has always been a part of my family in one way or another. This is thanks in no small part to my grandfather who was a journeyman carpenter by trade. Some of my earliest memories are of him coming home from a day on the job site and sitting down to entertain the grand kids by salting his beer and sneaking us sips. True, in those days I was more curious as to why grandpa was salting his drink rather than anything to do with woodworking, but hey...I was 4 or so and that's what stuck...fyi that's him on the left in the photo below...
[caption id="attachment_811" align="aligncenter" width="300"]Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Grandpa at work[/caption]
Fast forward a few years and the memories move on from those covert sips of beer to ones of spending time with my grandfather in his backyard shop and making everything from sling shots, to rubber band powered paddle boats and rubber band guns. Many a summer day was spent splashing around in the back yard fish pond racing our paddle boats or chasing each other from tree to tree with those rubber band guns. But the memories that stand out most are those where I'm in that tiny warm shop at my grandfathers side, helping him with whatever project he was currently building. In the summer the shop was sweltering so we worked early morning and took the afternoons off and in the dead of winter it was heated with a kerosene space heater. To this day, every time I smell a kerosene heater it makes me smile because it immediately takes me back to those days.
It was during my adventures in this tiny one room shop that I learned to not fight a handsaw, how to use a chisel, hand drill, brace, plane and so much more. It's amazing the number of lessons I learned early on from him without ever knowing it. A gentle chiding here and there about how I was holding a tool, or to slow my saw stroke and let the saw do the work and on and on the lessons went. I remember standing in awe at the tools on his shelves, in his drawers and hanging on the wall. I learned early on that certain tools were off limits; not so much so that they were dangerous but that these were the tools he used in his trade and couldn't afford for an inexperienced kid like me to practice with. But the day did come that I was entrusted with these tools and still remember the first time I was allowed to take the good rip saw off the wall and to rip a piece down to size for whatever I was building. It's funny, to this day I can't remember what I was building at that time but I can still see that saw, clear as day in my hands and how sweetly and smoothly it cut.
From there things get fuzzy...life got complicated as I became the greasy dumb teenager that wasn't interested in anything, especially spending time in a stuffy little workshop. True I did spend time now and again in the shop with him, but nothing of real meaning and certainly not enough now that I look back on it. I wish I had more time with him as I've matured as a woodworker over the past few years. I often find myself stopping mid project and wondering how he would cut this or that, how would he assemble this, etc. I think he would be proud...
So until the day comes that he and I can talk woodworking over a salty beer in the afterlife, I'll just keep plugging away and use each of his lessons to build the best piece that I possibly can...
